Wynter Chill
Istared at the notebook that had scribblings of all of our handwriting—I had written in black ink, Remi in blue, and Sydney in bright red. It almost felt like we were plotting an evil scheme to take over the world, or at the very least an incredibly detailed recipe for mischief. There were circles and dotted lines and scratched-out ideas—we’d spent at least two hours going through this plan until we were satisfied.
“This is it…it’s practically bulletproof,” Sydney declared, clearly feeling rather proud of herself.
“You think?” I wondered, always being the only skeptic in the room as per usual.
“Oh Iknowso, If this flops—”
“Which itwon’t,” Remi emphasised, interrupting, “don’t forget that you’re addressing a ticking time bomb, Syd.”
“Hey!” I gasped in offence, but I knew deep down that she was right.
“If it fails, which I’m certain that it will not, then we will know that we’ve certainly been hexed by otherworldly forces,” Sydney concluded, and I couldn’t help but snort a laugh.
“Since when doyoubelieve in the supernatural?” I prompted. “I have a strange feeling about this,”
“How so?” Sydney finally packed up her belongings as her phone pinged, “It’s Jax.”
“I don’t know, I just feel like it’s about to be a catalyst for so much,” I expressed, and Remi placed a hand on my shoulder.
“Isn’t that the point?” Remi smiled then took a deep breath, placing both hands on my shoulders now, her deep brown eyes looking down at me. “Isn’t that what you want, what you deserve? I don’t know, Yesoh, I’ve known you two freaking years and this is the most lively I’ve ever seen you. I don’t know what on earth went down between you and the ice prince all those summers ago but something tells me that this isn’t the end.”
“What if hewantedit to be, though?” I contemplated. “What if it really was supposed to be the end?”
“Then he wouldn’t have come knocking on your door the minute he got back, Soh, he just…wouldn’thave.” Sydney spoke with a such conviction it was easy to believe her. I wanted to. Just then she answered her phone. “I’m going over to Jax’s to study.”
“You really expect us to believe you’re going halfway across town to study?” Remi giggled. “Yeah sure!”
“Can’t a girl study at her boyfriend’s in peace? Damn, I didn’t know I was hanging out with the state police,” Sydney defended as if she’d just been accused of the worst crime in existence.
“Just don’t be a teen mom, Syd,” I warned her.
“I watched enough episodes of the show with you to be absolutely petrified, thanks.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m a big girl, don’t you trust me?”
“Well yes!” Remi agreed. “It’s Jax we don’t trust.”
“Oh, but you love Jax,everyoneloves Jax, it’s kind of his thing!” Sydney protested.
“Of course I love Jax, and that’s why I’m warning both of you as your dear best friend not to drop out before your time, now run along!” I encouraged.
And they both did just that.
And then it was just me and my notebook. I stared at it for a little while, and I could’ve sworn it seemed to glitter in the moonlight seeping in from the window. It was incredibly late, and it wasn’t wise for me to be out at this hour, so I decided to clear my mind before the guilt of what I was plotting ate me alive. I made my way back into the ballet studio and put on my shoes. My feet were sore, but it was all just a part of the job. I knew that. I knew that there was no gain without the most excruciating pain.
I knew that everything in this life came with strings attached.
I practised my arabesque and pirouettes because I knew they never wear my strong suit, and if I was going to be auditioning for the right of spring at the end of the season, I needed to perfect them. I could feel the sweat collecting on my brow and my core tightening and muscle strain. I knew that the pain I would feel the morning after would be worse than anything I felt now, and I didn’t know whether to take that as a comfort or something that I should dread.
The only light that bled into the practice room of the studio was from the dim lighting of the hallway, I practiced a few more steps, and even projected performances of theNutcrackerup onto the screen for me to see. I made it my sole mission to mimic the body language of the prima ballerinas. As I saw upon the stage, I would emulate them, and become gracepersonified. At least that was what Madame Stacy always emphasized every time—she said that to be a ballerina was to be nothing but grace personified. There was no room for chipped edges and cracks. You were to be elegance embraced and grace personified.
“You did not say my name,” I heard a voice break the silence from the doorway, and I nearly tripped over in surprise.
It was the season after a crackling fall, the one before a blossoming spring. It wasWynter.
“What?” I wondered, taking the remote and pausing the projector video.
“Only after I left, and I had time to contemplate on the conversation that we had earlier at your dorm, I realized that during the duration of it, you did not say my name, not even once.” Wynter stepped into the moonlight—he wore no makeup now and his face was bare and beautiful. He was all bee-stung plush lips, eyes so deep you could swim in them, and effortless radiance.
