The Duet

1 - Sophie

I climb out of bed as the sun starts to rise, casting a swirl of vibrant oranges across my dorm room. My roommate, and one of my only friends, Bea, stirs in her sleep. I change out of my pyjamas into my dance clothes and grab my bag, stuffing it with my battered pointe and flat shoes, my water bottle, emergency ribbons, my far-too-stretched stretching bands, my navy leotard and tights with dots of clear nail polish where I had tried my best to stop holes from laddering.

I brush my brown hair, twist it and curl it into my bun. I wrap a hair net around it and pin it in place, using what pins I have left, maybe stealing a few of Bea's.

I tiptoe down the hallway, being careful not to wake anyone. I like to be up before everyone else. It gives me more time to practice and considering everyone here has had private lessons since about the age of three, I need it.

I get in extra practice nearly everyday. It does make my body sag slightly more with fatigue but once I make it as a famous ballet dancer, it will all be worth it.

Back in my dorm, I have a scrapbook that is stuffed underneath my mattress filled with cutouts of dance magazines and all the pointe shoes I could buy once I'm rich and famous. I've had these ones for about six months which may not seem like much time at all but trust me, when you're dancing as much as I do, they ware out pretty quickly.

I walk across the small outdoorsy area that separates the girl's dorms from the main building. Brad, the security guard keeps a key in a nearby plant pot for me to get into the building.

I furrow around in the dirt for a bit until I feel the cold of a metal key sting my warm fingers.

I enter the building and make my way to Studio A, the biggest studio.

I push the door, only to stop in my tracks. There is a boy, about my age, practicing the most perfect pirouettes I have ever seen. He stops, takes a breath, in fifth position, then chassé derrières and goes again. He still hasn't noticed me so I clear my throat, trying to get his attention.

Even though he stops mid pirouette, he lands gracefully, again in fifth position. He turns to look at me and immediately frowns. I recognise him from somewhere but I can't quite put my finger on it.

He lifts and eyebrow at me so I say, "I've reserved this space for this time." I say, trying my hardest to keep my cool against those piercing green eyes. Now both eyebrows go up, nearly getting lost in his mess of blonde waves.

"That's impossible. It isn't open at this hour." I'm initially shocked at how deep his voice is but quickly recover, replying with,

"I know. But Brad lets me in and I've put my name down on the schedule."

"Brad?" He asks, a hint of amusement lingering in his eyes. I sigh and reach for the schedule where my name is scrawled in the margin above all of the other bookings. In brackets next to it is Brad. Madame Blanchet also knows that I practice early so she understands.

"See?" I say.

"That's graffiti."

"No. It's clearly a booking. And besides, everyone knows that I use Studio A for rehearsals in the morning. Brad is fine with it and Madame Blanchet is fine with it." The corner of his mouth twitches up. I suddenly become aware of how close we've gotten. I take a step back and clear my throat.

"Look, I don't know who you are but if you keep to your side of the room and I keep to mine, I'm sure we can make this work." I give him a smile, trying to be reasonable.

"Yeah, that's not going to happen. You can leave." I scoff at his proclamation.

I completely ignore him and stride over to the other side of the room and put my bag down. I feel his eyes trail me as I do so. Something about his tone gives me the sense that he isn't usually refused.