Pretty Perfect Page 2

  “If you were to be considered,” Remsky snarled over her. “But I did not select you three purely based upon talent. Some of you…”

  I didn’t miss the way his unnerving gaze settled over me.

  “Some of you could simply learn from this experience.”

  “They’re here now?” Katja hungrily scanned the empty rows, already shifting into first position. “Are they—”

  “They’ve arrived, yes,” Remsky admitted icily. “You will be seen one by one. Katja, since you seem so eager, you may go first.”

  It was a punishment disguised as a favor. By being first, Katja wouldn’t have an opportunity to recover from the rehearsal—and I wouldn’t look at that as an advantage. That was old Anya’s way of thinking: competitive, petty, selfish. Regardless, the blonde squared her shoulders, her eyes narrowed.

  Together, Cassandra and I hustled into the wings. Once I escaped the glare of the stage lights, Remsky’s offer sank in. A role in a local production—anything, really—had been my goal for months, but this…

  “London,” Cassandra whispered seemingly to herself. “London.”

  Without saying anything else, she launched into a frenzied warm-up while I settled into my own routine. London. The word reverberated in my mind, drowning out the sounds of pointe shoes scraping the floorboards and the flex of muscle.

  London.

  First position.

  London.

  Plié.

  “Anya?”

  I froze midstep and looked up. The stage lights were dimmed. I didn’t see Cassandra anywhere, and Remsky stood nearby, sandwiched between the velvet stage curtain and the brick wall behind it.

  “Are you ready?”

  I blinked, staggering out of fifth position. “Wh-what?”

  “Are you ready?”

  “Yes.” No. I wasn’t ready, and once I’d crept onto the center of the stage in Remsky’s shadow, my nervous swallow proved it.

  Three strangers sat in the third row. Shadows obscured any defining features, reducing them to monsters perched on red velvet. Waiting to judge. Waiting to reject. Waiting to swallow me whole.

  “The final dancer,” Remsky announced before exiting stage left.

  In his wake, the music began, and I rushed to perform the opening steps.

  No dwelling on the negatives. Like how I found it nearly impossible to sink into that coveted zone where nothing else mattered but moving. I skimmed the surface instead, distracted by reality. It was bad luck to watch your audience, Remsky always said. My punishment came swiftly; one of the figures leaned toward another and whispered. Both shook their heads.

  Finally, the first man raised his hand. “Enough.”

  I hadn’t even gone another step before the music died altogether.

  “We’ve seen enough.”

  “I…I’m sorry?” I shifted onto the heel of one slipper, my right arm still gracefully extended.

  “I said we’ve seen enough,” the man repeated.

  His accent threw me off. British? I couldn’t make a face out to go along with the gruff baritone, and it was a full minute of awkward silence before I realized he’d dismissed me. Just like that.

  “Victor,” he continued before I could move. “The other two. May we see them again?”

  “Of course,” Remsky replied, suddenly appearing by my side. “Would you like them to dance together or individually?”

  “Together.”

  They debated the logistics while I stood there like an unwanted speck of dust on an otherwise pristine stage. Proper etiquette called for me to silently make my exit. God knew I had done it countless times before.

  In slow motion, I processed Remsky rushing from the stage while shouting for Cassandra and Katja to return. The strangers shifted in their seats, prepared to judge between the two of them, yet there I remained, frozen in place.

  “What did I do wrong?”

  Four pairs of eyes honed in on me. Uh-oh. For the second time that day, I had said the wrong line and forgotten to play my unassuming role. In the grand scheme of things, the reasons for my rejection didn’t matter. The usual nitpicks were that my hair wasn’t the right color, I was too short, and I didn’t smile enough. But, constrained in their pointe shoes, my toes throbbed with the knowledge that I had struck each technical element perfectly. In some alternate universe, that had to count for something.

  “Can… May I please ask where I made a mistake—”

  “Anya.” Remsky’s blistering scorn seared my skin from across the theater. “Please clear the stage.”

