Disclaimer:I don't own Twilight.
This is about Rosalie when she is younger and if she was still human and met Bella, Emmett, Alice, Tanya, and some other people in the Twilight world. She dances. All Human, takes place in California.
Rosalie Hale glided across the floor of the Emily Young School of Dance and Theater Arts, trying not to cry. Rosalie had been one of Miss Young's star ballet students for nearly eight years now, and she hadn't ever cried in class: Now when she broke a bone in her foot the first time she wore pointe shores; not when Jessica Stanley got the part of the Sugar Plum Fairy in the school recital three years ago and Rosalie had to dance a dumb variation dressed as a cello; not even when she was nine years old and her father died and she had come to her ballet lesson the day after his funeral and the other little girls were afraid to look her in the eye.
No, she hadn't cried in front of Miss Young. Not yet. Jessica Stanley had cried plenty though. Every time the teacher yelled at her, she had squeezed out crocodile tears to get sympathy. And she had cried real tears of joy two years ago when she found she had been accepted at New York City's School of American Ballet. She was just fourteen then, a year younger than Rosalie was now.
At the front of the room Rosalie came off pointe and scurried out of the way of the line of girls crossing the studio in one of the last pointe exercises of the day. Next to an old upright piano, Miss Young sat straight and tall on a high wooden stool and shouted over the roar of a truck downshifting on Main Street.
"Pavlova's bourrees were no louder than a whisper. Did you hear me? A whisper!" Rosalie hurried past the dark-haired teacher, but Miss Young seemed to look right through her. Today she had barely said a word to Rosalie. She hadn't even bothered to correct her once. Rosalie headed for the rosin box in the back of the room, her dark blue eyes bright with tears.
She dipped first the right toe of her worn pink satin shoes in the shallow wooden packing crate filled with chunks of sticky resin, then the left. My whole life's about to fall about and there's nothing I can do to stop it, she thought. She leaned against the barre and stared out the curtained storefront window onto San Lorenzo's sleepy Main Street.
Today was the end of what Rosalie felt was the worst summer of her life. Six days a week the fifteen-year-old had danced her heart out in the sweltering studio. And six days a week, without fail, Miss Young had singled her out for correction after correction, as if she were the only girl in the crowded room; as if, Rosalie recollected now, she were the worst dancer there.
At first Rosalie had appreciated the attention. After all, to be a dancer, a great dancer, was her most cherished dream. It had been her dream since the moment she put on her first pair of pink leather ballet slippers and walked into Hannah Greene's San Lorenzo dance studio when she was seven years old.
Rosalie was old enough now to realize her ambitions meant more than being singled out to give demonstrations and show the other girls how the more difficult combinations were supposed to work. Becoming a ballerina meant working very hard, harder than any of the other students currently in the advanced summer workshop. But Rosalie hadn't minded working hard as long as she knew someday her dream of dancing professionally would come true.
Lately that dream had seemed more like a nightmare. Miss Young hadn't said one positive thing to her all summer. Nothing Rosalie did lately seemed to be right, or good enough, and she had begun to wonder if she should just give up. Perhaps this was her teacher's subtle way of telling her her days as a dancer were over.
Rosalie found Miss Young's silence far worse than her shouted corrections. Today before class had started the teacher had approached Rosalie at the barre and said simply, "I want to see you in my office after class." Rosalie thought she knew what was coming. She's going to tell me to stop dancing. The thought had tumbled around in Rosalie's head all morning, blotting out everything else: the heat, the music, the steps, the other girls.
Now class was nearly over and Rosalie mentally prepared herself for the inevitable-the shattering of her dream. She bent over and rested her hot forehead against the worn wooden barre. "She's really going to tell me to stop dancing," Rosalie murmured in a soft, shocked voice.
"What do you mean, stop dancing?" Her best friend, Vera Morely, was standing beside her in the back of the room, wiping the sweat of her freckled face with a shocking-pink towel. The beginning pointe students were still doing steps in groups of two or three across the floor.
Rosalie straightened up and blinked. Vera's puzzled expression came into focus. Rosalie hadn't meant to speak her thoughts out loud. She looked down at the floor, rubbed the toe of one frayed shoe against the top of the other, and gave an embarrassed shrug. "Oh, I don't know exactly." Rosalie's shaky voice betrayed her. To steady herself, she clutched the barre that ran the length of the mirrored room. She worked one ankle round and round in a circle and studied her well-pointed foot closely. Without glancing up, she finally added under her breath, "You know how Young's been treating me. Well, she wants to see me after class in her office."
Vera had been studying with Emily Young almost a long as Rosalie had, but she had no intention of becoming a dancer. She wanted to be a veterinarian, but her mother kept insisting she take all theses lessons: ballet, violin, pottery. Vera hated them. If only there were something else she wanted to do with her life besides dance, she wouldn't feel so terrible now. She squeezed her eyes shut to hold back the tears. When she opened them again, she looked directly at her friend.
