I haven't been told someone loves me in almost six years. As depressing as it sounds, I don't really crave it anymore. I don't think I'd really want to hear it from my classmates or my teachers. It's just something that no longer happens. I just want to study and learn to be a professional ballerina. That has become a bit harder with the most recent teaching addition at the academy; one of my old classmates, Fakir Andor.
Ever since Fakir began teaching our intermediate ballet courses, Lilie, who is one of my few friends, along with almost every other girl in his class has been absolutely dreaming of being 'his one and only'. It isn't much of a surprise, though. Half the girls in the class have been falling to their knees just to get him to notice them for a brief second. My bones and muscles start to ache and I lean my head onto Pique's shoulder. Pique and Lilie are the only people who I genuinely care about in this place.
Pique's dark hair gleams with the purplish hues in the soft morning light let in through the studio windows. She had managed to subtly dye it a few weeks back, and no one has noticed still. Lilie trots over, her pink unitard holding her body tightly, allowing every part of her to be seen rather well. Both Pique and Lilie had grown into gorgeous seventeen year olds with well developed chests and hips, while I somehow managed to stagnate puberty at twelve.
With Pique practically dragging me from the studio, Lilie follows behind us even though her eyes don't leave Fakir. How innocent, I think to myself, Someone as hopelessly romantic can fall for a guy as brash as him. I wipe my brow, catching a glance at his adult features. He has aged gracefully, though I shouldn't have expected otherwise. It has only been four years; narrow and dark juniper eyes, a towering frame held nimble by slim and muscular legs, brown hair that pulled back nicely into a long ponytail. We catch eyes, although it is very brief and he seems practically disgusted by me before I look back at my duo of friends. His stare still lingers uncomfortably behind me even as I leave.
"Geez, Fakir sure is an asshole, isn't he?" Pique chuckles, her voice velvety. Lilie can't help but swoon at the mention of his name, though this makes Pique playfully nudge Lilie's arm, attempting to pull her out of her head.
"I think I could be able to satisfy him. Besides, have you seen the way he dances? So full of angst..." Lilie seems to dwell her eyes on him as he leaves the class, his usual groupies flickering around him. Her eyes move back to us, still seemingly love struck.
"He's just so uptight. Maybe he should learn that not everyone can perform such complex moves quite yet. I mean, we're in our second year, we've barely finished learning grande jeté. It's just an intermediate class, for Christ's sake," Pique adds, moving toward the doors into the dorm hall.
"Yeah, I honestly can't say I appreciate his perfectionism on us. I get that he wants our best, but it's hard on us." Lilie continues to affectionately coo over Fakir without even acknowledging our points. Pique just rolls her eyes, still smirking at Lilie's adorable comments.
Throughout the grounds, there is the echoing rumor that girls on campus have been going missing. I can only hear inklings of whispered conversations, but I know the rumors revolve mostly around trafficking. I shudder at the very idea that someone could take another person against their will and just sell them. But then the conversation arises of which ones chose to leave? Were girls actually even missing from the campus, or is it just hearsay? It's something I can't help but think about for far too long, and it makes me noticeably wither, prompting both Pique and Lilie to lighten the mood with idle girl chatter, both of them discussing beautiful ballerinas and dances said to be performing locally soon. We continue to chatter until we make it to our own respective rooms.
I heave a sigh, realizing how dirty I feel. Sweat and grime dripping down my torso as I stretch myself. I think over if I have the confidence to go into the dorm showers after the lesson. It was always uncomfortable having other people look at me nude while I wash off. But I also consider the last time I showered.
I grab my shower bag from its place in the closet, and trek downstairs. 'Student Showers' is etched into the hardwood door. I can hear the giggling of my classmates from the other side. I breathe in deeply, before cautiously opening the door and slipping in nervously. It feels like everyone is subtly judging me as I walk in. It's just the changing room, and no one is minding me, but I still can't shake my nerves. I start stripping down, looking around. Everyone else is so much more developed than me. Larger breasts, more defined hips, and most importantly, much taller than me. I was only about four feet, ten inches compared to the gorgeous five foot, eight inches most girls stand at. I place everything that isn't for showering in my designated locker, snapping it shut as I wrap a towel over my body, entering into the showers.
