Balancing Love ☞︎ A Jesse St. James fan fic

Dusty, Crusty, Old Witch

Nine years later...

One fouetté

Two fouettés

...Five fouettés

...Fifty fouettés. Without a break. Without loosing balance. Without loosing focus. Without breaking form. That was just the warm-up. I swear my legs are gonna fly the hell off if I do one more fouetté.

I finish, landing gracefully. I try and control my breath, not letting her know just how much I feel like I'm dying.

CRACK!

I wince lightly, the familiar sound of a cane smacking against the barre.

"You are out of breath..." She states, walking around the room as I hold my pose.

"I controlled my breathing Madam Resnakov." I answer, hearing breathlessness in my own voice. Dammit!

CRACK!

"You lie to me, young Madelaine. You know, I thought we were closer than this," She says, faux sadness in her voice. Though the disappointment was scarcely real. I bow my head, successfully feeling as though I've failed. She steps in front of me, leaning against her cane. "Now what exactly did you mess up." She sneers a little. I inhale deeply.

"I lost focus, Madam. I was focusing on the turns and I forgot the breathing exercise you taught me." I explained to her. She scoffs loudly, quite literally turning her head away from me as if she's too disgusted to look at me.

My lips twitch down, threatening to scowl at her. Ya frickin' dusty, crusty, old witch.

"And they call you a prodigy." She muttered under her breath. While she walked over to her chair in the corner, I started to see her limp, signaling that walking was starting to hurt her.

Nine years ago I was discovered by the amazing Igor Maccaux. Picking up dances always seemed naturally easy and no one ever thought anything of it. But Igor saw something in me. He worked with me for weeks practicing the dances needed to play Aurora. Then, what we all thought was helpful coaching, turned into a real job. My father was really weary about letting his eight old be the lead in a ballet. Especially when we didn't know anything of the ballet world. We didn't know if Igor was actually a director. But... he made it happen. There were so many rumors and negative comments coming from literally everywhere. No one thought someone my age could do it.

Then opening night came... we all waited with baited breath as the curtain opened. I was in awe of the crowd. So many people had come. A collective gasp spread throughout the hall. The music began and I went off, starting with the first dance.

The night ended with a standing ovation. Igor's career took off. As did mine. For a girl my age to do a ballet like that. They were assured that I was a prodigy. Every teacher wanted to teach me and every director wanted me to be in their ballets. That is... until Madam Resnakov pushed through the entire crowd, declared she would be the one teaching me, and rejected all offers of other ballets on my behalf.

When everyone had left, she continued to list everything that was wrong with my performance. Every time I messed up. Consisting of my foot not pointing to the sound of the beat, if a turn didn't hit its mark, if I inhaled at the wrong moment. Anything and everything was scrutinized. She said that she wouldn't want a director to get a bad reputation because of my sub-par skills. Then dad got a teaching job in LA and the family packed up their stuff and moved all the way from Florida. Madam Resnakov followed...

And the rest is history. It's been the same every day. Wake-up, stretches and warm-ups for two hours. School. Homework. Dance usually till ten with one break for a small dinner (unless something comes up). Stretches. Then sleep. Madam Resnakov isn't always there. Sometimes I have the room to myself. I like it better. No stress, no pressure to be anything more than I am.

Then Sunday is my day of resting. Now, that consists of waking up, stretches, yoga for three hours, lunch, then the rest of the day is mine.

As much as a bother as it is, I've grown accustomed and after all, Madam Resnakov is helping me to become the best I can be.

'Anything to assure my future.' As my father says...

The door slams, signaling that madam has left the building. I sigh, letting my pose fall. I cross my legs, sitting down. I let my torso fall to the floor. This. This is a stretch I like. I press my forehead against the cool tile.

Giggling interrupts my sense of calmness. I sit up and watch as a group of five girls walk into the studio in a fit of laughter. They all stop short upon seeing me. The girl in the front sends me a nod as they quietly walk in. I sigh before getting up and putting my things together. The fifth girl walks up to me.

"Can you hurry up? You've had the room all day. This is our time, now." She said, her voice snippy and rude.

"I was just-"

"I know you think you can do anything because you got your fifteen minutes of fame at eight years old, but there are rules. Rules that apply to all of us." She snaps after interrupting me.

"I was actually just leaving. I know the rules and I know how to follow them." I reply calmly. The girl who nodded at me walked up to the girl and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry. Trinity is a little moody... it was nice to meet you." The girl says. I give her a tight-lipped smile and I walk away from them as fast as I can.

"I'm totally a fan!" One of the other girls yelled after me as the door fell shut.

I slam the door to the locker-room open and rush in, breathing deeply. Why did people seem hate me?! I never did anything to them, I never even said anything to them. It just happens... inhaling deeply, I weave my fingers through my hair before exhaling. I undress and wrap a towel around my body. Heading into the shower room, two girls heading out give me funny looks before exiting. Taking another breath I decide to ignore it. It's best!

I carefully step into the now steaming water. I hiss from the pain. New markings decorate my feet. Point is a beautiful form of dance... but also a very painful one. Making sure my feet are placed properly around the water I relax in the shower. I turn around and quickly cringe at the squish of my flip-flops turning awkwardly. Never go barefoot in a public shower.

I spend- - I don't know how long in the shower, Just enjoying it. Suddenly my phone rings and I groan at the inconvenience of my relaxation. Turning off the shower and slipping on a towel, I leave the peace and serenity, only to see my fathers secretary calling. I click accept as I start walking into the locker room.

"Hello, Linda." I greet her happily.

"Oh, hi, dear. Are you possibly free at the moment?" She asks politely. I set my phone down at the edge of the locker as I start getting dressed.

"Uh, yeah, I'm not doing anything. Practice ended early. It seemed Madam didn't manage to book all twenty-four hours of the day this time." I joke lightly. Linda lets out a squeaky chuckle.

"Hehe, oh alright. You see your father needs you. We have a very promising student coming into our midst and... well... he needs to ask you a little favor." She explains her reasoning for calling. I roll my eyes, glad she couldn't see me.

Whenever a new art student comes to UCLA, dad bribes me into showing them around. Trying to convince me using the same old line he usually does,

'We have a Star in our midst. We show them we breed success, they won't drop out.'

I didn't even go to UCLA. I was a junior in high school...

"Hello, dear?" Lina questioned, making me realize that I had ignored replying for far too long.

"Oh, sorry Linda. Um, yeah. I'll be right there." I assure her. I quite literally hear her sigh in relief.

"Alright, dear. You know how to get in."

"Of course, Linda. Bye now." I answer, ending the call before she can say anything. I pick up my phone, slamming my locker shut, and flinging my heavy dance bag over my shoulder.

"Here we go." I mutter, feeling slightly more grumpy than before.