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7
CLAIRE
“Start from the pas de deux,”Kent, the choreographer, says with a snap of his fingers. “And Claire,” his voice drips with disdain, “if you can’t keep up, I’m sending you back to the academy.”
“It’s okay,” my partner, Seth, whispers in my ear with a squeeze of my waist, “I’ve got your back on this.”
I have to bite back the snide comment on the tip of my tongue. I don’t need him to have my back, I need Kent to not be a giant asshole and for my mind to speak to my body. The music starts, and Seth lifts me into the air gracefully from an arabesque. The three other sets of partners we’re competing against flow through the routine with us effortlessly. I force myself to be extra focused on my steps and ignore everyone around us.
Kent watches us all with a blank look that gives no clue as to what he’s thinking or how we’re dancing. He clears his throat when we all land the final lift of the series perfectly. He still looks unimpressed as we end practice.
“Claire, stay after,” Kent says with his back turned from the corner where he keeps his notepad.
Friday, Seth, and I share raised eyebrow glances at each other as we pull our shoes off and gather our belongings. I give them both air kisses as they walk out of the studio last.
“You wanted to speak to me,” I say as approach Kent.
“Yes,” he looks around the room, “I don’t know what has gotten into you lately, but you went from being one of our most promising dancers to being a mess.”
“I’m sorry,” I answer while trying to keep my voice neutral, “I’ll work on doing better.”
“I hope so.” He steps closer to me, too close. “I could do some extra sessions with you if you want.” He gives me what I’m sure he thinks is a charming smile, but it just sends chills down my spine.
“I’ll just do some extra work with Seth.” I take a tiny step back.
“Seth is mediocre at best.” He tucks one of my flyaways behind my ear and steps into my space once more. “It’s my choreography, so keep in mind who can really help you nail the movements.” His fingertips trail down my neck and along the strap of my leotard.
My skin is crawling at his suggestion. I’ve heard that this is something he does, coerces dancers to sleep with him in order to get parts. Even knowing that this is my last chance at being principal in anything, I would never.
He starts to lean down toward me, and my phone rings causing us both to jump. I run to answer it, mentally hugging the fuck out of whoever is on the other end of the line. When I get to it, I see that it’s Mom.
Just like that, my day goes from bad to fucking rock bottom. I still haven’t gotten over the shit that she pulled years ago. I can’t even look her in the eyes thinking about how selfish she was to leave Dad and Connor behind, dragging me off to Europe only to drop me at an all girls boarding school in the Irish countryside while she played house with our former maid.
Now Dad has stupidly taken her back. I don’t understand it, and I never will. How can he forgive her for that? Con can’t. I definitely won’t. But looking down at my phone and seeing her name, I realize talking to her or dealing with Kent are my two options, and right now she’s the lesser of two evils.
“What?” I ask, skipping niceties completely.
“Claire,” she sighs with a note of sadness, “thank you for answering.”
“I didn’t do it for you,” I reply icily. “What do you want, another twenty something for Taco Tuesday?”
“I wanted to see if you’d have lunch with me tomorrow?” Her voice raises at the end, laced with hope.
“I’d rather dance barefoot on broken shards of glass.”
“Are you ever going to hear me out? I know I hurt you and your brother, but if your father can forgive me, can’t you at least try?”
“No.” I hang up as I push open the glass doors of the studio and step out onto the busy Manhattan sidewalk.
I decide to walk up the street to my favorite coffee shop and grab an iced latte before I call Marco to come pick me up. I get to the front of line, ready to order my usual, and all of a sudden another MS flare happens. It feels like a dense fog settles over my mind while I stare at the menu above the barista’s head. I know the words, but everything is fuzzy and jumbled. I open my mouth to speak, and nothing comes out but a strangled gasp.
“I-” my voice is wobbly and meek, “I changed my mind.” Then I turn and run out the door pulling my phone out as I go. I bump into a man on my way out, not bothering to apologize. I draw in deep breaths of air and bend over once I get outside. I grab my phone and stare down at it, completely lost as to who I’m supposed to call for this. Spots dance in front of my eyes, and I feel like I’m going to pass out.
“Miss?” A tentative hand lands on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”
At least twenty-five people have walked right past me, but finally someone notices my distress. I look up at the woman with a baby strapped to her chest and nod, unable to find the words to tell her what’s wrong. My eyes sting, filling up with tears because I can talk, but I don’t know what to say, how to explain what’s happening.
“A panic attack?” she guesses.