  The please was for show. I was embarrassing him, and for the next few rehearsals—probably for the rest of my career—he would never let me forget it. The old, selfish Anya was rearing her ugly head once again. It was wrong to compare yourself to another dancer—arrogant, even. But Katja had sloppy footwork. Cassandra’s turns were always one beat too slow.

  “Was there a flaw in my technique?” I scanned the blank faces for any hint of the truth, even though I already knew.

  I just wanted the bastards to say it. Katja was beautiful, with a body that more than made up for any sloppy technique. Cassandra was willowy and graceful despite her limited stage presence. And I…

  I was Anya DeSotto, the aging ballerina who couldn’t even get a callback from a community theater production. Their silence said what they wouldn’t out loud. You aren’t worth the effort. Only after drilling that into my skull could I take a step toward the wings, mustering what little pride I had left to mutter, “Thank you for your time.”

  “Stay.”

  Just as the command echoed in the silence, one of the visitors stood and began to pick his way down the row. He was hunched over, moving awkwardly, and I didn’t understand why until he finally cleared the aisle and a long device shot out in front of him to aid every step. A cane—and, unlike Remsky’s, it didn’t seem to be for show.

  It took him a full five minutes to mount the stairs to the stage. By then, the lights fell over him, illuminating a head of black hair, and shock flooded my system. I’d expected someone young or maybe wizened like Remsky.

  This man was…stone. Salt-and-pepper stubble covered his square jaw, which clenched as he observed me, starting with my head and roving downward. Shadows distorted part of his face, rendering his expression impossible to read—though, on second thought, the lines twisting the flesh around his left eye never wavered. Jagged and silver, they caught the light and threw it back at me like polished glass. Scars maybe?

  Seconds passed before I realized I was staring. My cheeks burned as I jerked my gaze down to the rest of his body in an attempt to seem like a decent human being. A broad chest and shoulders strained the confines of his coat. Compared to his bulk, that cane seemed more like a toothpick supporting a statue. Paces away from me, he finally spoke.

  “Play the music.” His gruff baritone clashed with the soft notes filtering through the speakers on cue.

  When I looked up, a cold gaze waited for me. Too mean. My therapist wouldn’t like him. “Positive” people didn’t have eyes like that, composed of fathomless ebony irises that shielded all emotion.

  “Dance again,” he commanded.

  I swallowed down a question—why? Switching to my dominant foot, I raised my arm and lifted my left leg. Movement flickered in my peripheral vision, but before I could turn…

  Thwack!

  Pain exploded through my calf, but I caught my balance on the heel of my right foot while both arms flew up to shield my head.

  At first, I thought he’d hit me with something until I remembered that it wasn’t that unusual for old plaster to fall from the ceiling every now and again. In Remsky’s thinking, the show went on unless someone lost consciousness or hemorrhaged. Thankfully, that didn’t seem to be the case when I inspected my leg and saw no blood.

  “I’m okay—”

  “Not straight enough.”

  “Huh?”

  The grunted assessment brought my attention to the stranger
who brandished his cane at his side. His expression was stony, not panicked like someone standing beneath a crumbling ceiling might be. But, then again, there were no large chunks of plaster anywhere. Pain radiated down my leg while my brain struggled to connect the dots. He didn’t actually…

  “Keep moving.”

  Moving. It seemed to be the only course of action that made sense. As long as I kept moving, I didn’t have to rationalize this. I didn’t have to think about anything other than the usual list of reminders racing through my brain: chin up, neck elongated, balance, balance…

  “Faster!” A harsher voice cut into the drone. “Straighten your spine!”

  I caught the motion of a stick of wood flying out to strike my hip before a fresh burst of pain joined the rest.

  “Sloppy,” the man snarled. “Keep moving.”

  I didn’t react in time, and a blow cracked off my knee. When the cane flashed again, I limped out of his reach, breaking character for the third time that day.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Focus on yourself.” Heavy footsteps hunted me down. “Never falter!”

  What felt like another strike to my hip had me gritting my teeth against a sound.

  “Never hesitate.”