"She wants to see you in her office?" Vera's brown eyes widened as Rosalie's news registered. "Whew!" She gave a low, sympathetic whistle and pushed her brown bangs out of her eyes. It was rare for one of the students to get called into Miss Young's office. It usually happened only when they had a serious problem or were hurt. Vera patted Rosalie's arm. "Maybe it's not bad news," she said without much conviction.
On and off all summer Vera and Rosalie had hashed out Miss Young's attitude toward Rosalie. At first they believed the stern, dark-haired teacher was trying to push Rosalie harder. After all, at fifteen a girl with her sights set on a professional dance career was ready for some kind of big move, and in Rosalie's case that meant a move out of the small-town world of San Lorenzo into one of the major big-city ballet schools-a move like the one Jessica had made. First Jessica had gone to New York to study. Now there was a letter from her posted on the dressing room bulletin board: she had been signed on as an apprentice at the New York City Ballet. She was almost two years older than Rosalie and Rosalie was beginning to wonder if she had been passed over. Lately Rosalie had begun to share her doubts with Vera. Maybe with Miss Young was trying to tell her something. Maybe she was built all wrong for dancing. Maybe she just wasn't good enough. Maybe that's why she was still here and Jessica wasn't.
Rosalie's lip began to tremble and she didn't trust her voice. If she said one more word, she'd burst into tears.
"I'll wait for you after class," Vera whispered.
Rosalie nodded and turned her back on her friend. She made a big business of looking into the mirror and tucking a strand of thick, wavy blond hair back into her bun. For a moment she froze, and stared at her reflection as if she were looking at a perfect stranger. As she had a hundred times that summer, she took a hard critical look at her body and wondered if it was the body of a dancer.
Rosalie had filled out a little over the past couple of years. At five foot four, she weighed just one hundred pounds. She was sure she hadn't gotten too fat or too curvy or too tall. Her long legs were strong but shapely and not a muscle bulged anywhere. Her face was pretty in a rosy-cheeked, all-American sort of way: She had uncommonly large and round blue eyes and her fair skin tanned easily beneath the California sun. At least she wasn't the kind of blond who looked washed out on stage. No, she thought objectively, she looked good enough to be a dancer.
"Hale! Are you going to stand there admiring yourself all day?" Miss Young's voice was harsh and Rosalie jumped. Victoria Dickinson and Bree Tanner started giggling. Rosalie blushed, then drew herself up very tall and pretended to ignore them. She stepped into her accustomed position at the head of the class. She sensed Vera falling into place behind her. "What are we doing?" Rosalie whispered through clenched teeth without turning around. She hadn't been paying attention. She had no idea what step was next.
"Four chaines, four piques," Vera prompted in a whisper. "Or maybe it was the other way around," she said uncertainly.
Rosalie nodded. She could figure it out. As the tinny strains of Tchaikovsky crackled out of the small tape recorder on the piano, she pointed her right foot in preparation. Just hearing Swan Lake did something to Rosalie. This might be the last moment of the lass ballet class she'd ever take, and though she was aching to shout and scream and cry, she was determined to make this last dance her best. She wanted to show Miss Young just how good she really was. She'll be sorry, Rosalie thought, taking several quick gulps of dry air and stifling the urge to cry. Pique and chaine turns were something she was very good at. She forced everything out of her mind and abandoned herself to the fiery rhythm of the music.
She waited two measures, then sprang strongly onto her right toe. She spun around quickly like a top: one, two, three, four times. In spite of her mood, a joyous smile came to her lips as she sped across the floor. For a moment Rosalie forgot about crying and Miss Young, and the dreadful interview looming ahead, and just danced. With every step Rosalie took she felt more buoyant, as if she were made of light and air, not sweaty flesh and blood.
Ten minutes later Rosalie walked into the office and wanted to die on the spot. Miss Young stood in the corner of the cramped, cluttered room with her back to Rosalie. But Rosalie didn't have to see her teacher's face to know this wasn't going to be a friendly rap session. The ex-ballerina's body language gave her away: her long back was tense, her shoulders hunched up. The way she was standing spoke louder than any words: whatever Emily Young had to say to Rosalie, it was bad news.
Rosalie rested one hand on the back of a chair and whispered, "Miss Young? I'm here." Her voice was almost swallowed up the by the drone of an ancient air conditioner.
"Sit down." Without bothering to turn around, Emily Young gestured to the chair. She shifted a pile of records from one side of the desk to the other.
Rosalie obediently sank down into the roomy leather chair. Out of habit she tugged on her leg warmers and draped a sweater over her shoulders.
