The Choreographer

15: Flowers

Harry has on the stupid watch I got him for his birthday and neither of us are talking. He's driving us to lunch and we just got into an argument. I don't even know what we originally were arguing about, we just were. I am afraid for our relationship to get like this.

Harry breathes heavily, no doubt annoyed by my outbursts. The media freaked out about my new hair color, and a lot of Harry's fans take the time out of their day to tell him I'm fake and insecure and not worth his time. What sucks the most is that they're right.

"Isabel..." Harry starts, he sounds defeated. "What's bothering you?"

"Nothing, I'm just bitter." I tell him.

"Don't lie to me." He tells me, and I know I can't.

"Your fans suck." I whisper quietly. To my surprise Harry pulls the car over to the side of the road. "What?"

"You see the things they say about you?" He asks, looking hurt.

"Yeah, it's not hard..." I explain wondering why he looks so upset. Is he sad for me? I don't want his pity.

"Don't listen to them." He tells me, a fire in his eyes.

"Calm down they're just a bunch of twelve year olds who have a thing for older men." I excuse them, even though their words hurt, non the less.

He looks at me. I look out the window and wish he would start driving. I angrily move my brown hair away from my face.

"Isabel." He says softly. I don't look at him. "C'mon Iz..." He sighs. "Say something..."

"It's no wonder bullying's on the rise." I turn and look at him. "If these kids are mean to people they know nothing about imagine how mean they are to kids whose problems they actually know of." I laugh dryly. "I get how Danielle and Eleanor felt." I lean back in the seat. "Your fans need dictionaries..." I pause. "...and Jesus."

"Oh." He says quietly. "Do you still...?" He gestures between us.

"Do I look like a quitter?" I ask.

He finally smiles. "Nope."

****

I'm at a ballet studio for young girls. In about fifteen minutes I'm going to meet a class of six year old aspiring ballerinas. I look at myself in the mirror, my dark hair in a tight bun, dressed in tights, a leotard and even a tutu. And if course, my point shoes. The dance instructor, Kelly, brings in the ten girls. All of the girls are dressed like I am, they're like mini me's.

"Class, say hello to Miss Isabel, a real ballerina!" Kelly enthuses.

All the little girls say hello in unison.

"I thought she was blonde!" A little girl with red hair interjects. Kelly shushes her.

"You may all raise your hands and ask Miss Isabel your questions." Kelly tells them.

All the hands go up. I pick a little Asian girl, she's missing a front tooth, I think she's adorable. "What's your name sweetie?" I ask.

"Jessica." She tells me shyly. "Did you ever dance in Giselle?" She asks.

"I did, have you ever seen Giselle?" I inquire.

"Yeah, I fell asleep halfway through though..." She admits blushing. "We're you Giselle?"

"I was." I confirm.

"I want to be like you." She tells me quietly.

I smile "I think you should aim to be better than me."

"I can't." She frowns.

"You can." I tell her, she looks up at me, then smiles and nods.

All the hands go up again and pick a new student. It goes like this for the next ten minutes until I'm on the last girl. "What's your name?" I ask.