  A second hit struck my upper thigh.

  “You have decent technique. But technique is not everything.”

  The rasp of my own erratic breathing edged his words out. Not everything.

  I didn’t know how long I stood there with my leg outstretched. My body refused to obey the commands my brain issued it. Move. Stay! Go. I could only stare as the man made his way off stage.

  “Your nose is bleeding,” he said as if in afterthought—but the glance he directed at my trembling fingers made me curl them into fists to keep from reaching up.

  “Anya...” Something other than anger tainted Remsky’s voice.

  Pity?

  I managed to race toward the wings before he caught up, swiping at my upper lip. My legs stung. My hip smarted. It used the last of my pride to keep my head held high as I ducked past the curtain. No dwelling on the negatives. No dwelling… The advice played through my mind like a mantra as the darkness of the backstage corridor enveloped me. Rather than stop by the dressing room, I kept going down the narrow hall that led deeper into the theater. Then through the emergency exit that opened to the parking lot.

  An icy burst of winter air hit me like a slap as I dashed between two parked cars and headed through the alley leading to the main road. I tried to ignore the curious stares following me while I ran in nothing more than a navy leotard and thin tights.

  That was how I coped. I ignored everything. I ran.

  My father’s wife let me into the house without finding it odd that I didn’t have my keys, my coat, or even proper shoes—not that she glanced up from the nine-year-old spouting Girl Scout facts at her side to pay me much attention. Ignorance was bliss, after all. Carrie had mastered the art of not dwelling on the negatives in her life.

  The biggest one was named Anya.

  “Your dinner is on the table,” she called before drifting into the living room, where a cheerful woman on the television was explaining how to bake the perfect cake.

  “Thanks.” I stuck around just long enough to peel off my slippers. Then I attempted to hobble up the stairs, and I made it halfway before the pain registered. Shit. A glance at my feet revealed the damage: blisters were already forming over tenderized skin. I would be lucky if I hadn’t ruined my shoes after the added wear and tear—just another expense to add to the growing tally. I needed new uniforms, and Remsky’s renewal fees were due next month…

  Money woes took a back seat to the pain ripping through my chest, however. “You need to learn to cope,” my therapist liked to coach. “You need to develop healthy coping mechanisms, Anya.” In his clinical, professional view, crying was one of said healthy coping mechanisms. My body seemed to agree. The moment I slammed my bedroom door shut, ruffling the worn poster of Anna Pavlova taped to the back, my vision started to blur, and I swiped at my eyes with the back of my hand.

  Focus. Focus… I locked my door and tugged at the handle. Once. Twice. Monster proof, the twelve-year-old part of me declared. Only then could I actually focus on anything else. Biting my lower lip hard enough to taste blood, I peeled my leotard off and tossed it into the laundry basket in my bathroom. Then I climbed into the shower stall.

  An impenetrable fortress of running water succeeded in blocking out everything but the words echoing in my mind—not my therapist’s “empowering” mantras, for once. Another voice now filled the void.

  You have decent technique.

  But technique is not everything.

  Not everything.

  Apparently, sloppy form but a body like Katja Sorenson’s was everything. I laughed into the shower spray, hating the bitter thought almost as much as I hated the fact that it was probably true.

  Talent meant nothing.

  I would never succeed because…

  Don’t dwell on the negatives, Anya, my therapist would scold. No, you simply scribbled in a journal and wished the pain away while reciting, “I am good enough,” before a mirror as your parents lurked nearby, pleased as punch to know you were whole again—or that you appeared to be, anyway. You couldn’t let the dark secrets slip, after all.

  And I knew the best way to keep the act up. No dwelling. I gritted my teeth and reached for a bottle of shampoo at the corner of the stall. Then I ripped off the lid. It was hollow inside, containing just a single packet of white powder. I did my best to rake a line onto the dry rim of the bathtub. One sniff, two...

  The pain stopped.

  The monsters in my head got a little quieter.

  I floated farther away.

  No dwelling on the negatives.

