Page 69 of Pages of Amber

“You do understand I also have controlling shares in Fleur Elysian and I will buy more if I have to push this production myself,” her mother continued. The sharp click of her heels echoed against the tile as she paced.

One. Two. Three. Pause.

One. Two. Three. Pause.

“Then don’t make me do this the hard way, Helena. No, you listen. More than anyone, you can understand how important it is that she is part of this. This was the very same kind of production that launched us into our professional careers.” Her mother paused then scoffed. “Don’t give me that nonsense. It doesn’t matter that she’s missed the audition. You’ve seen her dance the part yourself. You were eager enough to defend her when the performance was horrible. At least now she’s made some improvement. Are you the Director there or not? No one has the right to question you! For god sakes, Helena. Amber will be in that production as Kitri or so help me.”

Her mom fell into silence, and the goosebumps spread more as Amber listened. Scared that Director Meusall would allow her to dance the part. Scared that she wouldn’t.

“I mean, sure. The doctor said a few weeks off her ankle and such but we are dancers, Helena. We dance through the pain… Yes, she will dance as perfectly as if she’d never sprained the ankle. I don’t even understand why she would do this to herself at this moment…She’s my daughter, Helena. I don’t need parenting advice from you. She will dance because I said so.” An audible gasp. Her mother was silent for several minutes. “Helena, don’t you dare… I will come down to that theatre and you don’t want that. Helena!”

Angry snarls rent the air for a few seconds. The clatter of plastic against glass made Amber jump, her back jarring the cold wall. The room remained silent, then a sigh, followed by the swish of material as her mother sank into the sofa.

“Why do you ruin everything I do?” The question came in a whisper.

Amber gripped her knees till they turned white. Her ankle protested, throbbing along with the organ in her chest. Her throat clogged again. She was tired of how easily the tears came. She was tired of the pain. She was tired of being the disappointment her mother always said she was.

As quietly as she could, Amber moved away from the wall. Her back ached as she crawled away from her hiding spot beside the living room doors. She had been bent over for longer than she thought or out of practice from stretching since she hadn’t exercised or danced in a week.

She hobbled to the staircase, keeping her weight off her right foot as much as she could. Dottie stepped out of the kitchen when her hands clutched the rail. She smiled, her gaze tender on Amber. “Dinner’s ready. Are you going to eat in your room again?”

She shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”

Dottie’s smile didn’t fall but the edges tightened. “Doctor Roberts gave strict orders that you eat better and take your meds. Both for your body and your injury.”

Yes, Doctor Roberts had stressed that. In fact, he had been near his wit’s end when he took a full checkup on Amber and found her calorie levels dangerously low. The doctor had insisted on plenty of rest and a full diet, as least for the next week. The former was easy. The school had processed her two-week sick leave immediately after the school’s doctor had first checked her, then Doctor Roberts had confirmed the prognosis at her mother’s demand.

The latter instruction hadn’t gone down well with her mother, however. A ballerina couldn’t be enjoying a full diet, breakfast till dinner, when she had an important audition and performance coming up. Doctor Roberts had gotten red in the face at her mother’s argument. Concluding his judgment, he had banned Amber from going to the audition. Any strain on her ankle would only further the sprain into a likely ligament tear. She wasn’t allowed near the theatre or the dance room for the next two weeks.

It had been an adjustment being locked in the house for so long. Dottie was always eager to keep her company but Amber wanted her space. This was the first time in a few days she had ventured beyond her bedroom and the kitchen for ice. She wanted nothing more than to hide out again. But Dottie was still looking at her, worry etched on her elderly face. Amber lowered her eyes. It sat on the tip of her tongue to tell Dottie to stop worrying about her. She didn’t deserve it.

“I’ll eat later.”

“Before your medication time, yes?”

“Sure.” She escaped before Dottie could ask her anything else. In her room, the carpet beneath her feet was a little reprieve on her ankle, the softness making it easier for her to step across the room.

Her phone rested on her reading table along with the literature assignment she had never submitted. Another reminder of her failure. Amber picked the bundle of papers, her hands moving across the title page. A wave of sadness rocked her as she was reminded of all the library sessions they’d had over the past few weeks. Emmett throwing his head back in laughter and getting shushed by Mrs. Filch repeatedly. Evelyn complaining about her assignments, then turning to Noah to beg him to answer them. Her puppy dog eyes always got to him. Noah had never complained though. He’d simply roll his eyes, drag her notebook to himself and start on it. He was selfless when it came to those he cared about. A week ago, she could have said she was one of them. Until she had pushed him away.

The papers crinkled as her grip tightened. She had let her phone die when their messages started coming in. Amber had been too ashamed to answer them, too deep in the pain she had hidden for so long. They didn’t need to see the mess she really was. Amber pushed away from the table. Her hand hovered over the bin near her desk, the papers clutched in her grip. Her hands shook. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t throw away hers and Noah’s hard work, or the memories she had made along the way. This silly project had brought her and Noah together. If it was the last she had of him, she’d rather keep that reminder. With a sigh, she opened one of the drawers and dropped the project in.

She stared at the pointe shoes, warnings running through her head.

Don’t do it.

Your ankle isn’t healed yet.

It’s not worth it to hurt yourself more.

Put the shoes away.

She didn’t listen to any of them.

Her ankle began to throb as she tied the ribbons, as though knowing the pain she was about to inflict.

The music played from the speaker, low and somber so as not to invite attention to the studio. She started with a variation she knew, but could barely keep on her toes. Every twist and turn sent pain flaring through her toes, her ankle, her calves. A realization struck her as she stumbled gracelessly across the hardwood floor. She hadn’t stretched before she started dancing.

Was there anything she could do right? Why was she always a failure? Why did she constantly find ways to disappoint herself and others?

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