Inside I felt the steam race across my body, as I stare across the sea of steam and naked women showering and chattering amongst themselves. I nervously pace through the rows of private showers, finding an empty one and slipping in. I slide the shower curtain and hang the towel on the designated hook, and turn the water on, only to be blasted with cold water. A high pitched squeal escapes my lips, which causes a small burst of laughter throughout the chamber of girls. I almost crumble from the sheer embarrassment. My hands quake as I finally step into the scalding hot water, starting to wash my nymphette frame. I let my long hair fall down to my waist, soaking it with shampoo and conditioner, thoroughly scrubbing it.
My hands move down to my thighs and I freeze. I breathe deeply, and scrub my torso instead. I don't want to touch there while I'm nervous. It'd just make me even more on edge than I already am. Shaving was easy, thankfully. I make sure every inch of myself is smooth. I turn the shower off quickly and throw my towel back around myself, before drying everything as thoroughly as I could. I bolt into the changing room, and throw my robe on over my nymph-like nudity. I grab my shower bag and run to my dorm room as quickly as I can.
Slipping into my private dorm, I feel the panic finally settle in my throat. My cheeks finally stop heating up and the anxiety has finally settled. I pull off my robe and stand naked against my locked door, blinds tightly drawn so no one can see my embarrassing body. As I walk to my closet for a dry outfit, I decide to throw on a sundress. It was easy, flowy, and made me look more mature than I am. I open my blinds and open the window, allowing pleasant sunshine inside to kiss my deprived bedroom. I listen to the soft chatter of birds, laying out their usual seed on my windowsill; the birds had been fed this morning, and lunch was looming ever so closely for both them and myself. As soon as their food hit the plaster, I watch as a number of the colorful avians flutter to me. I grin, continuing to lay out more seeds for them. A small yellow bird places herself on my nightstand, staring politely up at me.
"Miss Canary!" I gleefully exclaim to her, holding out my finger for her to perch. "How are you? Are the hatchlings doing well?" The bird happily chirps, her talons gently clutching my pointer finger.
I continue my conversation with Miss Canary, happily knowing I'm making up what she's saying so that I can love her even more. I feel her talons gently lift off, and her wings spanning bigger. I help push her out the window, watching as her wings cut the air, only barely taking a break to push herself up again. The birds are well fed now, and my job is seemingly over with until dinner rolls around. I'm honestly surprised none of the birds I care for are overweight and lethargic. Maybe it's the constant exercise of breezing through the air, or maybe it's just because they don't expect the food. Whatever the reason, it's still baffling.
A loud and unexpected knock at my door causes me to jump, almost out my window, though I manage to catch myself. It's probably Pique and Lilie, I think to myself. It is almost lunch hour, so the thought isn't entirely void of reason that they'd want to walk and sit together. I brisk up to my door, whipping it open and I realize I had the wrong idea entirely. Fakir looms over me like a tree, his demeanor a bit rustled and his body facing away from me.
"Oh, Fakir. What are you-" I begin, though Fakir is quick to cut my words.
"You're failing your current lessons. I would like to help you get back on track. Meet me in the ballet hall in ten minutes." He growls, not even looking at me and in a moment's notice, without a response, left for the ballet hall. A bit shaken, I continue to look down the hallway to make sure what happened wasn't just some odd hallucination. Sure enough, his backside was turned towards me as he suavely walks down the hallway. I step back inside my room, and realize he's not joking. I then throw off my sundress, put on my unitard, my hair in a bun, my feet in my ballet slippers, and begin following after him.
