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“What kind ofselect few people?” I question.
“People they select themselves. People who, they think, fit with the Penmayne name.”
“She’s right, you know,” I remark with perhaps a bit too much snark. “You shouldn’t be mixing with the help, and especially not kissing them. You shouldn’t be hanging around girls who have second-hand ballet shoes that break.”
“You’re not just the help to me,” August replies. “You mustn’t think that, Emma.”
I glance down at the ground.
“That’sallI am,” I say. “Today’s just proven that.”
“Well, you’re certainly not like that to me,” the boy replies. “You’re a hell of a lot more to me.”
I take a step back from him. I don’t believe him – or his nice words – for a second.
“That’s another lie,” I whisper, before I sprint away from him and to the maid’s quarters.
Where I belong. With the rest of the help and the people who don’t belong in the dancing – or the Penmayne – world.
13
EMMA
I will never become a ballet dancer. It was so damn stupid of me to even think I could attempt to be one. Why was I so deluded to even consider that? Why did I allow myself to get swept up by beautiful people performing on the silver screen? Why did I allow the costumes and the music to affect me so much that I started to get such wild ideas?
I was so stupid.
I groan and sink deeper into my bed, tugging the covers up to my chin, feeling myself melt into the mattress just a fraction bit more. I’ve been hiding in here all afternoon, ever since I ran out of that class with my broken ballet shoes.
My stomach rumbles with hunger, but I am refusing to eat. I might be starving, but I’ve lost any and all appetite.
Mom came in earlier and tried to offer me cake for my birthday, but I steadfastly refused to even consider it. Mom reckons I’m suffering from regular teenage hormonal stuff. But this is an existential crisis.
Those beautiful performers in Swan Lake are all rich people, just like the Penmaynes. To be a dancer in a theatrical production like that requires years of studying at expensive dance schools and living off meager wages and buying the very best ballet shoes - all things that rich people can afford.
And people like me can’t. Not in a million years.
Mom was right – we are not meant for that world. We are most certainly not Penmaynes. The quicker I come to realize my station in life, the better.
A cleaner. Forever.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
There’s a knock on my window.
Who? What?
There’s a considerable drop from that window down to the ground. Whoever is out there is risking their life getting to my level.
I get out of bed and slide over to the glass, curious as to who might be mad enough to be on the other side.
It’s August who’s been tapping. The boy has climbed up the side of the building so that he is now at my window. I open it up to look at him.
“August? What the hell are you doing?”
He pulls himself easily through the window and stands up in the middle of my tiny bedroom. He quickly glances around to get his surroundings before he’s smiling at me.
“Hello, Emma.”
