‘The floor is yours,’ Nicole says. ‘Who claims it?’
The silence stretches as the pianist hovers his hands over the keys. My reflex screams at me to stay put. Wait your turn. Don’t be pushy. Be the good girl who blends in.
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. Dark circles under my eyes that the concealer gave up on ages ago. They burn with hunger. This. I want this more than anything I’ve ever wanted.
Nevin spent nine months telling me I was too much and not enough. You’re lucky I put up with you, Ava. High maintenance. Fragile. I let him say it. I nodded and apologised and made myself smaller and smaller until I almost disappeared.
Not anymore.
I step forward. The movement is loud in the quiet studio, a declaration. Heads turn. Elena raises an eyebrow. I ignore her and walk straight to the centre of the floor. I don’t ask for permission, and I don’t even track Nicole or Luc for approval.
In full focus, I find my spot, dig my heels into the rosin-dusted floor and hold my own reflection. ‘I’ll run it.’
Nicole doesn’t waver. ‘Allez, chérie.’
The music starts. It fills the room as a slow procession of dark cellos and relentless drums. I don’t count. I let the sound pull me under.
The first movement is a reach. Long, desperate, grasping at empty air. There is no pretence, no acting. I reach for the life I’ve been grieving for four weeks. I reach for the safety and happiness I walked away from.
I reach for Scottie.
My body moves before my brain can censor it. The technique is there, but I’m not driving it. Desperation is.
I don’t dance to impress Nicole or to spite Nevin. I dance to prove I still have mass. That I take up room in this world. If I stop moving, the silence wins. The months of caging insults, the terror of the slamming door, the humiliation of that TikTok post – it all pours out in a torrent of kinetic energy.
The room blurs into grey streaks as I spin. I land a jeté and the impact jars up my shin bone. I pivot into the adagio section. This is meant to be Mary’s resignation. Her acceptance of death.
But I don’t dance acceptance. I dance the refusal to apologise.
I arch my back, exposing my neck to the executioner, but my hands are clenched into fists. Not a victim waiting for the axe, but the one daring the blade to fall.
The track erupts, a gorgeous disaster of cellos and drums.
I see Scottie in the dark of the cinema. In the car park, in Oban, in the axe-throwing pub.
The grief hits me mid-turn, a sucker punch below the diaphragm that folds me in half from the inside. I stumble. Half a beat. The Machine fails. For a split second, terror scrambles my nerves – you trashed it, you’re weak – but then I surrender to gravity and momentum. I let the slip become a fall, collapsing onto one knee, then dragging myself up, scraping skin against the floor, fighting the crushing weight of everything I’ve lost.
I finish. Chest heaving. Arms open. Staring down the invisible executioner.
The final note fades.
The room is a vacuum stillness. I hear the pianist breathing. The blood is crashing in my ears like a tide. I don’t even notice the other dancers.
Nicole walks over to me and stops a foot away. ‘You dropped your standing leg.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did you not hide it?’
‘Because the Queen wouldn’t.’
Nicole pins me with a gaze that gives nothing away. Then she angles one side of her mouth in a smile. ‘Correct answer.’ She turns to the class. ‘Thank you, ladies. That will be all. Ava stays.’
Then she turns to Luc. ‘Ava is Mary.’
‘Agreed. It’s been about time.’ He nods, arms folded over his chest. ‘As of this morning, you’re our newest Principal. We’ll get the contract updated. Congratulations.’
The exit is swift. The other dancers pack their bags with efficient violence, the zip of tracksuits loud in the quiet. Elena keeps her gaze aimed straight ahead as she leaves, but the snap of the door is eloquent enough.
