Page 3 of Masked Sins
The driver pulls up to the large white building forty-five minutes later, and I pull a couple hundred dollar bills out, throwing it to him despite already paying for the ride in my app. It’s raining even heavier here, so I stumble toward the awning. There are posters across the double front doors, and it takes me a second to fully process what they say.
The Paris School of Ballet: Auditions TODAY only.
I swallow as bile works up my throat. Paris.Which is in fuckingFrance. Shaking my head, I pull the double doors open. Signs point to the waiting room, but I stand near the doors to stay out of the way. When I pull my phone out, the screen is black.Fuck, I forgot.Looking around, I wonder if I should ask someone for a charger, but then I decide to just stay put until Layla finishes. Her audition is at four, which—according to the clock—is in an hour. I’ll see her when she comes around the front.
Pacing in front of the glass double doors, I watch the traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard stop and go at the nearby light. Despite still being drunk, my walking back and forth helps with the nausea. I sit down after a while, feeling shaky as everything begins to spin. Ballet dancers come and go, most of them around Layla’s age. None of them notice me or care that I’m just some random drunk dude hanging out at a dance audition for high schoolers. Once the nausea passes, I stand again and look around. It’s now four fifteen, and despite knowing theseauditions can last hours, anxiety claws up my spine. What if she’s already done and waiting for me somewhere else?Maybe there’s another exit.I walk down a nondescript hallway. The arrows for the waiting room take me to a white door, and when I push it open, about fifteen young girls are doing all kinds of poses—but no Layla.
I back away and continue down the hallway. Murmured voices catch my attention, and I steady myself on the wall as I slowly walk closer. It’s a mix of hushed French and British accents, and I’m just about to walk away when I hear one of them say Layla’s name. Sneaking closer, I silently stand just outside of the door to try to understand what they’re saying about her.
“...never make it in Europe, let alone Paris,” a woman says disdainfully.
“Her credentials are impressive,” a man says, his British accent low and droning.
“What good are her credentials when she doesn’t look the part of a ballerina?” the first woman retorts, her tone disgusted.
I curl my fists and continue listening—my chest both aching for her and also burning with rage.This is her dream, and these people are making fun of her?
“Times are changing, Jean. I think we should watch her performance and see what she can offer.”
“Times may be changing, but she’s twenty pounds too heavy. Do you really think our male dancers will want to pick her up? Perhaps she could make the cut with diet and exercise, but she’d have to starve herself all summer. Did you see the audition song? It’s uncultured and cheap. I suspect she’ll have trouble fitting in with the elegance of theParis School of Ballet, her weight notwithstanding.”
The man sighs and murmurs something unintelligible, and I want to break this fucking door down and scream at them for insulting Layla.
Fuck this school. Layla deserves better.
With the alcohol from earlier still coursing through my veins, I somehow manage to find a back entrance to the audition stage. I’m just about to find a hiding place when a flash of red hair catches my attention.
The music starts—Layla’smusic—that is most fucking definitelynotuncultured and cheap.
“Take Me to Church”by Hozier.
Pride fills me as I slowly walk closer to the side of the stage. She’s worked sofuckinghard for this. She’s practiced for hundreds of hours in the tiny dance studio in Scott’s house, using the techniques she’s perfected since she was three. And it all leads to this pinnacle moment—this one audition.
My eyes find the judges—two men, two women.
They’re hardly watching. Instead, one of the women shakes her head and starts quickly talking to one of the men.
I glare at them as my chest burns with anger. They don’t deserve her. I take a step closer to the stage as the chorus begins, and Layla jumps and twirls into the air. Her leotard hugs every inch of her perfect body—her narrow hips, her small breasts, her long legs… how can they not see how perfect she is? I take another step closer until I’m on the edge of the wing—just a foot away from exposing myself to the judges. The bright lights cause me to blink rapidly, and the music swells through the room. You can’t even hear Layla landing on the stage floor. She’d practiced her landings for six months in order to do that. My eyes rove down to her feet, to her pointe shoes with ribbons criss-crossed tightly around her ankles.
I’ve always been in awe of how she does it—of how much she changes when she dances.
Gone is the insecure teenager, replaced by a confident professional who gets lost in the music. Her taut muscles hold her elegant form with every movement, and I lick my lips as shelands a few feet away from me, her body bent in half with her arms out to her sides. When she raises her head, the movement of me running a hand over my mouth must catch her attention because she snaps her eyes to mine, causing her to stall and miss her next move.
Fuck.
Instantly, pink blotches run down her neck to her exposed chest. Her chest rises and falls as her eyes widen, and it takes me two full seconds to realize that I fucked up.
Royally.
She’s panting but otherwise not moving—just staring at me with a mix of outrage and surprise.
That’s when I hear one of the judges make a tsking sound, and I lose control.
When I step forward onto the stage, the bright lights practically blind me. The music swells as Layla’s fists curl at her sides, and as I get closer, her nostrils flare.
“Sorry,” she tells the judges, not looking away from me. “He’s my stepbr?—”
“Excuse me.” The snobby one—Jean, I assume—shakes her head again and stands up.
