By the time the day is over, pain streaks steadily down the back of my leg. My feet sting, blistered and bleeding, scraping against my wool socks as I trudge through the snow. The only benefit of the white stuff flurrying around me and heaped on the ground is that soon my toes will be numb. That’ll spare me some agony until I can get to my pain relievers and soaking tub.
After an uneventful metro haul and three blocks of walking, I reach our corner apartment building. There’s an eerie heaviness to the air. The whole trek home I scanned my surroundings for some sign of that strange mutant beast, unable to shake the feeling of eyes on me.
My thighs ache with each climb up the stairs toward our fourth-floor apartment.Stupid, broken elevator.A thin sheen of ice coats the railing, so I shove my hands into my coat pockets, cursing myself for forgetting gloves. Hopefully I don’t slip. Last thing I need at this point is another career-hindering setback.
Eleven months was much too long of a break for my body. I’ll be feeling today’s classes for a while. While I shouldn’t have skipped out on the recovery room, I was nervous about being alltoo visible to the other company members. Better to give them some proper time to gossip about me behind my back. Besides, I can squeeze some stretching in after a nice warm shower.
Just the thought of the scalding droplets fills me with renewed purpose, and I pick up the pace, ascending the final flight of stairs.
Fumbling through the front zipper of my dance bag, I find my key and slide it into the hole, pressing my whole body against the door. It won’t open otherwise. I jimmy it, growling at the cold nipping at me. When the knob finally clicks, I twist it open, sighing. The relief is short-lived, though. My body sears, every appendage burning when I enter the apartment, adjusting to the swift temperature change from the icy chill outside.
A clatter comes from the kitchen, and I round the corner, spotting Lark throwing ingredients into a stock pot. Her girlfriend, Delilah, curls around her, helping her stir as she leans down and whispers in her ear. Lark’s deep tan cheeks pinken.
I’d puke if they weren’t so freakin’ adorable.
“Jojo! I was hoping you’d be home in time for dinner. It’s sweet potato bisque.” Lark lifts the ladle out of the pot, thick, creamy orange dripping down and splashing back into it. “Delilah even brought some of her mom’s incredible sourdough to go with it.”
“Sounds amazing. Thanks. I’ll grab a bowl after I get changed and shower real quick.” My mouth waters at the savory aroma filling the room and my stomach gurgles. Thank goodness for a roommate that cooks. Peeling off my coat, I hang it in the closet and kick off my boots with a hiss. I forgot how annoying it is to build up calluses and the necessary blistering part of the process.
“Sure thing,” she says, returning to her stirring.
As soon as I shuffle to my room and shut the door, I pull my sweater off and toss it into the hamper, followed by my warm-ups, leotard, and tights. My fingertip traces the faint silver scarbetween my ribs. It glints under the dim light, feathering out in a whorl.
It’s the only one I have that I consider beautiful.
I hurry into the bathroom, turning the knob to the hottest it will go without burning me, and let the water run. Steam billows over the shower’s sliding doors until fog paints the glass.
Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.
I barely hear the sound over the running water. I grab my towel and wrap it around myself, but when I open the door a crack, no one is there, just the sound of Lark and Delilah’s laughter filtering down the hallway.
Tap, tap, tap.
A shiver skates along my collarbone, and I whip my attention toward the sound. A branch knocks into the window. There are tiny flecks of white scattered across my desk and a thin layer of snow draped over Snip, my pale-green succulent. I don’t remember opening the window today, but small lapses in my memory aren’t as unusual as they used to be. I’ve been a bit distracted trying to get my life back together.
The breeze lashes at me, sending goosebumps skittering along my skin. I cross my arms, rubbing up and down for warmth, then latch the window shut, ignoring the frost spinning at the edges of the frame.
Ping!
My cell lights up from within my open dance bag, and I grab it, checking the message and time before tossing it onto the bed.
The Prince:
Be there in one hour.
One hour. Plenty of time to warm up in the shower, stretch, enjoy dinner, and hang with Lark and Delilah. Prancing into the bathroom, I shut the door behind me. With each inhalation ofthe thick steam, my lungs clear and my body relaxes. Hot water pelts down in a forceful stream. It’s a sting I welcome.
The throbbing along the back of my leg eases, and I place the ball of my foot onto the base of the shower seat, leaning forward to stretch my calves one at a time. I need to be ready for tomorrow, both physically and mentally, especially since they’ll be announcing the upcoming ballet.
Usually the announcement of the next show is something I look forward to. Not this time, though. My thoughts pirouette over the fact that, at twenty-eight years old, there will be no soloist role for me. Not that there’s anything wrong with the corps. They’re an integral part of the ballet in their own right. It just sucks when I’ve spent years paying my dues already. If I hadn’t been so close to promoting to principal, this wouldn’t hurt as much. I don’t even know if I’ll get the opportunity to be promoted again.
While I’m grateful for this second chance at my dream, there’s a little voice in my head that nags at me. How long will my injury allow me to continue to do what I love? The idea of not dancing again, not experiencing the warmth of the lights beaming down on the stage, the thrill of the curtain pulling back to an audience swathed in darkness, there to watch me share my craft…
I lean back against the cold tile, trying to catch a full breath that seems just out of reach.
Stop it, Jolie.
I won’t let those thoughts linger.
