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20
Pen
The film crew triple check their equipment that’s placed about the auditorium whilst I stand just off centre stage and try to calm my racing nerves. This is the first time I’ve actually been inside the auditorium since starting at the Academy. Tucked away at the back of the building on the ground floor, it’s surprisingly large and can seat a couple hundred people comfortably.
Seated in the last row of seats in the stalls are the Breakers, as well as Clancy and River. Unsurprisingly, neither Tiffany nor Sophie came to watch me dance. Not that I give a flying fuck about their absence. I’m pretty sure if Tiffany could get away with it, she’d have tried to sabotage my performance today. She’s a spiteful bitch like that. Clancy already told me she had some pepper spray ready just in case. I fucking love that girl.
As the director, Scott, talks to Madame Tuillard on the other side of the stage, I go through a series of warmups to ease the tension and nerves in my body. I know what I’ve choreographed is good enough, but that doesn’t stop me from doubting myself. Old habits die hard and all that.
“We’re going to start filming in five minutes, Pen,” Scott says, giving me a thumbs up.
“Sure,” I reply, shaking out my hands and the tension I hold there.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see movement down the aisle, but as the stage is so lit up the rest of the auditorium has been thrown into semi-darkness and I can’t see who it is until they step onto the stage. Expecting one of my guys, I’m taken aback somewhat when I’m faced with D-Neath.
“Alright, Pen?” he asks, striding across the stage towards me.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I question.
“No reason,” he replies, something flickering in his gaze, something that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand. Why do I feel creeped out around him? “I just wanted to wish you luck...”
“You want to wishmeluck?”
“You sound surprised.”
“I am,” I reply bluntly. The fact of the matter is, this is the first real conversation we’ve had since I started here, and since he referred to me as ‘that short snappy bitch’, when he spoke with Xeno after I caught him talking on the phone to Jeb that time a while back, Iknowhe dislikes me. I guess the feeling’s mutual.
“I ain’t been too forthcoming. A lot on my mind. You know how it is,” he says, giving me a gold-toothed smile that’s a little too salacious for my liking. Fucking creep.
“Uh-huh.” I pointedly flick my gaze to Madame Tuillard then back at him, raising my brows as I do. “Iseehow it is,” I reply, reading this situation perfectly well. He’s a player. I’d bet my life he cheated on Madame Tuillard and that’s what she’d referred to when we spoke before.
“Anyway... break a leg?” He winks, allowing his gaze to rove over me in a way that is clearly sexual. I lift my chin, looking down at him even though he towers over me in height.
“The only thing that will be breaking is your face if you keep looking at me like that,” I reply quietly so only he can hear. He opens his mouth to respond, then obviously thinks better of it. Plastering on a fake smile, I cock a brow and wait. “Was there something else?”
He gives me a once-over, then shakes his head. “Nah, nothing else.”
“Duncan?” Madame Tuillard calls out from across the stage, drawing his attention away from me. “Come and meet Scott.” She gives him a wide grin and my heart sinks for her. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s been shagging students at this school. What a player.
As he walks away, I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding, the arrow on my internal cunt-o-meter hitting the red zone. D-Neath doesn’t give me the chills like my brother or Jeb, that’s not what I’m feeling. Apart from his clear disregard for Madame Tuillard’s feelings and player bullshit, there’s something else about him that I can’t quite put my finger on. Shrugging off the feeling of disquiet, and benching those thoughts for another time, I bend over and touch my palms to the floor, stretching out my hamstrings whilst mentally going over the routine in my head.
“Alright, Pen, let’s start shooting. Are you ready?” Scott asks after another couple of minutes.
Straightening up, I stride over to my mark on the stage and nod. “I’m ready.”
The auditorium quietens, and the lights on the stage shut off. For a moment I’m pitched into darkness, nothing but the faint red light coming from the camera recording. My skin prickles as I
focus my thoughts, centering myself as I wait for the music to start. I remind myself in the few moments of quiet who this dance is for. I’ve no idea if Madame Tuillard knows anything about my history, or my brother, but the moment she told me I would be dancing to this song I knew how I wanted to perform to it. I wanted to tell a story with this song, but it isn’t just a lyrical piece. This is me acting as much as I’m dancing. I’m merging the two disciplines to get my point across. My body might move to the music, but the expression on my face will have power too. I’m fully aware that there’s a chance my brother is going to see this video, and as such the message within it is forhim.
This is the one and only time I will dance for my brother.
I want him to see this performance and fucking rage. I want him to know that I won’t bebeatendown anymore. I won’t beheldback by him. I won’t berepressed, afraid, fucking terrified. I won’t let the fear eat me alive. This is me showing him I’m fucking done.
This is me saying I’m fighting back.
Come get me motherfucker. Come and fucking get me.
As the opening piano sequence begins, I stand in my black shorts and matching crop top, barefoot in a pool of dim light. My head is bowed, my hair falling forward in a shroud, my feet hip-width apart and my hands loose at my sides. I breathe in deeply through my nose and as I draw in a deep lungful of breath, the first line of the song begins to play.
