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“What’s up, Cass?” God, I need a cup of coffee. “You’re here early.”
“I know. Thought to catch you before you left to classes. Didn’t think I’d catch you with Mr. Dark and Sexy, though.”
“Oh shut up.”
Silence spreads between us. Not the friendly, comfortable kind.
“Okay. I guess I know now how you feel about me.” She scrubs a hand over her face. “Guess I deserve it, too.”
Jesus. “It’s been a crappy couple of days. Not everything is about you, Cass.”
“Ouch.” She puts her hand on the table. Her eyes are a bit too bright. “Say it. Go on.”
“What, that you’ve been a bitch to Jesse and Amber? Like you don’t know?”
“Oh I know.” She clasps her hands together and gnaws on her lower lip. “I know.”
“Why did you do it, Cass?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Maybe because it makes no real sense. Except you wanted Jesse and couldn’t think past yourself.”
She shakes her head. “Thought you’d let me explain, but I guess that’s asking too much, right?” She pushes her chair back and stands up. Her pink blouse is askew, and she’s wearing no make-up. “That’s just great.”
Never seen her like this. So distraught.
But before I can say anything else, before I can think of anything I could say, she turns on her heel and leaves.
***
Seth’s words buzz in my mind as I sit down to have breakfast. That it’s not the end of the world. That I could find something else. Become a dance teacher.
Do I want that? All my life I dreamed of swirling on a stage on my pointes, dancing my favorite classical pieces. Swan Lake. Cinderella. Nutcracker. La Bayadere.
And the modern ones. Bacchanale. The Rite of Spring. Phaedra’s Dream.
These pieces are more than dance. They are my escape into another world. Others get there by dreaming, reading, taking drugs.
I dance. Can’t imagine myself doing anything else. Never had to imagine anything else. Pliés, jetés, arabesques. Movement, music, joy.
God, I feel like such a failure. It’s not the first time I was told that my body wouldn’t allow me to be a professional dancer, but I thought with hard work I could get over my ‘handicaps.’ Training seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. Dedication should count, right? Driving yourself to the brink of collapse. Getting better, more flexible, increasing endurance, improving rhythm.
But I can’t change my tendons, or my screwed-up ankle.
If only I hadn’t broken it two years ago. If I’d started training when I was five instead of nine. If I had a different body.
I put down my bowl of organic cereal and zero fat yoghurt. What am I doing? Who cares now if I gain weight? If I don’t do my stretches every day?
It’s over, Manon. Accept it. Get over it.
But just the thought of emptying my locker at the dance school and walking through its halls for a last time makes my heart ache.
Not sure I can do it.
I push away my untouched breakfast and go shower and get dressed. The girls from the dance school are nice, but we aren’t that close. I wish I had a bestie to talk about this, or just to do girly things—go shopping, eat ice cream, have a marathon of Sons of Anarchy and stuff our faces with chocolate until we get a bellyache.
Cassie.