Sprinting out of my room, I try to zoom past every person, narrowly missing everyone, and tripping over, not surprisingly, nothing. I manage to tumble, scraping both my knees to the point of bleeding, but brush it off. I swiftly stand up again and begin running again. My knees still beat with pain. I feel my time slowly ticking away, and the sweat dripping down my face is no help to my already blurry sight.
As soon as I enter the building, I curve hard into the door and practically throw it off the hinges, causing the three other failing students to be taken aback, while Fakir is standing, totally unsurprised at my flamboyant entrance. I beam at my ability to enter class on time, even if it is a remedial class. Fakir holds his head down, assigning me a place to stand next to a girl who seems to be watching Fakir with utter bliss.
Geez, I think to myself, I didn't realize how many girls wanted Fakir. Almost all girls, aside from myself, are giving Fakir at least a flirty stare. One girl starts doing her leg stretches in his direction; very open leg stretches on the ballet bar. I roll my eyes, trying to readjust my bun before the class begins. Pulling my leg onto the bar I begin stretching my sore muscles, which are still recovering from morning ballet and my swift kiss with the ground. My leg is only two-thirds of the way pulled up, though as Fakir is perusing past all of us, making sure we have proper form is what I'm assuming, he pushes me down a bit further on the bar in an attempt to make me cramp up. I, in a secure effort to make him think better of me, push myself further, even if it makes my scrapes bunch up and begin hurting. I close my eyes in a futile attempt to mask the pain. Fakir lightly raps on my shoulder with his knuckle. I open my eyes and gaze at him.
"You're bleeding. Stop stretching." Somehow, I hear a crack of actual concern in his voice through his muddled anger. I look back at my leg and notice a long red thread of blood from my scrape begin trickling toward my thigh. I squirm out of position, discomfort rising in my throat from the sight of blood.
Fakir forcibly sits me down, staring at both my knees and holding them with a gentle grip. He lets out a worried sigh, though his green eyes seem trained on warmth and gentleness. He stands, keeping a hand on my shoulder and ordering me to stay out while he strides out to the nurse. Sitting in my place, I already feel the glare of three angry girls on me. As soon as he is out of sight, the fellow ballerinas begin pestering me.
I recognize Antoinette as she approaches me, her burly figure held up by delicate legs. Her face is long and her hair is almost like brown fur; unkempt and tattered despite being kept nicely in a ponytail and bow. She leans down to me, hands on both hips, her thick frame pulling hard against her thin unitard; though even with that, she is very pretty, with flawless skin, soft brown eyes, and small perky lips. She was a large girl, but she was still attractive enough for boys to approach her.
But at this moment she did not seem interested in being friendly. The girls behind her seem to share the same tight lipped and unhappy expression. Their unitards share a little purple rim around the collar, and their buns seem to match in size. Twins, I realize.
"So, you think that just because Fakir talked to you more in freshman year, he'll want you more?" Antoinette barks, her lulling and almost motherly treatment seems to have left her from her first and second year. She seems more calculated and cold now.
"Uhh, I don't really know what you're talking about, Anty." My response is not the one what they want. Antoinette points at my knees, almost implying I fell on purpose. I raise an eyebrow, letting loose a soft chuckle.
"Do... Do you really think I would trip just to get Fakir to notice me..? You know I'm the queen of clumsiness, Anty." I try to raise my hands in confusion. One of the twins speaks up, her voice lower than I imagined coming from a girl like her.
"Girls will do anything to get guys to notice them! Especially guys like him." She seems as sour as her face looks. Before they can continue interrogating me, Fakirs footsteps come closer. All girls stood straight, rushing back to the positions they had been in before he had exited. Fakirs entrance immediately smooths out the girls moods, causing them to just stare and gush at him. He kneels down with a small first aid kit handy at his side.