Sitting in air-conditioning after such an intense workout was bad for her muscles. Rosalie wondered vaguely why she still cared. Behind her the high, childish voices of the eight- and nine-year-olds filled the studio. Beginner class was about to start. Rosalie shifted restlessly in her seat. Inwardly she pleaded for her teacher to be quick and get the whole awful mess over with. To get her attention, Rosalie cleared her throat.
Miss Young walked behind Rosalie and closed the office door, abruptly shutting out the warmth and the sound of the children coming from the sunny studio. The tiny office seemed very dim by comparison, and icy cold. Rosalie pulled her sweater more tightly around her shoulders, and knotted the sleeves together in the front, glad to have something to do with her hands.
Pushing aside a half-sewn red tutu, Emily Young finally turned around. She perched herself on the edge of the desk and picked up a container of cold coffee. She took a sip before looking directly at Rosalie. When she finally met Rosalie's frightened glance, her dark eyes softened.
"Remember my friend Leah Clearwater and her partner Seth Clearwater?"
Rosalie nodded. "You mean the two Bay Area Ballet soloists who came to our recital last May?" she asked in a puzzled voice.
"Yes." Miss Young took a deep breath. She looked down at her long slender hands and twirled the narrow gold wedding band she wore on her left ring finger. She gnawed her lip and seemed lost in thought. Rosalie felt as if she were about to burst. Why didn't Miss Young just come out and tell her to quit dancing? She'd rather hear the bad news all at once than have her teacher beat around the bush like this. She clutched the arms of her chair very tightly and had just mustered up the courage to say that, when Miss Young continued. "Yes, they came to our recital and they liked it very much." She stood up and tugged down the back of the short black ballet skirt she wore for teaching. She walked over to the narrow window that looked out over the dirty backyard and peered through the cracked pane. After an excruciating moment she turned around. Her arms were folded across her chest. Though she was smiling, she still looked sad.
"They were very impressed with the concert. Particularly you, Rosalie."
"They were?" Rosalie gulped. For a moment she actually felt dizzy with relief. A faint ray of hope stirred inside her.
Miss Young reached up over the window and flicked off the air conditioner. The room settled into silence. "It's too cold in here," she said absently, pulling a black shawl off the coat rack. She shrugged it around her narrow shoulders and went on.
"The point is, I invited them to the concert to get a strong second opinion-about you and your future. I had thought of waiting until January for this, but they were impressed enough to suggest that you go up to audition for entrance to the San Francisco Ballet Academy this fall."
"Audition?" Rosalie repeated incredulously. "You mean-you-they-think I could get into the Academy? This fall?" Her hands started shaking. She clasped them together and willed her heart to stop pounding. A second ago she had been sure her dream of being a dancer was dashed, over before she'd even gotten a chance to prove herself. Now she was about to be given the opportunity to try out for one of the top schools in the country, a school whose graduates almost always moved on into other respected ballet companies, if not the Bay Area Ballet itself. Rosalie suddenly didn't know if she was going to burst into laughter or tears.
"I think you stand a good chance of getting into the school. So does Leah. They usually take only ten new girls at a time, but this year they have room for fifteen."
"Out of how many?" Rosalie asked.
"Over a hundred," Miss Young replied.
Rosalie's eyes grew big. "A hundred?" she repeated in astonishment. "Oh, Miss Young," she said shaking her head back and forth. "Why would anyone pick me out of a hundred other girls?"
"Because you're gifted," Miss Young responded instantly.
Rosalie blushed, feeling awkward in the face of such a direct compliment. Until this summer Miss Young had always treated her as if she were special, but she had never said as much before. Rosalie felt incredibly happy and very proud.
Miss Young continued, a warning note in her voice. "But as we all know, being gifted isn't always enough." After a pause she asked, "So, do you want to go ahead with it?"
Rosalie stared at her teacher in disbelief. "Do I want to audition?" She started to laugh. "Are you kidding?" She sprang to her feet and threw her arms around her teacher's neck. "Oh, Miss Young, I want to audition and go to that school more than anything in the world."
Emily returned her hug warmly, then pushed her away, holding her at arm's length. Her own eyes filled as she said, "You've grown so much over the past few months. It's hard to believe you once one of those babies out there." She gestured with her head toward the studio. "You are beginning to look like a real ballerina, Rosalie." She gazed at Rosalie a long moment. "I hate to lose you," she said wistfully, "but I'm afraid if you're to seriously consider a dance career, it's time for you to move on. I've taught you all I can here."
Emily gave her head an annoyed shake. "Listen to me," the tight-lipped teacher said, suddenly embarrassed by her display of emotion. She dropped her hands from Rosalie's shoulders and continued brusquely. "Well, you'll have little enough to hug me about between now and next weekend. You're not going to love me once we start work on your audition program."
"Next weekend!" Rosalie shrieked. Her hands flew up to her head and she shook it back and forth trying to make the words she just heard go away. "You can't mean that. The audition isn't next weekend."
