The studio lights buzz overhead, sharp and cold like everything else in this place. The mirrors lining the walls catch every flaw, every flicker of doubt, every step that lands even a half-second too late. I’m already sweating, the back of my neck damp, my hands clammy inside the pink satin of my pointe shoes.
I launch into the jeté and land wrong.
Not disastrously. But enough.
“Again,” Madame Loretto says, her voice as sharp as the tap of her cane against the floor.
I snap back into position. My heart is already hammering too fast. I feel every pair of eyes in the room shift toward me-subtle glances, sidelong smirks, the way you look when someone else is bleeding and you’re just glad it isn’t you.
I move again.
And miss again.
Not by much. A stutter in the landing. A fraction of a beat behind the music. A mistake no one would see-except Madame Loretto.
The piano cuts off with a sharp, discordant sound as she turns on her heel.
“Penelope Vale.” Her tone is exhausted. “Are you new here?”
I press my heels together, chin lifted, shoulders square. “No, Madame.”
“Are you injured?”
“No, Madame.”
“Then you must be lazy.” She clicks her tongue. “That’s disappointing.”
The silence stretches. My ears ring from the effort of keeping my breathing quiet.
“I’ve been teaching you for three years,” she says, pacing slowly in front of the mirrors, her reflection trailing behind her like a ghost. “Three years. You were what, sixteen when you came here? And now nineteen, still here, still lucky to be in this studio. You are the youngest girl in this class by a full four years. Do you understand how rare that is? How fortunate you are to even be dancing in this room?”
“Yes, Madame.”
“Then why are you wasting it?” Her voice lifts, not in volume, but in sharpness. “You’ve been dancing since you were two. Seventeen years of training and you still land like you don’t understand gravity. The Spring Gala trials are next week, and you’re dancing like you’ve already lost.”
My throat is tight. My spine feels like it might snap from how hard I’m holding myself up.
“You want the solo?” she says. “Then act like someone who deserves it. Otherwise, I’ll give it to someone with half your talent and twice your discipline.”
A long silence. She turns to the pianist.
“Take five minutes. Everyone. Penelope, sit.”
I drop to the floor, pressing my palms to the cool marley to hide the way they shake.
Mila is beside me a second later, her knees bent up to her chest, her voice soft. “Okay, what was that?”
I don’t look at her. Just stare straight ahead at the mirror, where my face looks too pale and too tight.
“You don’t mess that up,” she says. “Ever. You literally did it in your sleep at that overnight lock-in last fall. What’s going on?”
I exhale. Slow. Controlled. “Ty forgot to pick me up after class.”
She blinks. “Tyler?”
I nod. “I waited for like twenty minutes, but he was helping some girl study and forgot. I had to run six blocks and changed in the hallway just to get here on time.”
Mila’s mouth twists. “That’s, what, the fourth time?”
“Fifth.”
She doesn’t say dump him, but it’s written all over her face.
“He said he was sorry,” I add, even though I don’t really know why. “He just… spaced.”
“Spaced?” Mila says. “During your Gala trial week?”
I shake my head, pulling my knees to my chest. “It’s fine. I’m just off. I’ll fix it.”
She doesn’t say anything for a second, then bumps her shoulder into mine. “You’d better. Amanda’s already mentally rehearsing her acceptance speech.”
I groan, laughing under my breath.
But the tightness in my chest doesn’t fade.
When Madame Loretto steps back into the studio, she doesn’t even look at me. Just says, “From the top.”
I stand.
I turn to face the mirror again, and for a moment, I just breathe. I look at myself-the hard lines of my cheekbones, the tension in my jaw, the muscle twitching beneath the pale fabric of my leotard.
I know this dance. I’ve lived in it.
This is mine.
The music starts.
I move.
Everything fades away-the class, the ache in my back, the sting of Madame’s words. My legs extend cleanly, arms carving through the air like water. My spine is long, core locked tight, fingers soft and alive. I feel the flow of the music in every inch of me.
I turn. I land. I breathe through it.
Jeté. Pirouette. Relevé.
Perfect.
My shadow stretches beside me in the mirror, precise and sharp, but I don’t look at her. I’m in the movement. I’m not hoping it’s right-I know it is. Every count. Every flick of my wrist. My face remains still, unreadable. But inside, I am blazing.
The final movement sweeps me to center, a slow, deliberate drop from arabesque into the last position. I stop, balanced. Poised. Weightless.
I exhale.
And then… silence.
Madame Loretto stands at the edge of the room, unreadable.
I wait for something-criticism, a correction, even more silence.
Instead, she gives one, single, tight nod.
That’s it.
No applause. No compliment. But I feel it like thunder.
My chest blooms with heat, and a grin breaks across my face before I can stop it.
That nod means I did it. That nod means it was enough.
I sit down again, slower this time, the adrenaline still pulsing through my limbs.
Mila grins at me. “Okay. That was scary good.”
“Yeah?” I say, pretending to drink water, even though my hands are shaking a little.
“You looked like a different person. Like… someone out of a movie. You crushed it.”
I smile wider. “I know.”
It’s not arrogance. It’s not even relief.
It’s something quieter.
Something earned.
For a few seconds, I’m not thinking about Tyler or being nineteen or how hard I had to run to get here. I’m just thinking about that last note of music, and how I hit it with my whole body still humming.
I don’t need the praise.
I don’t need the applause.
I just need the dance.
The first breath outside the studio always feels like a small kind of freedom. The air’s warmer than it’s been in months, the sharpness of winter finally fading into something that smells like dirt and early grass. I roll my shoulders as I walk, wincing when the right one catches. Too many hours under Madame Loretto’s glare.
Mila falls in beside me, pulling her sweatshirt tighter around her waist. “I don’t know about you,” she says, “but I feel like I just got hit by a truck made of ballet shoes.”
I huff a laugh. “You and me both.”
“My quads are actively planning their escape.”
“My soul already left my body in the second round of adagios.”
Mila groans. “I’m glad I’m not trying for the Spring Gala. I’d actually have to care.”
I glance over at her. “I still don’t get it. You should try out.”
She gives me a look-dry, unbothered. “Did you see me today? I almost wiped out during barre. And I wasn’t even moving.”
“You weren’t that bad.”
“I was. It’s okay. I’ve made peace with being average.”
I slow my pace a little, adjusting my bag strap. “You’re not average. You’re solid. You just don’t push yourself.”
“I know,” she says, not offended. “That’s why it works. No pressure, no breakdowns.”
I massage my shoulder again, letting the silence settle between us for a second.
Mila glances at me. “You, though. Even when you were messing up earlier? You were still better than the rest of us.”
I shake my head. “That’s generous.”
“It’s not. You just-move differently. You make the floor look like it belongs to you.”
I don’t know what to say to that. Compliments always land strange. Too soft. Like I don’t know what to do with them once they’re in my hands.
I shrug. “Madame didn’t think so.”
“She did by the end.”
“Only after emotionally dismantling me in front of the entire room.”
Mila tilts her head, thoughtful. “She’s rough. But she only does that with people she thinks might actually have a shot.”
I glance up at the sky. It’s that pale, late-afternoon shade of blue, still cool at the edges. The sidewalks are patchy with melted snow and uneven sunshine, but it smells like spring is fighting its way in. Everything’s still ugly-but softer. Lighter.
We stop at the curb. The walk sign blinks red.
“I was off today,” I say, quietly. “I could feel it.”
“Because of Tyler?”
I pause. “Yeah.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“He forgot to pick me up. Again. After class.”
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.
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