"Everyone else, practice Temps De Poisson." His cold voice rings clear to the girls and I watch as they practice just as he asked. "As for you," his voice softens towards me, but not by much. Only the kind of softening you'd hear a scolding parent give a child when they fall. "I'm going to have to tend to your scrapes. While they're minor, I don't want the risk of infections and more bleeding." He opens the small medic box, retrieving from it a small bottle of some sort of disinfectant. Holding a rag to the opening of the unscrewed bottle, he tips it over quickly, allowing the liquid to spill over onto the rag before tipping it back up. He screws the cap back on, and informs me it may sting. I nod briefly.
We lock eyes for a split second and it's awkward. A sort of nostalgic awkward, but still awkward enough for it to be broken with a harsh sting to my knee. I cringe, my hands clamping shut and whimpering into my bitten lip.
"I know it hurts—girls, keep practicing. Try standing on point—but it'll be over within a minute." Fakir moves onto a fresh cloth, repeating the same process on my other knee. It only lasts a few more seconds, before he places two bandages on both knees.
"You'll be fine now. Just get back to lessons." He stands up, barely looking at me, and starts directing the individual students. I stand as well as I could before. They were just minor scrapes, after all; nothing seriously detrimental to my ability to perform. And so, I begin practicing with the other girls as we start our positions.
The remedial classes finish at the 1 o'clock bell with all of us sweating and panting heavily. Fakir is absolutely of the mindset that having all of us push ourselves to the edge will make us better. I hold onto the rail, eager to get some food in me. My stomach gurgles angrily. My ballet slipper barely exits the door before I realize that the lunch period has already ended. I groan, realizing I have to skip this lunch and suffer until dinner.
I stay behind in the class so I can practice my core exercises as Fakir procures a sack of food from his personal locker. He sits outside the class door, pulling open the cloth to reveal half a loaf of bread, two apples, and two portions of ham. My stomach howls even further, but I look away from his food, knowing it'll only make me hurt more. I continue with the instructions Fakir had given us during his lesson. I hold my feet on point with my hand on the bar, though the feeling of my large toe crushing under the pressure of my body still sends pins to my legs and hips. I bring my arm that isn't holding the bar above my head like a crescent moon. My legs keep wobbling. God this hurts, my thoughts seem to ramble on about the pain, before I let my other arm go, bringing it in the reverse position of my top arm.
Proudly holding the stance for at least five grueling seconds, I fall to the ground, my arms only barely catching my fall and preventing my second kiss being with the ballet studio floor. I sigh and bring myself up again, attempting the same thing, and only managing to fall again in the same way.
"Idiot..." I hear Fakir whisper to himself. He's watching and judging me now, his eyes burning into my back. I turn to him as I recover again. Pulling himself back into the room, he's obviously frustrated with me. I stand on my toes once more, trying the same thing again. My eyes close, trying to bear the pain of my toes being pressed so firmly into the wooden floor.
A moment passes, and I feel ready to fall, before two hands grab my waist and pull me back up. I look over my shoulder at Fakir whose eyes are distant, but very alert to me. He pulls me back up and starts repositioning my legs, my right in front of my left, along with pushing up on my stomach, sternly reminding me to tighten my core.
"Fakir, what are you doing?" He steps back from me in silence, motioning to proceed with what I was doing. I stand on point, my feet quivering, but my stance is full and bracing enough to where I know I won't fall. It's painful, but I can't fall over. At that, I start the routine I was given in class; step front, pirouette three times, stand en flat, balance en pointe, and lean forward with arms outstretched.
I return to my relaxed position, feet regaining feeling as they mesh with the floor holding me much better than before. I turn to Fakir, who has a hint of a smile across his lips. I beam brightly at him, crossing my way toward him. He stiffens, his hands grasping at his hips as he towers above me. Before words even wrap around my tongue, he pulls one of his ham portions out and holds it out to me, offering it without hesitation. I stare at it, unsure if this is a cruel joke or genuine kindness, from him, it's always been a game of chance.
"Are you sure..?" I prod at the meat, making sure it wasn't something else. It is, without a doubt, ham.
