Calore Dance Academy// Red Queen AU

Chapter 11

I'm shaking again as somebody presses a folded leotard and tights into my hands, asks what size my feet are.

Barely in the wing, staring straight ahead, but not really looking at anything. What the hell just happened?

I was just granted a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, that's what the hell just happened. Given to me by perhaps the best young dancer at the Academy, even if it made him look like a madman in the process. After I gave Cal my last name, I mutely walked from the stage, a silent acceptance of his offer. I could still run. I should still run.

"Mare?" the man questions, attempting to make my hands react to his, urging the clothing into my grasp. "Your foot size?"

His voice is vaguely recognizable the second time he says it, and my fingers clamp down on the clothing. The door guard? I twist my face to him, at my side with raised brows.

"I'm an eight, street shoe," I tell him, studying the guard I first showed the advertisement poster to. Same black irises, like Evangeline's. Same lack of hair as there was when I greeted him outside the building's front doors. He isn't a stagehand, but security, with a form-fitting shirt, cargo pants, and boots, with a belt around his waist. The entire ensemble is black. The belt carries a walkie-talkie and a gun in a holster, if I'm not mistaken.

What is this place? And why did I tell him my size?

Thinking he's going to abandon me for wherever the shoes are kept, I shift on my feet, but he only cranks his neck for the rafters. "You fell three stories and got up without any help."

"Yes," I acknowledge, thumbing the new fabric. The leotard is cold and silky, a sangria purple. The black tights are soft and flexible. I couldn't have gotten offstage quicker, mortified myself less. I did the right thing in pretending it was nothing, playing it off as an ordinary, silly event. If only Cal hadn't become involved.

"I'll find your shoes," he says, and the guard wants to say more, opening his mouth, but instead hurries from backstage, leaving me alone. To watch the next girl enter from the other stage wing-like nothing ever happened.

<><><>

The man—Lucas Samos, I learn with contempt on the way up, cousin of Evangeline Samos—drops me off in a studio identical to the room Cal caught me dancing in, and that's that.

Distantly, a clock ticks away in my conscience, counting down the minutes until I'd go on stage to do my so-called audition. Even with the pointe shoes in hand, leotard and tights draped on a nearby barre, it's ridiculous to believe I'd ever go out there, dance for the people who'd spit on me if they knew where I was from.

Though I know the choreography I'd use. I remember it perfectly and dream about it more often than I care to admit. It was a solo I would've performed at my old studio's recital, the opening act. In the months before I stopped dancing, I practiced the piece relentlessly, stayed at the studio oftentimes until midnight. It was beautiful and a tragedy I never performed it.

All of a sudden, I bark out a harsh laugh, happy for the privacy. I'd hurtle the pointe shoes to the floor if I didn't find them so pretty.

This place . . . its fancy windows and marble . . . this is stupid. I'm stupid, for entertaining the thought of dancing here for a damn second. I can't afford it, so I'm not sure why I'm in this room contemplating it.

I must've hit my head. The way I kept myself poised on stage, rose without crying, and managed those few words to Cal, knowing hundreds watched me, the odd maid with the ugly red uniform, indicates I suffered a brain injury. The whole thing is a blur, and it wasn't long ago.