Page 2 of The Perfect Mistake

I hurry past a group of dancers stretching out. I don’t stop to talk to them. It wouldn’t surprise me if they saw this coming; if one of those girls in there might replace me…

For all the talk of us being a family, we’re a deeply dysfunctional one. I’ve seen what happens when ballerinas leave. Hugs are exchanged, we’ll need to keep in touch—you’re welcome back anytime spoken, but, inevitably, we never see the person who left again.

They disappear.

They might still live in the city, but they might as well have moved to a different country.

And the annoying thing is, walking like this, my hip doesn’t hurt at all. But as soon as I start to dance, as I stretch and kick, it will start to. Being a ballet dancer means being in pain, and I’ve pushed through my fair share over the years. This shouldn’t be any different. I should be able to overcome this just as easily as I’ve done before.

My failure feels like a knife through my chest.

I take the stairs instead of the elevator out of habit. Laziness is the enemy of perfection, drilled into me since I was a kid. Not that I need to now. I can be as lazy as I want. Moore’s offer of having a talk in six months when I’m healed feels mostly for show. I’ve rarely seen top-level professional ballerinas make a successful return from that long of a break. This sport, this art, is competitive to a fault. For every dancer that falls, there are three waiting to take their place.

I stop on the fourth floor. It’s reserved for the kids’ classes, and those don’t start until later in the day. The halls are deserted now. I walk past the open doors of empty studios. The smooth maple wood floors, the giant mirrors, and the barres.

Once upon a time, I was one of the kids that would soon fill up these rooms.

I walk into a dusty studio. It’s easy to remember this particular one. I’d spent an intense season dancing here with Madame Novik, the first teacher to make me cry. I had danced my little heart out in here at nine years old.

A glance in the mirror reveals my present. I’m neither short nor tall. Long black hair in a ponytail down my back. A leotard the same olive color as my skin, and a short lycra skirt made for movement. Tights. Pointe shoes.

Dark eyes and a flat mouth.

I can’t imagine never dancing here again. The thought won’t slot into my brain, a puzzle piece that won’t fit. I sway, watching my movements in the mirror. Lines, think about your lines. Keep your head up. Weight on the working leg. Rotate. Double-time. I spin and twist up en pointe, observing my reflection.

It feels good. It feels right. I know how to do this, regardless of what Moore and Antoine might have decided. It’s what I was born to do.

I dance toward the large windows in the back of the studio and the sunlight streaming in through them. It’s warm against my face. I pirouette, and pirouette again, spinning faster than I should without being properly warmed up.

I jump, and pain flares through my leg. I welcome it. The damn thing. Hurt me even more. This time I embrace it. I might as well blow the whole hip out if I can’t dance anymore. No need to be cautious any longer, to save my strengths for evening performances.

I don’t follow any choreography. I string together movements I know like the back of my hand, and feel the numbness give way to devastation.

There’s no music, but I feel like I can hear it all the same, like a fading melody drifting faintly through the studio. A few simple arabesques with brisés, movements that are ingrained in the very fibers of my muscles.

I dance faster. My legs extend, toes point, arms held tight with every muscle strained. Sweat starts to bead on my forehead, and the twinge in my hip grows stronger. Soon it’s impossible to ignore, to push away, to lock in the drawer where I keep most of my bodily aches.

But I don’t stop dancing.

Not when my body is begging me to cease. Not when my hip feels like it’s on fire. Maybe that’s what I’ve been doing wrong. I’ve been listening, when all I need to do is work through it. Push harder.

My cheeks feel wet, and my chest aches, but I don’t stop. Another pirouette and a kick. And another. And another.

There’s a knife-like pain in my right hip, and I falter halfway through the spin. My balance is off, and I hit the ground without any of the grace I’ve been told to always show.

The fall hurts, but not as much as my hip. And nothing throbs like the burning feeling inside my chest, the sensation that’s hot on my cheeks. I swipe them and find that I’m crying.

Heavy footsteps echo in the silent dance studio, and a hand lands on my shoulder.

“Isabel? Are you okay?”

The voice is familiar. I look up to see a man in a suit, looking down at me with a serious expression. His thick brown hair is cut short, his jaw clean-shaven, and his hazel eyes steely. Faint lines fan around his eyes and mar his forehead, but they only make him look more distinguished.

Surprise cuts clean through my pain. There’s no logical reason for him to be here. For his hand to be on my shoulder. This man doesn’t just show up in places. He’s one of the most important men in the city. He’s also my best friend’s older brother, fifteen years my senior.

“Alec?”

Alec

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