Breaking Pointe | Rough Draft

One

First Position. Chin up. Shoulders down.

I repeated the commands in my head like a mantra, but the knot in my stomach refused to loosen. The familiar wooden floors of the studio creaked beneath my feet as I adjusted my posture. The mirrored wall reflected everything I wanted to be, and everything I wasn't.

Maple Ridge Dance Academy wasn't for the weak.

Everyone spent their lives- or daddy's pocketbook, to be where we are now.

"En dehors, Amelia! Where is your turnout?" Jacque's voice sliced through the room like a razor. "Your body should sing through every motion, not strain as though it's about to snap."

Heat flushed my cheeks, but I forced my legs further into the correct outward rotation, my hips screaming in protest.

Focus. You can do this.

I fixed my gaze on the barre in front of me, trying to drown out the pinpricks of judgment I felt from every corner of the room.

I've done this a million times. I've been in slippers and tutus since I could remember. Dance classes. Dinner parties.

Every step calculated.

Every day carefully planned.

I could feel Seraphina beside me—gliding effortlessly, as if born from the music itself. Her movements were always graceful, fluid. Every plié and tendu she performed was perfect, her feet pointed with a precision that felt unattainable.

Why couldn't I move like that?

Jacque stalked through the rows of dancers, tapping his cane rhythmically on the floor with each step. He was closing in, I could feel it.

"Jeté," he commanded, his eyes landing on me. "And don't mess it up."

I inhaled sharply and leapt, trying to extend my legs and point my toes at the perfect angle. I landed awkwardly, my ankle rolling ever so slightly, but enough for him to notice.

"Stop!" Jacque barked, his voice echoing through the studio. "Are you even trying today, Amelia?"

The room froze. My heart pounded in my chest as I stood still, staring down at my trembling hands. I wanted to disappear, to fade into the background, to hide from the withering look Jacque was giving me.

"You must be like Seraphina," he said, gesturing to her as she held a perfect arabesque. "Look at her! Light, graceful, effortless. You are too mechanical, too stiff." His eyes narrowed. "If you can't feel the music, you'll never master it. You must dance from your core, not your head."

Seraphina didn't even blink at the praise. She didn't need to. She was everything Jacque wanted in a dancer: composed, refined, perfect. I, on the other hand, was a bundle of nerves trapped in pointe shoes, terrified of failing.

I caught a glimpse of my reflection—tense shoulders, furrowed brows, the exact image of someone holding their breath in the middle of a storm. I couldn't let it go. I couldn't relax. And the more I tried, the more the fear wrapped its fingers around my chest, squeezing until I thought I'd choke.

"Start again," Jacque snapped. "And if you can't get it right this time, don't bother coming to my class."

I bit the inside of my cheek and stepped back into first position. My feet slid into place, and I lifted my chin, trying to channel the calm grace that always seemed to evade me.

Grand jeté, I whispered to myself. It's just a leap.

The music swelled again, and I leapt, reaching for the air with everything in me, trying to land without the thud that always seemed to follow. For a brief moment, it felt like maybe I had done it, but then—