Page 52 of Wounded Dance
I realize none of the other girls are inpointeshoes at the moment, so I put on a pair of regular ballet slippers.
“We have a set routine for warm-up,” Ingrid says. “We’re all old hat at it now, but I’ll talk you through it. You’ll have it memorized eventually.”
She gives me commands, all traditional ballet movements that I thankfully know. I have to concentrate on staying with the other girls, so I can’t try to spot Blitz in the mirror to see how he is doing with this other girl.
Jealousy and a spot of fear burns in my belly. It was one thing when I had Blitz to myself. Dreamcatcher was mostly a children’s academy, with only a few older teen and adult classes.
But this studio is completely different. They are all beautiful young people with a passion for dance. I feel out of place, an old-fashioned wallflower in a room full of dazzle.
I force myself to pay attention. There is no place for jealousy here, only determination and drive. The other girls are sharply focused, their movements perfectly in sync, each position a flawless example of a pose.
“We have to master the basics before we can break the rules,” Ingrid says, not to me, but to all of us. “When we achieve perfection in the classics, we can give wings to our fresh approach.”
Between her encouragements, Ingrid prompts me on the next move. I am not quite in time with the others, having to move into position once I hear the command. But I begin to feel their silent count, the rhythm to their pace that is independent of the music playing overhead.
“All of it, again,” Ingrid says. “Keep your form no matter how you tire.”
I begin to be able to predict the next motion, and eventually we overlap what we did before. I become more confident in the poses, and Ingrid gives me less prompting. “Good, Livia,” she says. “You are getting it.”
The work is far more challenging than the routine Betsy puts us through, and by the time the sequence begins again, many parts of me are screaming. I manage to glance into the mirror to find Blitz. He has the Gina girl in the air, with Corey and Ferris spotting her as Blitz makes a turn, his arms extended.
His hands are on the girl’s rib cage and thigh, and jealousy burns into me again. I want to be the girl he lifts.
I lose my rhythm and fall a beat behind, then have to scramble to catch back up. Ingrid’s eye flashes over to me for an instant, but she says nothing. She works alongside us, matching every move we do.
When we come to the end of the sequence a third time, she sends us to the floor. I want to groan with relief. Blitz is standing next to Ferris now, nodding as he’s instructed on a hand position. Jenica watches from the side. She sees me looking at Blitz and winks.
I quickly look down at my knee as we move into a floor stretch.
I’m not really sure how long we work out. The lights never flicker, and no hour is ever counted down. New people arrive in other corners, others leave.
Finally, Blitz comes over. “I’m apparently no longer safe to lift a ham sandwich,” he says to me, looking over the girls. “I totally need to buy you one of those naked leotards.”
My cheeks burn and a couple of the other girls laugh a little. We continue our stretch, and Blitz sits down next to me to follow our lead.
Eventually Ingrid stands. “Tomorrow, we dopointe, so bring your shoes.”
I guess we’re done.
When I stand up, my legs are wobbly. Blitz notices and laughs. “You too, Princess?”
He helps pull me up as Jenica comes over.
“I think you had a good first day,” she says. “We expect you tomorrow. We’ll work out the soreness you will feel.”
Blitz rolls his shoulders. “Yeah, this is gonna burn,” he says. He nudges me. “Race you to the masseuse.”
Jenica shakes her head. “Young people with money,” she says. “You are spoiled. We’ll get you in proper dance shape.”
Blitz waves at her as we collect my bag and head to the door. I’m too tired to even bend down and change my shoes, so I just shove my Crocs on over my slippers.
We pass by Weeza, who sits glaring at Blitz from behind her desk. He blows her a kiss. “Miss you,” he says.
She slams her phone on the desktop. “Don’t speak to me, Hollywood scum,” she says.
“Please let me punch her, just once,” I say.
Blitz leads me out the door. “Eh, she’ll just make you go viral on Twitter. I’m saving that for when you give birth to Blitz, Jr.”
