Page 2 of Vicious Impulses (The Capo and Ballerina)
My foot gives out and I drop to the floor with a harsh thud. The other dancers in the studio gasp. Then comes their scandalized mutters of gossip.
I’m shaking as I blink through the haze of pain, but I have an idea of what they’re saying. Cruel words I’ve heard before and am used to as the outcast among a sea of White faces.
Told you she wasn’t good enough.
She doesn’t deserve that lead role.
We all know why she was chosen.
I’d love nothing more than to tell them to shut up, but in the moment, I’m much more concerned about my ankle. If the damage is serious enough, it could cost me my lead in the show, and then I can kiss beingPrincipessa Danzantegoodbye.
Damp with sweat and half dizzy, I scramble to sit up and undo the ties of my pointe shoe. I don’t notice that Ignazio, the director of the show, who also happens to be the manager of our dance company, has strode over to scold me.
It’s not until I hear my name and he’s already standing over me that I realize he is.
“What have I told you a thousand times before, Nevaeh?” His pallid, hook-nosed face twists into a scowl. He notches his hands at his slender waist and makes me feel like a peasant to his lord with the way he towers over me. “If this is too much for you, I can choose someone that will be able to keep up. Not all dancers are befitting ofPrincipessa. It is the title role.”
I gulp down air and give a profuse shake of my head. “I can handle it. I can bePrincipessa Danzante. I’ve told you, I’m good.”
I rush to stand up, determined to prove myself. My injury has other ideas—another bolt of pain spikes through my right ankle and sends me sinking to the ground as quickly as I tried getting up.
Ignazio rolls his eyes and mutters curses words under his breath. “Pitiful, Nevaeh. You said you could handle this.”
“I can… it’s…” I wheeze, trying to push myself up on shaking arms. “It’s just a small sprain, Ignazio. I… I just need a moment…”
“There’s no more time for just a moment. YOU!” He rounds on Darren, my dance partner. “What are you doing, standing around like an oaf? Pick her up—help her home! She needs to rest that ankle if there’s any hope for next week.”
“Oh, no… don’t send me home early. I can do stretches.”
“If you’re to remain myPrincipessa, you’ll go back to your dorm and rest that fucking ankle.”
There’s no arguing with Ignazio when his thick Italian voice takes on a growly inflection and his dark green eyes flash in warning.
I shut out any other protests.
Darren, being the well-meaning if not brainless jock type he is, does as he’s told, no questions asked. He slips a toned arm around my back and hoists me up so that I’m propped against his athletic frame. None of my weight is on my right ankle. Most of it’s on him.
Used to being held in his arms, I’m more concerned with Ignazio’s instructions. “Does this mean you don’t want me at dinner Friday?”
Ignazio’s face darkens even more. “You better be there on Friday. As presentable as ever, Nevaeh. You have been reserved. You know I do not disappoint our fans.”
I wish 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 eyebrows, folded arms, and muttered conversation.
I don’t expect anything else; I’ve never gotten along with most of these girls.
What little friendliness existed between us vanished the second I was chosen asPrincipessain Ignazio’s show.
A long string of assumptions have unraveled about just why…
“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 that I could show such weakness in the middle of rehearsal and dread that 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.”