Chapter One:
Mirrors
Arabesque after arabesque, I watched myself in the mirror, the bruises splayed over my body flowing like the broken wings of a fallen bird as the turns and leaps encompassed me, pulling me deeper into the only thing I've ever been good at; dance. But as my father walked in with a frightening smile on his face, I realized that all good things have to end.
"Bella get your fat ass down here, the plane is boarding in twenty minutes!" yelled my mother menacingly from the foot of the stairs. I rolled out of bed and glanced at the mirror, cringing at the yellowing but obviously still there bruises from yesterday… and the day before that. And all of the other days before that one. I sighed inwardly and reached into my shirt drawer, pulling out the one that would cover up the most skin. I pulled out red and white stripes. Maybe I should've tried again but I didn't really have the energy. I had spent six hours the day before at my dance studio, Avanti. But it wasn't like I minded; the people there were closer to me than my own flesh and blood. Sadly, my own flesh and blood wasn't too happy with my newfound friendships.
"Bella if you are not down here in two minutes you are sitting in your suitcase under the plane!" yelled my mother sounding more irritated than the first time. That in itself had to be some kind of accomplishment. I reached into my drawer again, finally deciding to expend the energy to avoid the stripes, and threw on a tank top and a sweatshirt over a pair of jeans. Perfect, at least I can hide my skin without looking like a walking traffic light. I slid down the banister to the bottom of the stairs, relieved that my mother was looking in the other direction. I lightly snuck my way into the kitchen, planning on sneaking something actually edible and not healthy into my bag, when a hand came down on my shoulder.
"Bella, what do you think you're doing?" my Mother. You know those eyes on the back of parents' heads that they talk about? I'm convinced that she actually has them because I know for a fact that my feet don't make sounds when I walk. It must have been the backpack I was wearing that gave me away. Yeah, that's right, blame the inanimate object. I needed more sleep; four o'clock was ALWAYS too early if it wasn't a dance day.
"I was just going to make sure that all of my dance shoes were packed." I was lying through my teeth and we both knew it but my mother just nodded; she wasn't going to let me out of her sight now anyway and I really did need to get all of my dance shoes. My mother and father had decided that I was too happy here. Too happy, to moody, too rebellious; it was always something different. But the real reason was that I had made friends, and for their perfect façade about our perfect little family, that couldn't happen.
My mother and father were taking me to an elite performing arts boarding school in NYC. I didn't care which one or what they did there and my parents didn't care to tell me. We all knew it wouldn't last; they would send me away until they got bored and needed someone to blame and criticize again. Everyone needed an outlet, and for my parents there was me. Bad days, relationship issues, nights out drinking; I received the backlash of everything. Maybe this time would be different, but I had learned a long time ago that it hurts too much to dream. Better to prepare for disappointment then to have your heart broken.
My mother called out to me yet again and we walked out to the runway that was conveniently situated right down the block from our neighborhood. My father was with us too, somehow showing up just in time as always. The private plane was ready and running, a perfect transport vehicle for our perfectly messed up family. So as we ascended into the sky, my stomach still somewhere far down below, I looked back out over California and hoped that maybe somebody there had loved me. It would have been a first.
When we arrived in New York, all I could see was a whole lot of buildings and a whole lot of snow. I'd never seen snow; my parents had always thought skiing was too dangerous and didn't want to 'tempt' me with it, so they always went without me. But my 17-year-old brain reacted just as a 6-year-old's would have; I want to PLAY mommy! Most 6-year-olds, however, had mothers that would have said yes. Mine? Not so much.
"Come on Bella, your interview is in a half hour and we have to drop your stuff off at the dorm!" yelled my mom in that ever-present aggravated tone of hers. I would have said no, but the cold glare that my father sent in my direction terrified me into submission. Sometimes, scaring me into submission takes more, I thought sadly, looking down at the slightly visible hand-shaped bruise peeking out from under my dark blue long-sleeved t-shirt. We all got into the rental car, again in silence, and I began praying for the ride to be over as soon as it started.
About five minutes into the ride, my mother silently handed me the bag that contained all of my dance 'stuff'. There was make-up, clothes, shoes, bobby-pins; the works. I quickly changed into my leotard (long-sleeved, of course) and tights, the awkward movements coming easily to me after about 15 years of practice. After that came the real work; getting my long mahogany brown hair to look pretty but not too pretty, applying the make-up just so to accentuate my sapphire blue eyes. Sadly, I'd had about the same amount of practice with this. My mother, I'm sure, had absolutely no idea how to do what I had just done.
The secretary at the front desk ushered me into a practice dance room with the advice to 'warm up!' and that 'the headmistress will be here soon sweet-heart!' She was the first person that I'd ever met who talked with exclamation points at the end of every sentence she spoke. But I took the advice, warming up as I tried not to dwell on the idea that if I didn't make it, my parents would already be on a plane to Paris. They had left me at the front door with all of my bags and a warning not to screw up. I made sure to take that advice too.
"Miss Bella Swan?" a woman, mid-forties at most, emerged from a back door to the room, smiling at my shocked jump. She was beautiful, most likely a dancer herself, but she had eyes that made me smile, just by the amount of warmth that emitted from them. I nodded, acknowledging finally that I was, indeed, 'Miss Bella Swan' and she told me to perform the dance that I had prepared for the audition. She took a seat at the corner of the studio, and smiled at me as I tensed to begin. The first few notes of my audition song trilled, and I lost myself in the music that seemed to be, yet again, my only friend.
Had I not been so immersed in the music and the dance, I would have noticed the beautiful green-eyed boy standing outside the window to the studio, staring open-mouthed as I finished my dance.
But then again, maybe it was better I hadn't seen that.
A/N: What did you think? I have a plot in mind but any ideas are always welcomed Please review if you have a minute!
p.s. I know that Bella's eyes are brown but I love blue eyes and they will come to play later in the story.
Thanks for reading!