Red Pointe Shoes

Chapter 17

A/N: Belated Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year :D Allow me to present you with another one of my worthless apologies for another long wait! 

Chapter Seventeen

Let me tell you something: Our principal, the esteemed Henry Richardson, is crazy. And why would that be? He thinks it's a wonderful idea to host two concerts in the same month, all because some scouts are in town. No, don't get me wrong, I know it's a good opportunity to be recruited into some of the better companies, but another showcase means more practices on top of the rehearsals we already have for Coppelia. The idea of this showcase is that everyone in the solo classes will be given one variation to perform, with the corps as our background. I kind of feel bad for them, they hardly get noticed, and that's because they rarely having anything to do that can show off their good points. 

But I'm getting off topic.

These rehearsals are not only messing with the amount of free time I have, but also the schedules for my fights in the Underground. I've already had to cancel three slotted matches because of last minute classes! Three! Word is going to get around about that, and Loyer- the egotistical prick he is, will assume I'm running away from him. Not only are my schedules draining, they're completely draining my energy out of me. Also, the only times I even see Evan now is during class and occasionally in between them. The boy, though trusting to a fault, is starting to wonder why my Friday, Saturday and Tuesday evenings are completely booked. I feel really bad for lying to him, but every time I try to muster up enough courage to tell him that his girlfriend is some violent, Underground, trigger happy fighter, I fail.

There's all that hype about love, about how it's unconditional and that you're supposed to love every aspect of your partner. (I searched 'love' up online, you'll be surprised at how it's definitions easily turn repititive.) But is love really that perfect? We humans are imperfect by nature, we hate, we envy, we lust, we judge, we assume. And love, if it really comes from us, by all rights should be imperfect. An imperfect being cannot create a perfect thing. I'm scared of his rejection, of his scorn, of him changing his mind about me. It takes me only a few heartbeats to realize that this is the reason why Nat is still clueless of my double life.

"And I thought those only existed in movies." The mirror is cool to touch as I rest my forehead against it, the icy brush inviting against my sticky skin. The studio around me is silent except for the whirring of the old fashioned radio, put on pause. Outside, from what I can see in the windows, it is already dark- I have missed dinner again, and the stars are well above the horizon. My Madame told me she would leave me to practice for a bit to check up on some of the others in the subsequent practice rooms. But that had been a good hour at least ago, and I seriously doubt she'll be back tonight. It's okay, I suppose. 

I've been given a choice between the Bluebird pax de deux from Sleeping Beauty, or the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, from the Nutcracker. Perhaps if this truly was some movie, I'd be paired with Evan for the Bluebird dance, and we'd be scouted by the same company, and dance off happily into our sunset. But this is real life, and it does it's damned best to differ from movies and stories. Evan has already been assigned a Cavalier variation from the Nutcracker. It's a really fun but challenging piece to do, from what I've seen, and I have faith that Evan will pull it off spectacularly. What would it be like to dance as a male in a pax de deux? The thought incites a smile from my lips as I ponder upon the likelihood of that ever happening. It's possible, but it'll be hard. Male dancers are underestimated by laymen, who are ignorant about the strength you need to perform those leaps effortlessly. 

A ghostly image presents itself, a faceless danseur performs a breathtaking tour jete, followed by a series of barrel turns in which he's more off the ground than on it. Dance, I decide, is the closest thing to flying. Could I attempt one, perhaps? Without thinking too much on the dangers of attempting such a move, I step into a classical pose before sliding into a chasse and a free glissade to build up the momentenum. There is a brief moment of pure ecstacy as I throw my front leg into the air, turning my body with the second lecond extendinging into a mid air split of a sort. It feels so good that when I land, I push off for another, and another. The arch of the body feels different, as well as the placement of my weight, but I adjust to it quickly.