His frown only grows. “Someone tell you that?”
I shake my head. “No. Everyone has been super kind so far. But I-I’m supposed to hold this pose, a developpé écarté devant, at the end for like eight counts before coming down on my knees, but I could only do it for like four or something. And even then, my calves were shaking, and do you even know how big of a crime that is? Not being able to hold straight and still. A very big crime. Huge.”
It is.
And if they don’t kick me out then I’ll just quit myself because this is a disgrace.
For some reason, his lips twitch. “I don’t think anyone would notice how long you stood on your toes.”
I narrow my eyes at him, at his amusement. “Why not?”
“Because they’ll be too distracted at the sight of you down on your knees.” He tips his chin at me. “Especially in that.”
All of a sudden it hits me that I’m in costume.
I’ve been wearing this for three hours now and I completely forgot. I completely forgot that this is the first time Reed is seeing me in this.
A white leotard and a light green tutu.
Not to mention, I also have wings.
They are heavy — although after wearing them for so long, my shoulders have gone numb so I don’t feel their weight anymore — and made of white fur. They’re slung over my shoulders with white ribbon-like strings and rustle across my spine and arms.
Like a fairy…
I’ve been wearing leotards and tutus all my life so until he looks at me from top to bottom, I don’t realize how revealing it can be.
How tight the costume is and how it fits me like a second skin. How it highlights every lithe muscle, every delicate bone in my body.
How exposed I am.
Even more than I was back in the woods.
And before I can stop myself, I say, “It’s my tutu.”
When he lifts his eyes back to my face, they’re the darkest that I’ve seen them.
Liquid and fiery.
“Yeah?” he rasps in an almost indulgent tone.
I bring my trembling hands forward and trace the frilly fabric. “It’s like a skirt.”
“And what are those?”
He points to my feet and I look down. “Uh, they’re called pointe shoes.” I chuckle as I look up. “You know, people say that ballerinas have the ugliest feet. They’re all swollen and bruised and cut up and –”
“People are stupid.”
“But –”
I stop talking because something makes him move.
I don’t know what it is but he straightens up and I’m wondering what the chances are that he’ll stay put where he is, by the door, when he starts walking toward me.
It’s not a big space so by the time I gather my wits to ask him what the heck he’s doing, he’s already here.
He’s already touching me.
