Page 54 of Facing Off
SONYA
Hughes dropsme off at my dance studio. He offers to go inside and clear up the fact that he’s not my husband, but I turn him down. Honestly, between everything else that’s happened, I forgot about him lying to Madame Kozlova about us being married. And now? It’s not what I’m even thinking about.
How can it be when mywet pussyhas since come up?
Kill me. Hughes felt how much I wanted him. Well, how much mybodywanted him. It’s not the same thing as my mind and it doesn’t count, I remind myself. It’s not like Ilikehim or anything.
He was underneath me, and I reacted. It’s his fault for being all muscle-y and male. And then when he started daring and touching me… I should be mad it got that far, but I feel…
I don’t want to think about how I feel.
As soon as Hughes pulls up to my dance studio, I run out of his car without looking back. I’ve got bigger problems to focus on like my dancing. Even though it’s beenone day, it feels like I’ve taken too much time off. I plan to head straight to the studio to practice, but Nina intercepts me.
“Why are you lying? I looked it up, and there’snothingonline about you and Adrian Hughes being married.”
My gut twists. “How about you focus on ballet and how I’m a better dancer than you, Nina?”
“Is that so?” She smirks. “Madame Kozlova is waiting for you in her office. You should probably go talk to her about all that.”
The look on her face makes my gut cramp. Nina is usually haughty and competitive as hell, but suddenly she’s practically glowing with happiness. “What’s that mean?”
“You’ll find out, Sonya.”
My heart twists into a pretzel in my chest. But I head to Madame Kozlova’s office. Before knocking, I have to wipe my sweaty palms on my leggings a few times.
My dance mistress doesn’t smile when she opens the door, but that’s not unusual. From the day I met her over six years ago, Madame Kozlova has made it clear that she hates pleasantries for the sake of politeness. It’s why when I first joined this dance company, she didn’t bother learning my name. Until Madame Kozlova thinks you could become something in our industry, she doesn’t waste energy on getting to know you.
She started calling me Sonya two years ago.
That might seem harsh, but balletisan elitist art form. It’s expensive to join, expensive to watch, most of us aren’t paid enough, and the majority of dancers won’t be remembered unless we become principals.
So why bother with any of it in the first place?
If I can survive the gauntlet of physical pain and criticism that I put my body through on a daily basis, I can survive anything. It’s made me stronger, and now it’spaying off. I’m getting so close to accomplishing everything I’ve ever wanted.
“So far there have been two instances where you’ve messed up on stage or in practice,” says Madame Kozlova, shutting the door behind me. “The doctors checked and there’s no physical explanation as to why this is happening.”
I’ve worked tirelessly and sacrificed endless hours into finally proving myself to Madame Kozlova. I’m one of her favorite dancers. She’s probably concerned and wants reassurance that whatever is happening, I’ve got it handled. No problem, because I do.
“It won’t happen again,” I promise.
She gestures at a chair and waits until I sit down. “How can you be sure?”
Ballet is the rock at the center of my universe. I’ve studied it, relied on it, and soaked it up as nourishment.
Sure, at first, I used to hang around the neighborhood’s at-risk youth dance program as a way not to go home after school. But after they gave me a pair of used pointe shoes and the smallest, most insignificant onstage part in a community production, everything changed. When the audience got to their feet and clapped, standing in the very back row behind most of the other dancers, I felt special for the first time.
Nothing else in my childhood came close to that level of recognition. I couldn’t get enough. It’s the escape I dedicated all my time and energy into replicating, and now it’s what I’m great at and what defines me. Without it, I wouldn’t have known what I was capable of becoming, that I can thrive in this world without any support from others. As long as I have myself and this body capable of dancing, life makes sense.
When my dance mistress makes a huffing sound, Ifinally answer her question. “I have the skills to do it all,” I insist. “Every move. Sauté. Jeté. Assemblé. Sissonne. Échapoé Sauté. Even Grand Jeté.”
Madame Kozlova sits behind her desk, folding her hands together. Her lips press together. “It’s not a matter of what youcoulddo, Sonya. But what we can trust you to doconsistently.” There’s a pause, as if she’s letting her words sink in.”When you messed up in front of Pepita, I got this really bitter feeling in my mouth. How could a dancer that I’ve personally been training and have vouched for choke like this under the pressure?”
My back hits the chair. I’m shaking my head, telling myselfit’s okay. There’s no reason to panic, as long as I explain. “I understand how you must have felt and how it’s reflected on you, but you can count on me?—”
“That’s what I told myself,” she agrees, cutting me off. “That Sonya will make sure it never happens again. But it happenedagain, didn’t it?” Her chest reverberates with an agitated noise as her fingers start tapping a fast pattern on the desk. “I only have so much time before I retire myself, and it’s got me thinking about my legacy and the dancers I want attached to my name.”
My heart slams against my ribs. “Trust me, I’ll do my best to represent your legacy and do great?—”
