Page 30 of With You

Something overtakes me and I circle my fingers around her wrist, just like I did the first time I touched her there a few days ago. She doesn’t pull back, so I gently urge her to sit again.

“Be as annoyed as you want to be, Amelie. But I know you better than you think,” I confess.

It’s impossible not to know her when our lives have been intertwined since our first ballet class together. There’s never been a way to escape her, and although it goes against my better judgement, at this point I don’t want to.

I trail my fingers down to her hand, resting it next to the board as our fingertips touch for barely a second before I let go.

“You know me, too,” I tell her. “That’s why you asked me to dance with you.”

Amelie doesn’t say anything, sliding her hand closer as she rests her fingers on top of mine.

“I hate you,” she says, a soft smile blooming as she shakes her head.

“Guess I hate you too, then,” I reply, the corners of my mouth lifting, and my heart picking up speed.

Chapter 12

Amelie

“Turn out.”

I angle my feet outward, positioning myself like the fitter has asked as I balance on the tips of my toes. He squeezes my heels, fingers pressing into the fabric of the shoes before he lets go.

“Sous-sus.”

I spend the next few minutes following his instructions, turning my feet the way he asks as he adjusts the fit of the shoes, until he decides I should try another pair. It’s always a tedious process getting fitted for new pointe shoes, but it’s vital to performing well. They’re the only tool ballerinas have apart from our bodies to leverage how well we do. Wearing the wrong shoes can be detrimental, and I can’t afford to let anything ruin this performance.

Sitting between Evie and Zena on the couch, I change my shoes, trying a pair with a shorter vamp and stiffer shank. Immediately, it feels better than the first, my foot arching into the shank with just enough resistance to allow me to go en pointe easily.

The fitter and I go through the same routine, trying different positions to make sure I get the best fit. Evie and Zena both watch the process intently, their jaws hinged slightly open in fascination. Most people don’t realise how long these fittings take, or how often we have to do them, but when I informed them of that, neither of them minded. One of the other fitters in the store even humoured them by letting the two try on a pair each, leading Evie to believe that I’ve been torturing myself for my entire life.

“She’s amazing,” I hear Evie murmur under her breath to Zena as I rise en pointe again.

Evie is one of the few people who have been in my life since I started learning how to dance. She was there at my very first recital, clapping loudly and cheering enthusiastically in the crowd even when everyone around her was silent. She’s always been my biggest support, and I can never express to her just how grateful I am.

An hour passes as I try on more and more shoes, and eventually the others join us, our group pretty much taking over the whole store. It’s a small establishment, but its history is powerful. It’s provided shoes for the best ballerinas in the world, and every principal ballerina I admire has set foot in here. It’s also one of the very few stores in the world to offer shoes that match my skin.

When I was younger, before I truly fell in love with ballet and started learning how to dance, I assumed the shoes were pink because it was a typically feminine colour to match the feminine nature of the art. It was only when I started attending classes that I realised it was meant to look like an extension of the ballerina’s legs, creating a seamless line from the top of the leg to the tip of their toes, giving a more elegant appearance to each move.

Starting out, the only shoes available to me were pink. When I got older and questioned my teacher about it, she explained it was difficult to find a place that would offer them in different colours. It had become such a standard in the ballet world, one that’s historically been reserved for European aristocracy—White aristocracy. After that, any time I saw ballerinas who weren’t White, but seemed to have matching shoes, I looked a lot closer. Most of them had caked their shoes in foundation, with only a rare few having shoes actually designed for them.

Even now, ballet is seen as a privileged sport, and there’s proof in the expenses needed for it, from classes to shoes that can only be worn for barely any time before they need replacing again. Although time has progressed and more ballerinas from different backgrounds are getting major roles, it’s still a struggle to find shoes that match my skin. A big reason I chose to come to school in Paris was so I could easily access this store.

I still dance in pink shoes every now and then, but for performances I prefer having brown ones. Today’s goal is to find a shoe that fits perfectly for the routine I’m performing with River.

He’s strolling around the store, making all the other girls in here flustered with his apparent charm. I don’t see it myself. Instead, I see a nuisance to the staff, who are just trying to do their jobs, and to the girls trying to get new shoes.

“Sous-sus,” the fitter says, and I adjust my stance.

“How do these feel? I think they hold your shape well,” he says, pressing his fingers to the sole as it bends to fit my arch.

I flex my feet, going flat before back en pointe to try and get a better feel for it.

“The box feels a little rough,” I tell him. It’s the slightest difference in pressure, but I can feel my toes pressed against it a little too uncomfortably.

“Okay, let me try something else,” he says, standing to grab another pair as I sit down to take these ones off.

“Are you going to be much longer?” River asks, leaning over the back of the sofa as he towers over me.