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11
For the rest of the weekend I avoid Clancy.
I’d remained tight lipped about what went down at Rocks Friday night despite all her questions in the cab on the way home. She was sweet, kind, and said she wouldn’t judge me no matter what I told her. In the end, when I refused to open up, she took a hint and backed off. At least until the following morning.
The girl is nothing if not persistent.
Admittedly, I feel sorry for her. She has knocked on my door religiously each morning, noon and night over the past two days and whilst I haven’t answered the door, I have sat with my back pressed up against it and listened to her chatting to me incessantly about all sorts of shit with the aim of getting me to open the door to my room and to my heart. I know she has unanswered questions about the Breakers and my relationship with them, but that’s not something I’m willing or able to discuss.
Besides, it’s really not her fault that I’m a social pariah at the best of times, throw in four blasts from the past and I clam up. What can I say? I’ve got issues; issues in the form of the Breakers who are intent on hurting me even more than they already have. I even called into work sick on Saturday because I didn’t want to risk seeing the Breakers again. That’s something I never do because God knows I need the money. Cowardly, perhaps, but I don’t give a shit right now. I need time to recalibrate and to figure out what the hell I’m going to do. Besides, I’m used to surviving on thin air.
One thing I do know for sure is that they should never have come back. They should’ve stuck to their promise and stayed the fuck away. At the time, that promise had hurt like a bitch, but now… God, I can’t deal with this.
To make matters a thousand times worse, of course David found out what happened at Rocks and has been chasing my arse all weekend trying to get me to respond to his calls.Screw that.I can’t deal with him right now. Thank fuck he’s half-way around the world in Mexico.
I don’t talk to my brother willingly. He’s just a psychotic arsehole that I need out of my life for good. Trouble is, we had an agreement and if he thinks I’m going to renege, he’ll make sure to follow through on the threat he made. Ican’trisk that, so I will have to speak to him eventually. Nausea rises up my throat and I gag on the bile that spills from my mouth and hits the white pan of the toilet, colouring it a fluorescent yellow.
“You’ll only get away from him when you’re dead… or he is,” I whisper to my reflection in the bathroom mirror after I rinse my mouth with water and spit it down the sink.
Sighing heavily, I rake a hand through my hair and stare at myself. I look tired. Dark circles rim my eyes, and my skin is paler than usual. I’ve not slept well worrying about everything. My past has haunted my dreams and my present doesn’t seem so hopeful anymore. I can’t even think about the future because whatever path I come up with, they all lead to the same destination.
Forcing all those thoughts away and needing to somehow wash away my past, I turn on the shower and wait a minute for it to heat up before stepping under the spray. The hot water scolds my skin, turning it a dusky pink all over. I’ve always enjoyed the heat, it helps to ease the tenseness in my muscles after hours of dancing, or in this case, hours of avoiding my new friend. That’s if she’s still a friend.
I’ve probably fucked that up now too.
Right now, it’s seven am. My first official day at the academy starts in just under an hour. On Saturday, Madame Tuillard’s personal assistant sent an email asking that her most promising dancers meet her in Studio Two on the first floor at eight am sharp. Attached to the email was my timetable packed with back-to-back dance classes that will start officially next week. This week students will have some taster sessions, but it will be more like a Freshers week at university designed to help everyone bond, make friends and let off steam before the real work starts.
Because I chose contemporary as my specialism, just under fifty percent of the lessons are centred around my chosen dance, but I also have other lessons covering most forms of dance, including tap, ballet, street and latin. I’d wanted to feel excited when I received the email, but instead of feeling happy that I’ve finally got to start this next chapter in my life, something I’ve been working towards for years now, I’m feeling anxious.
Fucking Breakers.
Why come back now?
That’s a question I’m not sure I’ll ever get a straight answer to.
Drying quickly, I pull on my black dance pants, green tank-top and matching muscle-vest, and shove on my trainers. I’m not a showy dancer. I don’t dress up to impress, besides, I don’t have the money to afford top of the range dance gear, so what I’m wearing will have to do. Combing through my wet hair, I put it up in a French plait, fold up a bandana and wrap it around my head then go and make myself a cup of coffee. It’s the cheap, bitter kind, and without any milk or sugar to sweeten it up, pretty disgusting, actually. I drink it anyway because thisismy breakfast.
Making a mental note to head out at some point to grab some supplies, I ignore the rumble of my stomach and snatch up my gym bag, heading out. Apart from the muffled sound of someone talking on a phone in one of the studio flats and a shower turning on in another, the hallway is quiet. Thank God. I’ll be better prepared to face Clancy and the other students who’ll be my neighbours for the next year once I’ve let off some steam and danced my stress away.
A couple minutes later, I’m pushing open the door to Studio Two, grateful to find that it’s empty. In fact the whole academy is peaceful and quiet.
Sunlight pours through the windows situated above the length of mirrors that run along the wall opposite. Dust motes float in the air, dancing away when I step further into the room and shut the door behind me. This studio is slightly smaller than the one I auditioned in, but other than that, much the same. It has oak wooden floors that are covered in scuff marks from the many students that have danced in this room before me. At one end of the studio is a table that has a sound system with speakers sitting on top of it and at the other, a wall of hooks to hang bags and clothing out of the way.
Placing my gym bag on the floor, and kicking off my trainers, I start to warm up using Pilates and yoga moves. Ten minutes later my muscles are sufficiently stretched, and I feel loose enough to dance. Snatching up my mobile from my bag, I flick through until I findWork Songby Hozier, then head over to the speakers, plug it in using the leads left out for that purpose, and press repeat so the song plays on a loop.
Moving to the centre of the room, I look at my reflection in the mirror and nod, giving myself a mental slap before pulling my bandana over my eyes and securing it tightly.
Taking away one of my senses allows me to emerge myself wholly in the dance. I have to concentrate on the music and my movement. If I make a mistake I could crash into the wall and injure myself, knowing that allows me to hone my skills.
Drawing in a deep breath, I wait for Hozier’s haunting voice to filter out across the room. The moment his voice sounds, I let all the stress go and focus on moving my body instead. There’s an honesty in his words, that and the beat that underpins this song matches my mood this morning. Holding my right arm out to my side, I snap my fingers to the beat, bending my right knee inward before twisting around and ducking low, sweeping my hand across the wooden floor. I feel the gritty dust particles on my fingertips, and draw in the scent of polished wood and lemon air-freshener.
On the next beat, I clasp my hands behind my head then sweep them down over my chest and kick my leg out behind me in a position similar to an arabesque. I may not know all the steps to ballet, but I’ve picked up enough over the years from YouTube videos and tutorials to get a good measure of it. Much of what I’ve learnt is self-taught and the rest, just instinct. My steps are free-flowing but measured, and a direct representation of what I’m feeling this morning. Being here at the academy is freeing, and yet my past is like a prison I can’t escape.
I’m trapped.
Dipping and twirling, I float across the wooden boards and let the emotion take over, drawing on every last drop. Still blindfolded and engrossed in what I’m doing, I don’t notice another presence in the studio until firm hands grasp my upper arms from behind.
I still, my chest heaving. Sweat slides down my back, and I know from the heat I feel rising off my body that I’ve been dancing for a lot longer than I’d planned.
