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My head whips around as I focus on D-Neath who is looking at the room expectantly. Relief at finally being called and a deep, gut-wrenching nausea simultaneously fills me. Clancy nudges me in the side when I don’t get up immediately, a sudden rush of terror keeping me still.
“You’re up, Pen. Knock ‘em dead,” she grins, and I grimace, not used to getting any support let alone encouragement, particularly as she has no idea if I can dance or not.
“Fuck,” I mutter, unfurling myself.
Standing, I dig deep. I know I’m a good dancer, even if having Zayn here is fucking with my head. Forcing my nerves away, I refuse to let his appearance ruin my one and only opportunity to prove my worth. I’mnota hopeless dreamer like my mum accuses me of being on a daily basis. I’mnotworthless for wanting more from life than working in a bar every weekend serving guys who just see a girl they want to fuck or an opponent they want to beat in a battle for kudos.
I’m Pen. I’m more than what people perceive me to be. Icandance. Iamworth something.
Funnelling that energy and the righteous anger I feel whenever I think of my mum and her cutting barbs and endless disappointment, I take up my spot in the middle of the dance floor. The assistant, who’s been loading music into the surround-sound for every auditionee before me, looks at me with a question on his face. “There doesn’t appear to be any request for music?”
“I’m not dancing to music,” I tell him.
He gives me a surprised look. “What?”
“I’m not dancing to music,” I repeat, my jaw gritting at the familiar scoff I hear. Fucking Zayn.
The guy shrugs and I hear him mutter ‘it’s your funeral’ under his breath. Arsehole.
“When you’re ready then…” Madame Tuillard comments. She’s perched on the edge of the desk looking at me with interest. Breathing in deeply, I refuse to look at Zayn though I can feel his stare. It fucking burns my skin.
Well, fuck him. FUCK HIM.
Dropping my head, I count for five seconds before I look up. My chest is heaving as I stare directly at Zayn and jerk my chin. You want a battle, you’ve got one. He’s careful to hide his reaction, but I know him well enough. The hard line of his lips, the muscle ticking in his jaw and the tautness of his shoulders tell me what I want to know. I’m affecting him as much as he’s affecting me.
Good.
Spinning on the ball of my left foot, I fold over at my hips and kick my right leg out, pivoting in an imperfectly perfect circle then launch my body forward into a front flip. I land gently, the firmness of the wooden boards creaking slightly beneath my feet.
The room descends into quiet, and I know I have them all in the palm of my hand. I’m not arrogant, not by a long shot. Deep within I’m fucking trembling with anxiety, with my mother’s words telling me I’m not good enough. But dance has always been freeing to me. Whatever shit is going on in my life, it falls away the minute I move my body. Over the years I’ve perfected my mash-up between hip-hop and contemporary, combining the two disciplines. I’m strong, precise with every step. But more importantly, I dance with every single cell in my body, with every last part of me.
This isn’t the time for holding back. I need this spot at the academy. I need this so fucking bad.
Dropping to my knees, I lean forward onto my hands and lift my whole weight off the floor, acing theturtlewith ease. Back when I was friends with the Breakers I was never able to pull this move off. I’ve been practising. When I flip back upwards, I catch Zayn’s gaze. He’s scowling and I almost laugh. If I didn’t have a routine to finish, I would have laughed in his fucking face. Shutting him out, I let go of the rigidity of hip-hop and switch into the free-flowing movements of contemporary. Loosening up my rib cage and limbs, I twist and turn my body in time with the beat only I can hear inside my head.
Then I lose myself to the dance.
It takes over.
Filling me up.
When I dance, I’mfree.
Free from expectation. Free from responsibility. Free from my past. Free from my mother’s hate. Free from the drudgery of a life with no prospects. I’m even free from my own feelings. The Breakers can’t touch me when I dance.
I’m untouchable.
I move with passion and purpose, my feet barely touching the floor. I'm flying over the wooden boards, lost in the magic that always seems to burn in my veins when I dance. I don't look at anyone. Not Madame Tuillard, not D-Neath, not Clancy or any of the other dancers watching my every move.
Not even Zayn.
Especiallynot Zayn.
I twist and turn, gliding over the floor. I use every single part of my body to express myself, from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. Flipping forward in a tumble I land purposely on my arse with my legs straight out in front of me. Sweat dribbles down between my breasts as I flip onto my stomach, then crawl on my hands and knees, swaying my hips seductively. A deep cough has my eyes snapping up and as I curve my back forcing my arse and head upwards, I lock gazes with Zayn. His eyes spark dangerously, giving me pause. Once upon a time I would’ve seen stars in his night-time eyes, laughter, kindness, friendship and belonging. Now I see nothing but an endless darkness that makes me wonder what he’s been involved in over the last three years. For some reason that I can’t quite fathom, I wink at him and smile slowly.
Anger flashes in his gaze, but beneath that I sense something more. Ignoring the scorching heat burning beneath my skin, I slide into the splits before bringing my legs together and flipping backwards into an arch. I’m light as a feather, as sharp as a knife.
I’mme.
