A/N: Once upon a time I had a boatload of stuff uploaded here…decided it was time to repost. The impulse also might have stemmed from a desperate wish to avoid studying…
Inhale. Force the oxygen into your unwilling lungs. Breathe deeper.
Slow down—gasping would be obvious. Uncouth. Not fitting of a queen.
Blink. Slower. Blink again.
Swallow. Command the knot in your throat that makes your eyes water and your stomach roil, away. Swallow again. Easier.
Nerves. Tamp them down. Queens do not vomit in public.
Chin up, head cocked coyly.
Suppress every urge to vacuum seal your palm to his so that he can never break you again. Gently. Clasp gently. Queens are delicate.
Purse your lips. Lightly. Smile. Smile better. Queens are always pleasant.
Smooth the creases around your eyes. Stop clenching your jaw. You are not in pain. Make eye contact. Make eye contact. He's staring right at you, look at hi—look at the band.
Tease him. Closer. Stand closer. Don't let your hand shake. Don't let your voice break. He won't break you with his eyes this time no matter how long he wants to stare holes in your neck.
Touch. Touch your hand to his shoulder, to his back, but don't feel.
Focus. Focus on something else.
Remember. His velvet voice lies. Remember who you are. Remember who you aren't. A queen is always appropriate, never indecent.
Don't bring it up. Casual. All is well.
A dance of illusions. A dance of delusions.
Happy King and Queen.
Focus.
Space between your bodies. Distance. More. Touch but do not feel.
Focus on something else. Look around you. A queen surveys her kingdom.
Don't feel.
Breathe.
See your opportunity. Don't feel. A queen always leaves them wanting.
Swallow.
Don't feel.
Remove your hands. Remove your right hand.
Don't look back. Move your feet. Slower. A queen never runs.
Sway your hips. More. Don't feel. Don't look back.
The fire lapping up the back of your neck is nothing.
His eyes do not follow you.
Focus.
Move your feet. Don't feel. Swallow. Blink. Inhale.
Alone in an empty hallway. You can gasp now.
The public sees this:
A young blonde with her entire life ahead of her
—privileged, gifted—
dances innocently
—intimately—
with her date on the dance floor.
Smiling. Always smiling. The smile never falters.
What life, what joy, what a dress.
Her date is attentive and they dance well together; a special surprise given the lack of practice between the two. If the couples standing near them feel the tension bend and fray between them, no one says a word. When the proper young lady steps back without hesitation to excuse herself from the floor and approach her friends, society's elder generation is impressed by her ramrod straight posture and confident, unhurried steps. The husbands discreetly admire the hugging dress and swing in her step. If her friends notice she blinks more than strictly necessary during their conversation, they chalk it up to the relentless lighting and complement her on her immaculate composure. If the staff catches sight of a debutante in a service hallway, hunched over and gulping air like a woman underwater, they roll their eyes and walk on. These twerps are just pretty young things with worries no deeper.
A/N: This was my attempt at deciphering what Jenny must have been thinking during the Cotillion dance scene with Nate. B/c if I was in that situation, I would've been going insane…comments/reviews are welcome!