The only evidence of that night is that nasty split lip and the bruise on his jaw.
Even after four days, it looks just as angry and red as it must have when Ledger laid it on him.
Every time I see it, my heart twists in my chest.
My legs itch to go over to him and touch it. Touch him.
But I can’t.
That’s why I’m running.
The second I see him, I turn around and leave, which I usually did anyway, but these days I’m ruthless. If he comes inmy line of vision, I duck my head. The second I start to think about him, I shut it the eff down.
Besides, it’s not as ifheis thinking about me.
As I said, looking at him, you wouldn’t even know that Friday night happened.
Not to mention, there are girls taking care of his bruise. In fact, I saw a girl from junior year caressing it out in the courtyard today.
I think she even reached up and kissed it. I’m not sure. I didn’t wait to see what she would do once she’d gone up on her tiptoes.
So yeah, I need to move on and consider Friday night an anomaly and focus on what’s important.
The upcoming dance show in which I’m the lead.
Yes, I am.
I don’t even know how it happened. Because I’m a freshman and they never pick a freshman. They usually go for a junior or senior.
I’m actually very proud.
If only this wasn’t so hard.
I mean, it’s a fairly easy routine. The dance itself is a mix of classical ballet and contemporary choreography. There’s nothing here that I haven’t done before.
But.
I cannot nail down the last part of it. I’m having trouble with holding the positions, with my calves being steady, with my toes bearing my weight.
So I’m basically having trouble with everything and I just want to give up and cry.
I mean, what kind of a ballerina am I if I can’t get my toes to cooperate with me?
A sucky one.
School’s been done for hours but I’m in the auditorium, trying to get it right.
I can’t though.
Because I’m tired now. My limbs are exhausted and I want to go home and just soak in a bathtub for hours, clean up the scrapes on my toes, bandage my ankle and take a bucketful of painkillers.
So I pack up my things, unplug the stereo and bring it to the storage closet located backstage. Opening the door, I switch on the light and set the heavy equipment down on one of the shelves on the far end.
The moment I do though, I hear something, a creak and a footstep, a click, and I spin around already knowing —hoping— who it would be.
And I’m right.
It’s him.
