Breaking Pointe | Rough Draft

Six

I stand awkwardly in the upscale boutique, fluorescent lights making every inch of the marble floors gleam. My mother, of course, is in her element, drifting through the racks with her lips pursed, fingers skimming over the fine fabrics like she's deciding on a piece of art. For her, clothes are just another way to maintain our perfectly curated image—the Lancaster legacy.

"Amelia," she calls from across the room, holding up a white dress that practically screams abstinence only. "This one. Perfect for the brunch banquet. Sophisticated, yet delicate."

Delicate. I suppress a groan. I wanted something darker, something that didn't make me feel like a doll in a display case. "I was thinking something in black," I murmur, knowing full well it won't matter.

Her sharp gaze flickers over me, eyes narrowing as she walks over. "Black? Amelia, honestly. You need to think about the event. We're hosting some of the most important families in the city. You can't stand out in some...funeral attire. We need you to look fresh, inviting."

Inviting. My stomach twists, but I bite my tongue, taking the white dress from her hands. I'll get through this—just like every other time. I turn toward the changing room, feeling her eyes on my back, the pressure sinking into my skin like a weight I can't shake.

The white fabric slips over me easily, but when I look in the mirror, all I can see is everything I hate. The color washes me out, makes me look hollow. Or maybe that's just the way I've been feeling lately. I swallow hard and smooth the skirt down, my fingers trembling slightly.

My mother's voice breaks through my thoughts as she enters the dressing area. "Hmm." Her eyes scan me with clinical precision. Then, she sighs, her lips tightening. "You've put on a little weight, haven't you? It's probably all those study snacks. Perhaps if you had cut down on the snacks the Wilson boy wouldn't have run for the hills."

The words pierce me like shards of glass. My heart stutters, and I feel the familiar burn of tears threatening to surface. But I don't dare let them fall.

Not here.

Not now.

She can't see me cry.

I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms, the sting distracting me from the suffocating feeling that's crawling up my throat. My chest feels too tight, my breaths too shallow. I swallow the hurt down, pushing it deep into the corners of myself, the way I've learned to do. Don't let her see you break.

"Go on, change back," she says, taking the same white dress off a rack. "We'll take this one."

I nod, forcing a small smile that doesn't reach my eyes before slipping back into the changing room. Once the door clicks shut, I lean against it and let out a shaky breath, my hands trembling as I pull off the dress. My palms sting, and I look down to find small, bloody crescent shapes where my nails dug too hard into the skin.

I wipe the blood off on my mid drift, barely registering the motion as I slip into my own black top, the one with classy mesh sleeves, and my white corduroy skirt. I know she'd hate this outfit—too bold, too me. But it's mine, and I need that, even if just for a moment.

I step out of the changing room, hands carefully tucked away, and plaster the smile back on as we head to the counter. My mother is already handing over her credit card, a satisfied smile on her lips.

As we step out of the boutique, the crisp air of the afternoon greets us, but it does little to soothe the tightness in my chest. My fingers are still curled into my palms, hiding the marks I left on myself, when my mother stops abruptly, her posture straightening like a queen preparing for court.