The Right Moves (The Game #3)(2)
Author: Emma Hart

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, Abbi. I just thought that maybe since you want to change a little we could go the salon. You know, get a restyle. We both need one. Maybe our nails, too.”

I swallow, her tight grip on my hand telling me exactly how hard it is for her to suggest that. How hard it is for her to finally accept that her Abbi isn’t coming back this time. That her Abbi is lost forever.

“I’d like that,” I say honestly. “Maybe that’s what I need. Maybe it’ll change the last of it. Wipe it away.”

“No wiping away needed. We’ll just make new memories to replace the old.” Mom stands up. “I’ll call the salon tomorrow. And Bianca called – you can start in her class tomorrow. A few of her girls just got into Juilliard, and she has a few newbies starting then. She thinks it would be the perfect time for you. I said I’d speak to you and call her back. Shall I let her know you’ll be there?”

Ballet. Juilliard. The ultimate dream. The thing that keeps me going. The thing that saved me when I felt there was nothing left to save. “Please, Mom. I’ll be there.”

“Okay.” She backs out of my room and shuts the door behind her, leaving me to silence once again.

Silence. My best friend and my worst enemy.

I lightly brush my fingers over my wrist again and reach for my iPod. The screen glares back at me, and I click shuffle. Snow Patrol blare out, and I lie back on my bed, curling into my side.

Juilliard chants lowly in my mind as sleep begins to take me under.

~

I clutch the strap of my dance bag to my stomach, and the bag knocks against my knees as I tentatively push open the door to Bianca’s dance studio. My stomach is rolling with apprehension, my whole body tense, but I know I’m safe here.

Bianca is one of the few people who truly knows and understands my desire and my need to dance. When Dr. Hausen suggested using dance as a therapy, Biana is who arrived that day in the gym hall. One private session a week quickly turned to three, both there and here at her studio, and she helped me leave the institution. She reminded me of the freedom that comes with the stretching of a leotard and tying of a ribbon on ballet shoes. And she’s the closest thing I have to a friend without Maddie here.

The familiar dance hall stares at me. The mirrors lining the wall, the barre on the far wall, the piano in the corner. Dexter, her disabled uncle and pianist, waves at me from the corner. I smile at him, feeling myself relax a little. Only a little, because I know soon the room will be filled with people I’ve never met.

Two slender hands rest on my shoulders from behind me. “I can see your tension from the other side of the floor. Breathe and relax, Abbi, because those shoes aren’t gonna dance for you.”

“I’m scared,” I whisper as the door opens.

“I know.” Bianca drops her hands and circles me, stopping in front of me and bending down so we’re eye to eye. “You’re here to dance, remember that, strong girl, and you’ll be fine.”

“To dance.” I let out a long breath, glancing at the growing crowd by the seats.

“And it’s something you do beautifully. You’re safe here.”

And I know that. I know nothing or no one can touch me here, especially not when my hand touches that barre and the music starts. Wherever it is I end up when I dance… it’s safe.

I pad gently to the corner and remove my sweatpants and top, revealing my dance clothes beneath. I slip my shoes on and run my finger over the satin ribbons. Soft. Safe.

I keep my eyes on the floor in the vain hope no one will talk to me. In the hope no one will even notice me, because like Bianca said, I’m here to dance. Not to make friends, not to build relationships, just to dance.

My shoes reflect back to me in the mirror as I stop. My fingers stretch in anticipation, and I place my hand on the barre, letting them curl around the cold metal. Lightness spreads through my body, easing the ever-present suffocation of depression. It’s only for a second, but that second is enough. In that second I feel the rush of the girl I could be, and the first easy breath I’ve taken since I walked in here ten minutes ago leaves my body.

The dull buzz of chatter ceases as Bianca claps her hands once. “I’m not going to stand here and introduce myself or explain what we’re doing here. If you don’t know me or why you’re here, then you’re in the wrong studio, little chicks.

“What I am going to tell you is to forget everything you’ve ever learned about how dance works. When you slip your shoes on in this studio, you give yourself over to the art of ballet, not the technicalities.

“Ballet isn’t about timing, getting that step perfect, or getting the best marks in the class. It’s about telling a story. It’s about taking the feelings and emotions inside you, ripping them out and expressing them with flawless motions of your body. Ballet is a dance that stems and grows from everything we are, regardless of what it means to you, and if you believe any differently, you’re in the wrong studio.” Her eyes comb over us all standing at the barre, scrutinizing us, like a simple glance can tell her whether or not we believe what she does.

“What you do need to know about how my class works is that you don’t stop being a dancer just because you’re not on the floor. I expect you to work your asses off. I expect you to be here three nights a week for two hours, then I expect you to work at home. Six hours a week in a studio will not get you to the standard Juilliard expects and demands. Damn, I spend more time than that on my hair each week.

“I don’t care whether you dance in a studio, in the shower, in the middle of Central Park – hey, dance on the highway if you really want to – but you must dance. Every. Single. Day. And I will know if you don’t. I will know, if for even one day, you forget to dance, because your body will show me.

“I don’t want to see any of you in the wrong studio. I want you all to be in the right studio. Some of you I already know and I know you’re in the right studio, but the rest of you have to prove it.” She turns and taps the top of the piano, and her uncle begins to play.

“What if we think we are, but we’re not? Will you know?” someone further up the barre asks.

Bianca turns, her lips twisting on one side. “Of course.”

“What happens then?”

“Then you leave my studio, because there is someone out there in this city who does deserve to be here. I only teach the best, know that, and I haven’t yet had a student who didn’t get into Juilliard after attending this class. There’s a reason I only teach two classes a week. You are one, and the others are currently seven year olds, and the majority have been with me since they could walk at the age of one. If seven year olds can hack it, I expect young adults such as yourselves to do so.”