Protégée

three.

At this point, I am positive that Kassandra has made a mistake, she has picked the wrong girl. My feet have nice arches, I must admit - however, everyone here has the same. I've concurred that my body is hideously overdeveloped and emaciated in comparison to these girls. They're thin, yes. But not in a sense that makes you think they've been living on the streets.

Thin isn't quite the correct way to describe them - slender, willowy, slight. Yet containing all the strength of a hundred soldiers. These young women are the strongest people I have ever seen, each possessing their own technique and poise, each remarkable in their own way. I, on the other hand, am thin, unbalanced, and fragile. My toes have not been conditioned to withstain the force of my entire body, contrary to the others. I am not strong enough for this.

When I was a little girl, the headmistresses at Miss Winston's said I would never be beautiful. My hair, too thin. My cheeks, too hollow. My demeanor slight and meek, and not in the kind expected of a young lady. I was too tall, too quiet and would never again have that radiant youth, that everyone else seemed to have. By the time I was eight, my self-confidence had been destroyed forever. 

Not yet have I been permitted to join rehearsals with the other girls. They're too far into their season, their showcase is only a few weeks away. However, I have watched many of their rehearsals through the studio windows. I have seen enough rehearsals only to enforce this demon inside me telling me I'll never be good enough. 

Today is a particularly dreary day, though I haven't been outside since my arrival three weeks ago. The halls are empty and cavernous, it seems, as I walk with Kassandra down their lengths. "As I'm sure you've heard, the Annual Dance Showcase is a few short weeks away," Kassandra explains to me. "Obviously you will not be performing. Not this time around, I'm afraid. Nonetheless, you are to have a front-row seat and royal treatment, the best we can offer. You're going to wear a dress that my dear friend Bernadette has designed and tailored specifically for you. And we will not say a word about you."

Her words come at me like arrows, one after another, until I'm in the clear. "Why not?" I ask curiously. 

She looks at me, dumbfounded, as if she's joking. "To arouse suspicion, my dear. To arouse question. If we're seen bringing in a pretty, never-before-seen girl and treat her with excellent care, people will talk. We'll get a new wave of press attention, I assure you. It's a marketing technique, my love." 

"Won't people ask me who I am? And you?" 

She chuckles. "Not if you're sitting in the highest box of them all, roped off with me and the most elite in the business. Trust me, dear, nobody will be bothering you." 

"Alright," I say. "I just don't see what the purpose in all of this is. Besides press attention. I don't see where this is going to go."

"Well, you'll cause a bit of a ruckus, then go into hiding for a few weeks and let the media brew up a storm - giving the Academy major publicity - and then you'll make your debut in the next showcase." 

After a moment of thinking about it, I have to ask, "Isn't the showcase an Annual thing?" 

She stops short, turns on her heels, and tells me, "Finch, the next showcase is all you." 

Somewhere, deep inside my abdomen, somebody releases a cage of butterflies. "What do you mean?" 

"What I mean, Finch, is that we have a lot of work ahead of us."