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Dancing has always been a personal experience. Even when I was part of the Breakers, I was always a single unit within the whole. Yes, we danced together. We perfected our moves, synchronised our routine, but we rarely got close enough to really dance with each other like partners might in ballroom or Latin… or bachata.
Bachata.
God that dance. So fucking sensual, so sexy.
So,Xeno….
By complete chance, I found out one afternoon just how much he adored bachata. About two years after I was first introduced to the crew, I walked in on Xeno dancing with a girl in the basement of Jackson Street. It was a rainy day, and the rest of the guys were late to arrive. Neither Xeno nor the girl had heard me entering the room. He had no idea I was watching his every move. I'd stood in the doorway transfixed as he practically fucked the girl with his dance moves. They might have been wearing clothes, but the way they undulated against each other had made my cheeks burn, my heart pound, and an intense kind of jealousy writhe in my stomach like a pile of hissing snakes.
I'd only ever seen him dance hip-hop, nothing else. But the way he moved. The sway of his hips, the sensual slide of his feet over the ground and the gentle but possessive way he held this girl threw me into a tailspin. It was the sexiest thing I'd ever seen. Before that point, I hadn't fancied any of the boys. They were my friends, that was it. But that day, that day I fell hard for Xeno.
Zayn might have been my first friend crush, but Xeno had been my first real boy crush. Hormones had well and truly kicked in at that point. Over the coming months I found myself falling for each of them one by one…
Until I’d loved them wholly and completely.
Forcing those painful memories away, I catch a glimpse of myself in the wall to ceiling mirror as sweat pours from my alabaster skin, plastering my hair against my head and brightening my cheeks with red spots as I move. I’m not sure how long I've been dancing for, but eventually, finally, my dance comes to a natural end. Panting, I finish off with a gentle sway of my body then stop, dropping my head and hunching my shoulders as my chest heaves with exertion.
I can hear nothing over the rush of blood pumping through my veins. When my racing heart finally settles enough, the room is silent. There’s no clapping. There are no cheers like Zayn had experienced.
Just pin-dropping silence.
My heart fucking sinks. Have I just thrown away my one chance at a future in dance? Did I just royally fuck up? Should I have stuck to contemporary on its own? Perhaps I was foolish breaking up my routine with hip-hop moves. Were they too stark amongst the fluidity of contemporary?
Shit.
I look up slowly, my throat tightening with anxiety, and find myself locking eyes with Zayn once more. Why, in my most vulnerable moment, do I seek him out?
Because he was your rock once, that’s why.
And yet, all I see when I look into his eyes is malice. It’s cold, vicious, and bordering on maniacal. I’m sure if he could cackle like some fucked-up psychopath in one of those Marvel movies he used to love watching and get away with it, I bet he fucking would.
My heart sinks.
No, it plummets.
Sighing heavily I move towards my spot amongst the other dancers, wanting the fucking floor to swallow me up. Except, somebody starts clapping, stopping me dead in my tracks. I look over at Madame Tuillard who is watching me with interest.
“Bravo,” she says, her hands coming together over and over again in time with the crazy pounding of my heart. “Don’t look so surprised, that was quite extraordinary.”
“Extraordinary?” I chirrup, like some psycho parrot. My skin is flushed with heat, burning under her scrutiny. I realise the whole room is staring at me. Some of the dancers look at me with respect, but a hell of a lot more with barely veiled envy. It brims in their eyes.
“Yes, extraordinary,” she says to me before turning her attention to the rest of the dancers. “Despite my specialism, and the assumptions that come with dancing ballet, I appreciate passion over perfection, grit over cowardice, innovation over stagnation. The rest of you who are yet to dance, take note. To be able to follow dance steps is one thing, to be a true dancer who cannot live without movement, quite another.”
I’m too gobsmacked to speak let alone move, so I simply stand like a moron whilst Madame Tuillard looks me up and down. She's not being rude, simply curious, like she’s trying to work me out. I swallow hard, studying her as much as she studies me.
“Please sit, Penelope,” Madame Tuillard says after a moment. She gives me a warm smile that she hasn't shared with any other dancer until now. Even after Zayn's impressive routine, she’d remained neutral.
“It’s Pen,” I blurt out.
For a fraction of a second I look over at Zayn and am reminded of the connection we once shared. A connection born from a love of dance, a crappy upbringing, and a loyalty to one another that, once upon a time, every single one of the Breakers would’ve died to protect. Apparently, that connection has well and truly been severed.
“Well, Pen, please take a seat whilst the remaining dancers audition.”
I nod tightly and do as she asks, sitting back down next to Clancy.
“Oh. My. God. You were fuckingamazing!” Clancy exclaims, wrapping her arm around my shoulder and drawing me into her side. I'm too spaced out to shake her off. I’m not used to such overt appreciation. Instead of thanking her, I kind of just grunt and wrap my arms back around my legs, watching Madam Tuillard as she takes a seat next to D-Neath and whispers something in his ear. He nods, his gaze flicking over to the corner of the room, to the spot where Zayn is sitting. Whipping my head around, my spine stiffens as a look passes between the two.
Another hour later, the final dancer completes her audition and Madame Tuillard dismisses us all. “Thank you for coming today. If any of you are lucky enough to be offered a place, you will be called by Friday and expected to start on Monday when induction week starts. Unsuccessful candidates will receive a letter in the post.”