Miss Young nodded. "It is. School starts in two weeks. The Ballet Academy operates on the usual school year schedule. If you get in, you'll have a couple of days to come back here and pack your clothes before going back to begin classes."
"But-" Rosalie paced over to the window and back again. She looked at Miss Young with wide and frightened eyes. "I-I'm not ready. I mean, what do I have to do to audition?" she asked, sitting in the chair with a defeated thump.
"Take a class, then do a variation. That's all." Miss Young struggled to keep a smile off her face. "You're ready for the class. I've been giving you the same level class you'll take from Madame Newton. for the audition. And you can do the same variation from Sleeping Beauty you did at the recital."
Rosalie stared at her teacher and slowly a look of understanding crossed her face. "That's why you yelled at me all summer, isn't it? You were trying to get me ready for this." Rosalie suddenly felt awful for all the terrible things she had thought about Miss Young, when all along her beloved teacher had only been trying to help her, prepare her for the future of her dreams. "I thought you were going to tell me I shouldn't dance anymore."
A pained expression crossed the teacher's high cheek-boned face. "I'm sorry I gave you that idea," she said. "I knew I was upsetting you, that I was pushing you very, very hard. It must have seemed unfair at times..."
Rosalie shifted uncomfortably as her teacher went on.
"But I had to see how exactly how far you could come in a couple of short months. To see if you were really ready-technically and psychologically."
"But Jessica was ready a whole year before me!" Rosalie burst out, then instantly wanted to take back her words. It sounded so petty, so silly, envying Jessica, now that her own chance had come.
"Jessica's different from you. She's the perfect type of dancer for the New York City Ballet, a real Balanchine dancer if I've ever seen one. But she's not as classical as-" Miss Young broke off and resumed in a sterner tone. "Jessica is none of your business right now. No other dancer is. Do you hear me? All you have to pay attention to this next week is your own dancing. And when you get to those auditions, I want you to remember that. No one, nothing else will exist for you. No matter what happens."
Rosalie had never heard Miss Young sound so fierce before. She nodded in agreement even though she wasn't sure she understood.
Miss Young sighed again and began gathering some papers off her desk. "But I'm sorry if I undermined your confidence." She sounded worried. "I just want you to realize that the Academy is a very competitive place. If you do get in, this summer's classes are going to seem like child's play. I'm not half as demanding as Amanda Newton." Miss Young gripped Rosalie's shoulder firmly and said in a clear no-nonsense voice, "But I never meant to have you doubt your ability to dance. You are a born dancer, Rosalie. And no matter what happens to you, never, ever doubt that one minute."
Her hand dropped from Rosalie's shoulder, and she glanced over at the wall. Rosalie followed her gaze. Her eyes rested on the framed photo of Miss Young dancing the bluebird with a famous male dancer. The picture was over twenty years old now, and Emily Young had left American Ballet Theatre shortly after the photo was taken. An injury, followed the desire to have children, had shortened her promising career. Rosalie had always wondered if Miss Young regretted her decision to marry, have a family, and move to this dry, dusty California town, where her husband owned a prosperous artichoke farm. Teaching local kids ballet, tap, and drama seemed a far cry from dancing on the stage at New York's Metropolitan Opera House. It was a decision Rosalie knew in her heart she would never have made.
Miss Young cleared her throat and continued. "The dance world is a very difficult one. Talent counts for a lot. Don't get me wrong. But at your audition there will be plenty of girls just as good as you. I think you'll make it, but you may not."
Rosalie's high forehead creased in a frown. The possibility of not getting in was too awful to think about.
"But if you do make the Academy, and graduate, you'll be lucky if you get into the corps of a regional company. And luckier still if you ever get to dance a solo role, let alone a lead."
Rosalie's face fell. The teacher reached out and affectionately tucked a stray wisp of blond hair behind Rosalie's ear. "But listen to me, Rosalie. Even dancing in a corps in a drafty school auditorium in the middle of Alaska is worth everything. It's the chance to preform and share your gift with people who love the beauty of the dance. So you see, if you don't believe it is worth it, then you should stop dancing now."
"Nothing could make me stop dancing now!" Rosalie responded vehemently.
Miss Young smiled. "I know, Rosalie." She checked her watch. "Well, you may not be willing to stop dancing, but I have to get those kids out there started." She grabbed a tape from her desk, and added, "So we start tomorrow. I want to see you here at ten A.M. We'll work out a detailed schedule of rehearsals then, but be prepared to work into the evening at least a couple of nights. I want you to talk to your mother tonight and get her okay. Here are the particulars about the school." She handed Rosalie a catalog and a batch of forms.
"Oh, she'll say okay," Rosalie declared, knowing nothing in the world could keep her from the audition.