Page 54 of Caged By Dance and Desire

Her lips twitched. “Yes, really.”

A private coaching session from her was worth more than—well, I’d say a week’s pay, but I wasn’t actually getting paid.

A bit giddy, I more or less skipped to the center of the room—aware some people might say I was too old for that behavior, butI was tired of being told what “age-appropriate” behavior was and was not for a woman.

When I danced, I was the Hasannah who was sixteen, and the Hasannah who, surrounded by dancers a decade younger, sometimes felt sixty. With Andrei, though. . .with him, I felt like a girl and a woman.

Cherished, protected, cosseted. Desired.

Also controlled and confined. There was always a dark side to the light.

I paused a moment to orient myself, and began to dance. Calling on the music in my head?—

“Stop.”

I halted immediately. Vargas strolled in front of me, hands clasped behind her back, the narrow-eyed look of concentration on her face we all feared.

“Twelve counts into the solo and I'm already bored.”

“It’s a good thing I’m not one of those sniveling little girls you mentioned.”

She pursed her lips. “You're not the best technical dancer, Hasannah. You haven't had the extensive training the others have.”

“No, Mistress. I dance from the heart.” That was kind of my thing, but it felt pretentious to say it aloud.

She lifted a brow, lowered it. “Then dance from the heart. From the first beat I should feel you. Begin again.”

I called on the slow simmer of satin in my blood and danced. . .she allowed me a full minute before calling another stop.

“What story are you trying to tell, what spell are you trying to weave? Beguile me.” She paused. “I've seen you dance with more soul on street corners.”

I suppressed the urge to pat myself down for stab wounds or ask when she’d seen me on street corners. “I wanted to create an arc, to build into a crescendo.”

“You are dancing for the High Lord. You have seven minutes. You don't have time to play those games. I know from experience that if you don't capture her attention in the first thirty seconds, you can kiss a soloist slot goodbye. This isn't the time to be clever, Hasannah.”

A small, unpleasant smile curved her lips. “Now begin again. Tell a story, spin a web, weave a spell.”

I inhaled, exhaled noisily, and glared at her. All right. No more nice ballerina.

Tell a story, spin a web, weave a spell.

I called the music in my mind. One. . .three. . .what was my story? A young girl who had everything. Not wealth, not fame, nothing fancy. But a loving home, a supportive community. Food and shelter and discipline. That girl had everything, but she wanted more.

As she grew, a chasm opened up inside her. An emptiness she constantly sought to fill, bewildering her parents, alienating parts of her community. And then the pain when the body she loved betrayed her.

Until finally one day, she understood. Her goal, her purpose. How pain could be transmuted into success.

And finally, she began to feed that gaping maw. Began to dance.

Four. . .seven. . .don’t strain on the jeté. . .

Spin a web. . .the girl would never be the best technical dancer. She didn't have the training, the years. Her body was shorter, thicker in the hip and chest, she lacked the natural grace and worked hard to make up for it with power and feeling. With determination and humility.

She understood her flaws and invited others to share in them with her.

She wasn't perfect. She wasn’t even kind. But what love was ever perfect, what pain single-edged? Who’s soul wasn't a patchwork of a million ragged pieces haphazardly sewn together. . .like this girl’s?

Four. . .five. . .ugh, that shoulder was flat. . .nine. . .ten. . .travel upstage and turn. . .

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