Page 3 of With You

Layth slips into the room, closing the door behind him as he approaches the three of us, with his usual stoic demeanour and sharp features that give nothing away. He’s dressed in what might as well be his uniform, a plain white shirt covered with a black suit jacket, and black trousers with the sharpest crease I’ve ever seen down the front of them to cover his long legs. He towers over the whole group, even with the other guys all being over six foot tall. While I’m not exactly short at five foot seven, being around this group makes me feel it some days.

His gaze stays fixed on Zena as he reaches the bed and hands the bag of ice cream to her. Evie and I might as well not exist.

“There’s spoons in the bag,” is all he says before he flashes her the softest of smiles, barely visible if you’re not paying attention, before he turns and leaves the room.

“I want to wrap him in a blanket and look after him forever,” Evie remarks as she takes the bag out of Zena’s hand and passes the tubs out to us.

“Isn’t he trained in like fifty different martial arts? He could probably kill someone,” I say.

“The only way he’s killing them is with kindness,” Evie replies, getting a soft laugh out of Zena.

“Anyway, what have you two been up to?” I ask, hoping they won’t ask me any more questions about the auditions.

“Trying to figure out what to wear for this dinner,” Zena says, popping a scoop of ice cream into her mouth.

“There’s a few ateliers in the 8th that I’ve been wanting to visit,” Evie adds. “I’m not having a repeat of last year.”

I think back to our first welcome dinner, and how none of us were prepared for it. We thought it would just be a small event held within the university, but it turned out to be far bigger. Photographers were stationed around the room, hired by the university to show off its students. Our lack of knowledge meant that when Evie and Damien started arguing over sharing a chocolate cake at the end of the evening, said dessert ended up on Evie’s white dress, resulting in a very unflattering photo of her yelling at Damien while covered in chocolate.

“I am not letting that happen to you again, even if it means I have to take Damien down myself,” I tell her, earning a sputtering laugh as she chokes on her ice cream.

“That, I would love to see. I think you could easily take him in a fight.”

“I think anyone could,” Zena adds unexpectedly, sending the three of us into fits of laughter.

“He can’t even win a game of chess,” Evie sighs, shaking her head.

“What was the score last time you checked?” Zena asks.

“He’s won two matches.”

“That’s great!” I say.

“Out of thirty.”

“Oh.”

“I should go and rescue him, shouldn’t I?” Evie says, already finishing off her ice cream and scooting off the bed to get to her feet.

Zena and I don’t need any prompting to join her, and we leave the room together. When we reach the common room, the four boys are in their usual spot, crowded around a small table with a chess set between River and Grayson, Damien and Layth watching from the sidelines. It might as well be a gathering of models with how they all look and hold themselves. I suppose growing up with an immense amount of money and privilege really does wonders for appearances.

They’re all wearing clothes similar to Layth's: suit jackets, white shirts, and dress pants. The university has no official dress code, but most male students opt for more formal clothes. Their personalities still show through the clothes, though.

Grayson has the top two buttons of his shirt undone, a small silver chain dangling around his neck. He lifts a finger to tug on it, the matching silver rings on his slender olive-toned fingers glowing in the firelight.

Damien’s white shirt is untucked from his pants, the creases showing even more as he lifts his arms above his head to stretch, revealing a sliver of tan skin just above his waistband.

Layth’s clothes are as pristine as if they’ve just been freshly laundered rather than worn for a full day of classes. On very rare occasions, he might relax a bit, rolling up his sleeves to reveal light brown arms corded with veins.

River looks like a mess, the worst out of all of them. His top button is undone, ghostly pale collarbones on show, and one side of his shirt is untucked messily. It’s obvious he’s putting too much effort into the casual look he’s trying and failing to pull off.

“Who do you think is winning?” I ask, right as a piece goes flying toward River’s head.

I have to cover my mouth with my hand as I let out a sputtering laugh. Although I can’t hear what Grayson is saying to him—most likely a string of profanities—the smug expression on River’s face doesn’t budge.

River Campbell has been a thorn in my side for as long as I’ve known him. When he joined the dance school I attended as a child, I was intrigued. He was the first boy and I admired that he was doing a sport that’s typically reserved for girls. But as we’ve gotten older, that initial reaction has been replaced by an ever-growing resentment for him. Our teachers constantly applauded him, even when he made mistakes, and he’s had no trouble getting the solo roles he wants. Meanwhile, I’ve had to fight tooth and nail to make myself stand out amongst the other ballerinas, and not just for my skin colour. Being the only Black girl in a class full of White people doing a historically White art was no effortless feat, as much as I made it look like that to everyone around me.

Being a male ballerina has always seemed like an easier role to me. There’s a scarcity to them that makes the good dancers seem even more impressive. It’s not River’s fault that he gets praised for every little step. But it is his fault that he’s a raging narcissist who thinks he’s god’s gift to ballet.