"Yeah. I'm not going to let you starve. I know you didn't have time to eat." He seems stoic, but his cheeks change into a shade darker. At that, I take the food, thanking him. He nods and lets me have his spare apple and a portion of his bread. As school mates, he absolutely hated me and would have cared less if I starved for days on end. Something, somehow, had changed in him. Right now I don't know what it is, but I'm glad that it changed him. Thanking him, he simply nods and grabs the remainder of his things and saunters to his dorm, I assume.
I sit outside the ballet hall, nibbling on all the food I was given, managing to cram it down before class starts. I know I'm going to regret that decision, but it's fine. As I lift myself from the ground, my bones give a satisfactory pop. Pique and Lilie approach me from halfway down the hall, Lilie giving a joyous wave with Pique holding her hips and giving a loving smile.
"What are you doing here so early, Ahiru? You're never this early to afternoon lessons," Lilie exclaims, taking my hands into hers and her golden curls bouncing around her porcelain face. I shrug, a bit flustered and uncomfortable with their sudden appearance but it's to be expected from them since they are better than me and always punctual.
"Oh, Fakir asked me to come down for remedial lessons." I can't lie to them, they'll see right through me into my tiny girlish heart. Both stare, Lilie holds my hands and squeezes tighter. Her eyes soften to me, and smiles resurface after a few seconds.
"Aw, poor little Ahiru! Always a little behind on her studies!" Lilie pulls me into a thrusting hug which sends me forward a bit too much, as though I'm a small child who's in constant need of reassurance. I hug back, knowing her too well to assume she'd honestly think of me as a baby. Pique chimes in, her brown eyes shimmering as she coos at me.
"At least Fakir is trying to help you." Pique pats my shoulder as Lilie releases her motherly embrace. Our trio makes our way into the room, waiting patiently for Mister Katt to arrive in class. We chat about mild things, books, birds. Somehow the conversation derails at the mention of the one guy who I have fallen truly in love with.
"Mytho has gotten pretty famous since he left," Lilie pipes up, her swoon reviving, but in favor of my interests. I feel a small grin tug at my mouth, a shy fumble of my fingers. Mytho is someone I've been pining over for five full years. He has a blossoming career as a professional ballerino, in magnificent productions for someone who is just barely 18. We had gone to see him in the nutcracker, and he was amazing.
"Yeah. He sure is amazing." A dreamy lull fills my voice. He's such a fantastic ballerino dancer, his glistening white hair that paled stars, snowy skin, and those captivating hazel eyes. How could anyone have resisted him? I tune out, thinking about that one time we spoke. It wasn't about much, just birds, weather, and his lessons. His voice was soft, almost like a songbird. I feel my cheeks flush thinking about how well he danced in the higher class. How light he looked, how dreamy his expression was. That boy seemed like he was always in a daydream.
"Yeah, didn't you hear? Him and Rue are getting married next weekend." My happy memory snaps in two. Feeling my muscles struggle to look at them, I hesitate to ask.
"Married? Where'd you hear that?" My face pales, fear sinking far into my stomach as Pique smooths herself to my side and raps her hand on my shoulder.
"Oh, Ahiru... it'll be okay. We know you liked him and all, but..." Lilie tries to console me, her fingers twirling a free strand of my hair.
Before words begin to escape my mouth, our teacher stalks his way into the class, abruptly closing our conversation. We turn to him, only just realizing a good three-fourths of the class is already here. We turn to face him, Pique and Lilie removing their hands and arms from me, but I still feel their comfort.
Our instructor, Mister Katt is a rather uncomfortable figure to be around. He's very tall and has a rather thick stomach, but his performances are always supportive of his body; very bottom-supportive exercises. His coarse body hair is almost everywhere, ever-present amounts always poking out of somewhere. His yellow eyes are always poised outside of the room, giving him a glossy stare during lessons. As the last trickle of students file into the room, the lesson begins.