a sum of small things | camren (au)

the first year | july - december

You watch Camila take the stage of the London Royal Opera House and it's like you're sixteen years old all over again. The way she spins and jumps and flies and dances - your breath falls short in the back of your throat at every single turn.

You don't think you'll ever get used to it.

:::

july

:::

You remember it like this. The air inside the New York theatre a little too cold for your Barcelona jean shorts; your mother's voice ringing in your ears as she calls out name after name after name; and then all your attention on her and on her only - she's a little wild, a little messy, but her bare feet are stretched to perfection at every single jeté. You can feel your eyes narrowing and your mouth tightening and your fingernails digging right into the palms of your hands until they almost start bleeding.

You and Camila Cabello are not exactly off to a good start.

You've been sitting in the back row for almost two hours already, scanning through some old Cosmo magazine, trying to block out your mother's commentary, wishing you were back at home, in Spain, with your friends, with Lucy - because honestly, out of all the things that have happened since moving to New York, this may actually be the worst. Audition week at the Fonteyn Academy for Classical and Contemporary Ballet, and your mother wanting you to participate in the selection procedure.

Of course, none of that is happening.

You read your magazine and roll your eyes at your mother's every comment, and you barely pay any attention to the bunch of annoying, overly excited sixteen year old who are supposed to become your new classmates next season. It's not like they've got anything on you, anyway.

"-and that completes the group session," your mother shrieks into the microphone. "Everyone, prepare for solos. All girls with surnames A to E, please make your way to center stage."

For fuck's sake. Solos... That means you'll be stuck here for at least another hour.

"Introducing Eva Adams. Whenever you're ready, miss Adams."

A skinny girl with red curls and a plain face makes her way onto the stage. She's clearly nervous. You turn your attention back to the magazine as soon as you hear the opening notes of the dancing swan. Such a fucking cliché.

More girls perform; every solo more predictable than the last. It's not until your mother introduces the next girl - Camille or Camilla or something - that you suddenly look up, a spark of interest running through your veins at the way your mother shrieks out, "Miss Cabello, where are your pointe shoes?"

The girl in question is standing right in the middle of the stage. She's dressed in black boy shorts and a gray tank top, and she's barefoot. For a moment your eyes get caught on her long dark hair, the curve of her neck, her tan skin, her legs-

She doesn't look like she's sixteen yet.

Her voice is a little hoarse, when she replies with a shrug, "I don't have any."

The look on your mother's face is absolutely priceless - and for the first time during the entire audition process you find yourself paying attention for longer than a couple of seconds. The girl shifts her weight from one foot to the other, straightening her spine. Then, her eyes find yours and for a moment your breath hitches in your throat, before you quickly look down again.

"Well..." your mother says as if all hope is lost completely. "We will definitely have to take a notion of that, Camila-"

Camila.