Page 14 of With You

“Now, finally, our main solo,” Madame says.

This is it.

“You’ve all performed well, but of course there’s always one who stands out. Our final solo will be performed by Charlotte.”

The room starts to spin. I stumble backward, my body hitting the wall behind me as everyone else carries on like nothing has happened. It doesn’t make sense. My variation was perfect. I did all thirty-two fouettés perfectly, barely moving an inch across the floor as I rose and fell with more grace than Charlotte Spencer holds in her pinky finger. This can’t be real.

“Congratulations, Charlotte,” Madame continues, as if she hasn’t shattered my whole world with one sentence. “Ensemble rehearsals will begin next week. The schedule will be posted online. Thank you all for your efforts.”

Everyone hears the unspoken dismissal at the end, and while others start to shuffle around me, gathering their things and offering passing commiserations and congratulations before filing out of the room, I can’t move.

I replay Charlotte’s performance in my head, and there’s no way she was better than me. Her routine was shoddy, her landings more like lead dropping to the ground than featherlight and floating, and her form was so atrocious she could barely hold fifth position as she finished. There has to be a mistake.

I glance over at Charlotte, a saccharine smile pasted to her face as the other dancers congratulate her. Once most people have left the room, she steps over to Madame, curling her fingers around her arm as that smile turns from overly sweet to devious in a split second. She’s had a close relationship with Madame since we started here, and it only took me a few months to realise there was a family connection there. This can’t be anything but the result of that.

“Madame,” I call out before I can think better of it.

“Amelie, decisions are final,” she says in our mother tongue of French. Even though our school is in Paris, many students don’t speak the language fluently, including Charlotte.

“My routine was perfect,” I tell her, my initial disbelief turning into a burning frustration.

“So was hers. We had to choose,” she shrugs as she starts to walk away from me. I don’t let her.

“I thought you weren’t allowed to let your personal relationships get involved in matters like this,” I say, calling it out for exactly what it is. “Does the General Director know that your families are connected?”

“Remember who you’re talking to.” Her tone turns dangerous, just like the glare in her eyes. I should stop before I anger her any further, but I can’t help myself.

“I deserve the solo.”

“No one deserves anything.”

“I needed that. You know this is my only chance.” My irritation turns to desperate pleading, my emotions getting the better of me as I try to process what’s happening.

The showcase isn’t just a chance for me to prove myself. A scout will be in attendance for a summer intensive program that I’ve dreamed of attending for years. I lost my chance last year when I got put in the ensemble, and that only motivated me to work harder so I could finally get it this time. It’s the only way I’ll be able to show that I have the skill and talent to earn my place, to finally prove that I have what it takes to be a principal ballerina.

I understand the world we come from; I know money and connections mean everything, but a delusional part of me thought d’Étoiles would be different. This university is full of the most privileged and connected people on the planet, but someone will always have the upper hand.

“There has to be something. Let us dance again, side by side, and you can judge then,” I continue, my hope dwindling with every feeble attempt to convince her to change her mind.

“My decision is final,” she says.

I feel like a petulant child as I think of more ways to appeal to her, more ways to prove myself.

“Please. I need this.”

There’s nothing else I can offer her but a final plea.

“We still have the partner auditions in a few days,” she says, shrugging. “If you really want it, that’s your best chance.”

It’s never crossed my mind to perform with someone else. I’ve never danced properly with another ballerina, only ever doing solo pieces. Any time I’ve been paired up in class, the other ballerina never matched my standards.

“And I’ll have to audition then?”

“Both of you will,” she says, confirming my worst nightmare.

I have to find a partner worthy of dancing with by the end of today if I'm going to get enough practice over the next two days to be ready. It’s an almost impossible task.

“I’ll do it,” I tell her, the words escaping before I can even register what I’m saying.