The Heir

Chapter 8

I lay in bed staring up at the ceiling. I ate too much today. Close to 1500 calories total. God, I can't believe I actually did that. And it was carbs too! Stupid fucking bagel.

Hannah is fast asleep, snoring lightly. I glance at the digital clock on her bedside table which reads 11:47pm. With a sigh, I push back the covers and get out of bed.

I move around the room quickly and quietly, changing into a leotard and tying my hair back. I toss on a matching tracksuit to combat the nighttime chill and grab my ballet bag.

I tiptoe down the hall, down the spiraling staircase, to the hidden back entrance. I look both ways, checking for any sign of any adult, before slipping into the night.

I keep to the backsides of the buildings. If there are any teachers out, they'd be on the main pathways. So I keep myself hidden by the trees.

About half way across campus is the arts center. There's some standard art rooms with easels and kilns. A few specific for photography and another for filmography. A huge stage and exactly five dance studios.

The doors aren't locked, they never are, and I stride right into the building. I come here often, almost every day, to train. I like coming at night when no one can bother me.

I toss my bag down and peel off the tracksuit. I hook my phone up to the overhead speakers and turn on some music. I look at myself in the wall length mirror and stretch my arms over my head.

The playlist leads my actions. Stretch for the first song, push-ups for the next one, sit-ups for the following two, squats for the fifth, and lunges for the last two.

By the time the last song ends, I'm already sweating. Grabbing my water bottle from my bag, I greedily gulp some down.

Next playlist means it's time for flexibility training. First song is for left split, using a foam block to prop my ankle further and further up. Until tension burns in my muscles. Then I do the right leg; the exact same process.

I pull a resistance band from my bag before wrapping it around my foot. I flex my ankles, strengthening them for the strain my weight causes. Fourth and fifth songs are for the middle split. Legs spread far apart, chest on the ground.

As the second playlist comes to an end, I crunch numbers in my head. Stretching is 215 calories, push-ups are 295, sit-ups are another 270, lunges and squats combined brings me to a grand total of 972 calories burned.

I let out a heavy breath. Much better.

Now it's time to just dance. I carefully lace up my pointe shoes before turning on a new playlist. I stand in the middle of the room, looking at myself in the mirror. A song begins to play and I smile to myself. It's the dance I helped my sister Gabby learn over the summer.

Muscle memory takes over as I perform the routine. Even when practicing, I dance like I'm in front of a packed house. My arms and hands always graceful. My legs and feet precise. Long lines and gracious movements.

My favorite part approaches; the pirouettes. I use my own reflection as my spot point, letting myself be guided by my own presence. One, two, three, four-

I scream and fall out of my turn. My wide eyes stay fixed on the shadowy figure lurking in the doorway. But I don't dare turn around. I stay completely still, watching their reflection.

Fuck. I forgot my knife.

"I didn't mean to scare you," the shadowed figure comes into the light. William Montgomery; the new kid.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I finally turn around. "It's way after curfew."

"I could ask you the same question," he smirks. He pulls the strap of his bag further onto his shoulder and I narrow my eyes at it.