  Chapter 2

  “Carrie told me you didn’t have your key last night.” Dad laid the accusation down the moment I dug into my yogurt.

  I summoned my inner actress. It was eight-fifteen—ten minutes earlier than the time he usually wandered from the master bedroom upstairs. He probably hadn’t slept, though neither had I. I hadn’t compiled my daily script for that day, either.

  “I left my bag in Jake’s car,” I lied after a slightly-too-long pause. “He brought me home last night.” Not bad for improvisation, overall. It sounded plausible enough.

  “Hmph,” my father grunted as he headed for the coffee maker and poured himself a cup. He took a sip while gazing out the window that overlooked the covered pool and built-in Jacuzzi in the backyard.

  Both had collected dust for the past two years. Only silly, idle people bought recreational toys with the intent to actually use them. Successful people stockpiled fun like the cars in a luxury showroom. You could look, but you couldn’t dare touch.

  “How was class?” Dad wondered over his shoulder, almost as if remembering that I was there.

  I shoved another glob of yogurt into my mouth to hide my sigh. My lie had been eaten up with little notice. Just like always.

  “Fine,” I said, already prepared with a carefully rehearsed answer. “We’re dissecting Chaucer in literature. The Canterbury Tales. I really like how—”

  “That’s great, honey.” Dad took another measured sip of coffee while his gaze drifted over the entire kitchen: the marble countertops, the center island, and the breathtaking view of the hillside Carrie had insisted on during their house-hunting phase.

  The sprawling McMansion itself was utter perfection, minus me seated on a stool.

  “So, what do your grades look like this semester?” Dad asked.

  I coughed, unintentionally spraying yogurt everywhere as I scrambled for an answer. “Mostly A’s,” I croaked after a sip of water, my eyes streaming. “And a few B’s. Maybe a C.”

  “A C? Try to get it up,” Dad advised, a note of authority seeping into his voice. He handed me a napkin for the mess. “You’re too smart to settle for anything mediocre.”

  Of cou
rse not. I downed the rest of my water rather than answer. Then I stood and reached for the coat lying on the stool beside me.

  “Well, I’ve gotta run. Don’t want to be late for class.” I smiled and held my arms at my sides, ready to participate in an impromptu wooden hug should the occasion call for it. It was a customary diversion, but my heart sped up a tad too fast. I sniffed. Last night’s buzz was wearing off, my armor cracking.

  “Sure thing.” Dad nodded, making no move to hug me. I guess his customary show of affection wasn’t in this scene. “I’ll see you tonight,” he said instead.

  I folded my arms. Smiled again. “Sure.”

  After pitching my yogurt, I sidestepped a minefield of toys on my way through the foyer, where I slipped out the front door without so much as a goodbye.

  I walked to the studio and saved time by cutting through alleys. Two Advil, three pairs of socks, and a mound of Band-Aids didn’t make a dent in the agony pulsing through my feet. My last little helper hid inside an old tube of lipstick in my dance bag, and without my headphones to drown out the hustle and bustle of the city, the pain felt twice as distracting—along with dread and some good, old-fashioned shame that had my stomach twisting into knots as I approached the theater’s entrance.

  I was early, meaning I could grab my bag from the dressing room and change without catching notice. I didn’t take a hit, though. Not yet. The halls were still empty by the time I found a distant spot at the back of the upstairs studio and began warming up at the barre, stone-cold “clean,” as the therapist called it. A map of sinewy muscle and sore joints became my universe as I stretched my aching toes and focused on tuning in to every muscle. Legs first. Then arms, back, shoulders…

  It wasn’t until I finally paused, twenty minutes in, that I noticed Remsky watching me from the doorway.

  “I canceled rehearsals for today,” he said cautiously. “Katja will need to learn the role of Giselle.”

  “Oh.” I looked down at the barre to hide whatever emotion might have crossed my face. A smug grin because I’d correctly guessed Katja as the chosen dancer? Or…disappointment? Rather than pick one, I settled my feet into first position and cleared my throat. Might as well address the elephant in the room. “I’m sorry for yesterday.”