Page 1 of With You

Chapter 1

Amelie

My gaze stays pinned to the small dark smudge on the mirror even as I spin around.

Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine.

I falter on the thirtieth fouetté, my left leg failing to rise en pointe as exhaustion hits and my muscles tighten. My right foot drops along with it, and I let the rest of my body follow as I lean back on the cool floor of the studio.

It’s always the thirtieth.

I’ve only managed the full thirty-two fouettés this sequence requires once during my time practicing it. If I want to stand any chance of getting a solo in this year’s showcase—and catching the eye of agency scouts—I’ll need to perfect it.

My ankle twinges as I sit up, a short, sharp pain from an old injury that flares up at the worst times. It’s the reason I failed at getting a solo last year, and I’ll be damned if I let it happen again.

After catching my breath and waiting for the pain to subside, I stand up to gather my discarded things in front of the mirror that stretches across the entire wall. I plant myself on the ground again to change out of my pointe shoes, flexing my feet to get rid of the tingling sensation that comes with standing on the tip of my toes for so long.

I tuck the shoes into my bag before drinking down the half bottle of water I have left, throwing that in with them, too. My face gets bigger on my phone screen as I scoot closer, grab it, and stop the recording I set up so I can play it back later. I record every practice, studying them every time I make a mistake so I can learn from it.

Standing again, the slowly fading sunlight streams through the large windows, reflecting off the mirrors, and illuminating my face as I look at myself. I slick my hands across my dark hair in an attempt to flatten the few curls that have escaped the bun I forced them into earlier. My face is still warm from dancing intensely, so I press the back of my hand to my cheeks in an attempt to cool them down before I leave the studio.

Making my way to the door, I take one last sweeping glance at the studio that’s almost my second home before I switch off the light and leave. I always reserve the same studio, a smaller room toward the end of the block. It’s the best one for avoiding people, as the other dancers don’t get that far in when looking for a room to practice in.

The hallway leading out of the sports building is dark as usual, everyone else already long gone back to the dorms. I seem to be the only one who ever stays this late, but I prefer the quietness at this time. The muffled sounds of people dancing in other studios can get distracting sometimes, and as good as I am at performing on a stage, it’s only because of the effort I put in behind the scenes.

I scroll through my phone as I walk back to the dorms, checking in on the slew of notifications from the group chat with my friends.

Zena

Is there an event this weekend? Layth mentioned something about it

I’ve only been friends with Zena for a year, but she joined our group easily. We met last year when we moved in and discovered our rooms were across the hall from each other. I’d heard about her way before, though. Heiress to a crown she’ll never wear, she’s royalty. Even though it’s a small country that’s barely visible on the map, I remember the buzz of rumours floating around the summer before we started university.

I never imagined I’d be in such close proximity to her, and although I was a little wary at first due to how closed off she seemed, it quickly became clear that she wanted to make friends.

Over the first few months of getting to know each other, Zena slowly lowered her guard, allowing us to learn more about the real her, rather than the world’s assumptions.

She’s told us about her sheltered upbringing, her only friend being the boy she grew up with, who now seems inseparable from her. After hearing that, it was impossible not to befriend her.

Evie

I think he means the welcome dinner

On the other hand, Evie—Evangeline to most—and I have been friends since we were children, our families connected before we were even born through working in similar industries. What exactly that industry is, I can’t say. From overhearing random phone calls on the rare occasions my parents were at home, it’s something to do with private equity, whatever that means.

As much as I appreciate the lifestyle I’ve been brought up in, I’ve never paid attention to what my parents actually do. Neither of them had much of a hand in raising me, both busy with whatever business they were conducting that kept them away from home most of the time. Evie’s parents were the same, and we met because our parents hired the same nanny to look after both of us together. I wouldn’t change a thing about it for the world.

Zena

Ohhh right

We’ve already been here for a month, why are they doing it now?

Amelie

Do you think I can get out of it?

Evie