Strawberries & Cigarettes

Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

The dancer bourrées across the room, her feet elegantly tiptoeing their way towards the center of the floor. She brings her heels down into fourth position before going en pointe again to perform her four single piqué fouettés in time with the rapid sixteenth note trills of the music. The dancer finishes in a wide fourth position with one arm elegantly stretched out in front of her and the other stretched out to her side. She dares not to let go of her position until given permission to by the dancing instructor.

The instructor nods, and the dancer lowers her arms first to a low first position, then gracefully to her sides. Her feet rearrange themselves into a natural stance.

An audible sigh comes from the instructor. "How many times have I told you about not jumping onto full pointe? Are you deaf? Are your turnouts so terrible that they render your other senses useless? Huh?"

Moet lowers her head. "Sorry, Mom." Her mother glares in response. "Mother," Moet corrects herself.

Her mother only rolls her eyes in response. "Okay, I've had enough of this. Mark, come over here. Let's go over the pas de deux."

Moet and Mark position themselves on the far right side of the dance floor. She sends an apologetic glance towards Mark for making him wait while she worked on her solo. He gives a reassuring smile back. With an elevé arabesque, the two start their dance.

It was perfect; every turn, step, and jump from the two was executed beautifully. Everything went smoothly-until they got to the lift.

"Balance, Moet, balance!" The instructor screamed.

It was too much; the fatigue, the strict dieting, the sweat, the shouting.

So she fell.

Moet kept her gaze on the floor, tears already flowing at the thought of what was to come. The room was silent: the type of silent that the calm before a devastating whirlwind of a hurricane harbored. Even Mark stood shock-still.

Her mother said nothing. Not like she needed to; the searing feeling of her rage burned through the back of Moet's skull. Each clack of her high heels hitting the floor felt like a bullet through the chest. The echoing sound of the door slamming ricocheted across the room. A tanned hand enters her field of vision. Moet looks up through tear-blurred eyes to Mark's sympathetic smile. Giving a wobbly smile in return, she takes the hand and stands back up, ignoring the slight throbbing pain of her toes that comes with practicing on pointe.

"Thank you," she murmured. As she got up, Mark questioned if she'd be alright to which she responded with a bob of the head. Letting out a shaky breath, she turned toward the double doors and slowly walked towards the parking lot.

She wasn't there. Her mother's car was gone. It was a thirty-minute walk home in feet that'd been standing on tiptoes for four straight hours. Sadly, this wasn't the first time it had happened. Over time, Moet had learned that limping home was better than being trapped in a car with a bomb ready to explode at even the sound of the dropping of a pin.

So she headed home.

It was about 10:42 PM when he saw it. Leighton had just finished the last page of his paper for English and he was feeling a bit thirsty.

He first heard sobs.

At eleven o' clock at night, the typical suburban neighborhood is dead silent, being that it was mostly kids who had school in the morning or adults with full-time jobs who inhabit the area. So of course Leighton heard the anguished sniffles and cries of a teenage girl walking alone down the street. Peering out of his window with a glass of water in his hand, he could barely make out the silhouette of a girl limping awkwardly along the sidewalk before the figure abruptly turned and started up the pathway toward the house neighboring his.

He felt nothing but mild curiosity toward the moving shadow. Thus, he drained the glass of water he held, turned off the lights, and headed upstairs to disappear from the world for the next eight hours or so.

She stared at the music box. She couldn't touch the lid-it wasn't hers. However, the only part she could touch was the part that could be wound to make music; and she'd washed her hands exactly four times on the palms, back, and even under her fingernails before she allowed herself to touch it. It was the signal after all, and who was left to deliver the signal but her? After two turns, she sits down on her bed and waits.

Tap, tap, tap.

She gets up, walks toward the window, slides it open, and comes face to face with a mane of wild blonde curls and bloodshot blue eyes attached to a tall, slender girl.

"Hi, Moet," the girl greets her baby sister.

"Hi, Dakota," Moet mumbles in return. Dakota steps forward to wrap her arms around Moet in a comforting hug. The familiar smell of strawberry shampoo and cigarette smoke makes its way towards Moet's nose. After a moment, Dakota releases Moet with a smile on her face, and makes her way towards the dresser.

"I see you've taken care of my music box for me." Dakota grins. "Thank you." Moet beams, basking in the air of her sister's approval. She starts limping over to Dakota and sees the smile wipe off of Dakota's face. Her expression immediately switches from childlike joy to suppressed anger.

"Let me see your feet," Dakota demanded in a hard, cold voice.

Moet instinctually flinched, attempting to hide her badly mutilated feet.

"Moet," Dakota's voice was steadily rising. "Now."

Moet stepped out. Dakota put her hand to her mouth in horror.

And then she turned furious.

"She made you walk home, didn't she," Dakota was shouting. Moet nervously glanced from her to the door and back again. "You can't keep letting her do this to you, Moet." She got louder, if that was any possible.

"D-Dakota," Moet started, but was interrupted.

"I mean, look at you!" Dakota screamed. "You haven't eaten properly in days, you barely have enough energy to stand up straight, and your feet are a bloody mess!"

"Dakota." It wasn't the mention of her name that made her stop. It was the voice that said her name. It was the slight raising of the volume, the fact that she didn't answer in her usual mumble or mutter. A slight tremble crept its way into Moet's tone. "Please stop, Mom's right next door."

The sisters stared at each other for what seemed like hours before Dakota spoke.

"I see."

That was it.

And she was gone.

Moet looked around the empty room and started to cry.

Because she was weak.

And she hated it so, so much.