Page 151 of Cruel Delights
I wish like hell you did.
Darren helps me hobble the rest of the way out of the dance studio. The gossip doesn’t let up—the other dancers in the show watch me go with raised brows, folded arms and muttered conversation.
I don’t expect anything else; I’ve never gotten along with most of these girls.
I’ve always been the outsider.
What little friendliness existed between us vanished the second I was chosen asprincipessain Ignazio's show.
“You okay?” Darren asks as we sway in our seats on the subway.
I haven’t said a word since we left the dance studio. My mood’s soured and my thoughts vary between frustration I could show such weakness in the middle of rehearsal and dread I’m still expected to show up on Friday.
I cast Darren a wry smile. “Yeah… it could always be worse I guess.”
“You’ve still got your part,” he says. “He’s given ‘em away for less.”
Darren’s attempts to cheer me up fail. We fall into another moment of silence as I turn my attention to the rest of the beat-up subway car.
The other passengers look as weathered and exhausted as I’m sure I do, with their faded winter coats and bags under their eyes.
No one in Dresden isreallycomfortable. 99% of the population lives hand to mouth.
The other 1% remains an illusion to most of us—unseen and unreachable.
I would’ve never fallen into the trap that I have with the Dresden Dance Company had I any other choice; I certainly wouldn’t have signed my life away like I had.
Friday wouldn’t be amandatoryengagement.
My body shudders at the thought. Some of the other dancers are better actors than I am. As it turns out, I’m only good at performing on stage. In real life, during face-to-face situations with our “fans”, I’m Ignazio's worst nightmare.
Darren walks me up the six flights of stairs to my dingy studio apartment. I limp inside and toss my keys into the empty bowl by the door.
The heat doesn’t work when I need it to during the winter and it’s not uncommon for water to leak through the ceiling. My landlord’s a grouchy jerk and there’s no elevator in the building. The six-hundred square foot space isn’t much… but it’s mine.
I flop face down onto my bed and let out a groan thinking more about today.
If I were stronger, I would’ve fought through the pain and kept practicing.
Iusedto be better. Faster. More fluid.
I used to dance circles around every person in that studio.
That was before theCoppeliaincident.
Now, nothing’s the same. Not even how my body responds to pain.
I sigh as my eyes close and I shut out the noise. I focus on my dreams and leave the troubling thoughts behind.
Before all the bad…
* * *
It seems the next time I’m leaving my bed, it’s Friday evening, and I’m flitting from my closet to the bathroom to get dressed. I’ve done as Ignazio instructed and spent the last two and a half days resting in bed watching Netflix and eating peanut butter jelly sandwiches (all I have in my kitchenette). My ankle’s nowhere near its usual strength, but it’s better—I’m able to walk like a semi normal person.
The special cocktail dress Ignazio had delivered slips over my head and I take my first glance at myself in the mirror wearing it.
It hugs my body. Tight but not obscene. Short enough to ride my thighs but not short enough to be shocking. The deep wine shade pairs well with my brown skin. I leave my silky dark hair out like our fans prefer and then apply a touch of make up.