Page 11 of In Shadows We Dance

“You’re good at pretending. At playing the quiet, forgettable girl. But that’s not really you, is it?”

She says nothing, but her breathing picks up, shallow and fast. I tap my pen against her chair leg, a slow steady rhythm designed to unnerve her, while she struggles to keep her focus on the teacher.

“I wonder what it would take.” Another tap. “What would make you stop pretending?”

She angles herself away from my voice. As ifthatcan block me out. It only makes me lean closer.

“What are you hiding from, I wonder?” My voice drops to a silky murmur. “Or should I askwho?”

Her pen slips, creating a jagged line across her notes, and her entire body tenses, but she doesn’t look back at me.

Perfect.

“Your father seems very …protective.” I time the words carefully, watching how they land. “Always waiting by the window when you come home. Always watching.”

A tiny gasp escapes her, quickly stifled.

Interesting.

I press my advantage, lowering my voice more. “Does heknow about your dancing? About how alive you become when you think no one is watching?”

The pen snaps in her grip, ink spreading across her fingers. She stares at the mess. The teacher drones on, oblivious, his words drowned out by the sound of her shallow breaths.

“Careful there.” I’m close enough now that my breath stirs the fine hairs at the nape of her neck. “You’re making a mess.”

She fumbles for a tissue, trying to clean the ink from her skin, her movements jerky. I give her a moment, count the seconds until her shoulders start to relax, then trace my pen up her spine, one vertebra at a time.

“You know what intrigues me?” I drag the pen back down. “How someone who dances with such confidence can spend so much time trying to disappear.”

Her fingers tighten around the tissue.

“Tell me,” I continue, tapping the pen against her shoulder blade. “Do you practice that in the mirror? The way you fold yourself smaller, and keep your eyes down? Or did daddy dearest teach you that?”

Her breath hitches. It’s slight, barely noticeable, but I catch it, and store it away, a detail for examination later.

The teacher turns to write something on the board, and I take the opportunity to kick her chair harder this time. She braces herself, her notebook sliding across the desk. She scrambles to catch it, her movements frantic.

“Clumsy.” I smile, even though she can’t see me. “Not like you are in the studio. There, you’re …” I pause, letting the tension build while she waits for what I might say. “You’re graceful. Passionate.Free.”

Her pen barely moves now, her notes forgotten. I wait, let her think she has a moment’s peace, then hook my foot around her chair leg, dragging it back just an inch.

A small gasp escapes her.

Victory.

“I especially liked that turn sequence you were working on yesterday.” My tone is conversational, light, like I haven’t just pulled her closer. “The one you kept repeating. Over and over. Never quite perfect enough, was it?”

Her pen stills completely.

“You spent twenty minutes just on that one move. Trying to get it right.”

This time when she inhales, it’s unsteady.Scared. She’s realizing exactly how much I’ve seen.

I press my foot against the back of her chair, not enough to move it, just enough to remind her I’m still here. That I can touch her whenever I want.

“Want to know what else I’ve noticed?”

She shakes her head, the tiniest movement. The first direct response she’s given me.

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