Back to the Pointe

Back to the Pointe: Prologue

A new day, a new story! This one will hopefully be a good one. I'm not stopping Her Scars, but I thought I'd like a change.

Anyway, let me know if this is an okay start... It's going to be a dancing romance. Hehe.

xx

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“And plié; straight. Good, good.” Madame Carolyn instructed in her thick French accent, placing a hand on my back to straighten my posture.

I had been doing warm-ups for the past forty-five minutes and I was itching to get down to business. I’d been en Pointe for two years, working tirelessly every day after school. My senior year was going to be the best one yet. I’d gotten the role of Odette and Odile in the local ballet company’s production of the classic; Swan Lake. Nothing was going to stop my dream of becoming a famous prima ballerina.

“Alisa, belle, you are going to hurt yourself if you keep getting so excited to be en Pointe.” Madam Carolyn chided as I beat feet to the opposite side of the room to slip my feet into my brand new shoes. I had to break them in before dress rehearsal and that wouldn’t take very long.

I looked up at my dance teacher, taking in her straight posture, her grey hair tied up in a tight bun at the base of her neck. “Madame, you were a ballerina when you were younger. Don’t you understand why I’m so excited? I get to be Odette!” I exclaimed, pulling my tights down over my feet and rolling onto my toe to make sure my foot was all the way in the shoe.

She just laughed and shook her head. “Belle, I was never as talented as you. In France, you had to be parfaite to be prima.”

I finished tucking the loose ends of my satin ribbons and stood, walking gingerly to the barre to start foot warm-ups. “I am far from perfect, Madame.” I pointed out, rising up on my toes as she once again adjusted my posture.

“Ah, but a slouch is correctible. Flat feet are not.”

I shook my head, taking my place in the middle of the room; feet in an arabesque, arms extended in first position. “Music?” I requested; taking a deep breath before the familiar tune of Tchaikovsky rang in my ears and my body took over, replaying what I’d been practicing for the past six months.

I moved around the floor in a series of complicated pirouettes, piqués, and bourrées, gliding from one edge of the room to the other, losing myself in the classical music. Tchaikovsky’s symphonic melody grew faster and I knew this combination as the part in the story where Odette had been turned into a beautiful swan by the evil Von Rothbart. With everything I had, I turned my body for a tour jeté. As soon as my feet touched the ground, I knew something was wrong. The sickening crunch of bone, my whole body meeting the floor, and the immense pain in my swelling ankle were all telltale signs that my ballet career was over before it even began.

“Alisa! Ma ballerine!” Madame Carolyn cried, rushing to my aid, Tchaikovsky still playing in the background.

I shut my eyes, involuntarily rocking back and forth; willing the pain to go away, wishing this could just be a dream. “My ankle, Madame!”

I felt fingers undoing the satin ribbons tied around my right ankle and squeezed my eyelids tighter together, tears threatening to spill out of my eyes.

“Oh non! Il ne peut pas être. Ma belle ballerine!” Madame Carolyn’s statement caused my eyes to shoot open and I took in the sight of my mangled foot, now about four different shades of dark purple.

“Madame,” I choked out, my eyes starting to water. “I need to go to the hospital.”

She seemed to break out of her trance, pulling me to my good foot and placing my arm around her shoulder. Together, we hobbled out of the studio, to her car and rushed to the hospital hoping I wouldn’t have to let the rest of the cast down.