Page 6 of When Hearts Awaken

The best fucking ballerina.

My lungs heave out panting breaths as I slow down and stop. Forty-five turns. But the last three were too unstable. I need to work on that.

I walk to the corner of the room and dislodge the third floorboard from the wall. Biting my lip, I survey the items in the hiding place. A small metal box for things I’ve collected over the years—ballet ticket stubs, my first pair of pointe shoes, and the doll Mom gave me. I’ve always thought these items would give me luck if I store them here, hidden away in the lauded institution of dance.

Carefully, I take out the doll and twist the dial, watching the faded porcelain ballerina twirl, the gems on its tutu sparkling under the moonlight. A wistful longing tugs inside my chest as I think back to that day long ago at the Met Opera, when everything was different.

When I was different.

Blowing out a breath, I play a new song on my phone.

Now, it’s time forthechallenge. The one role I haven’t been able to master since I was sixteen because of what happened. The only role I’ve ever wanted to dance since I was ten. The role that’s a prerequisite for promotion to principal ballerina.

Odette, the white swan, typically danced by the same ballerina portraying the black swan.

Looming shadows flicker and twist against the walls as the chilly wind taunts the flames inside the lamps.

Closing my eyes, I will my battering heart to calm and my tensed muscles to relax. Tchaikovsky’s emotional music streams through the speakers. Placing my body into position, I wait for the starting point of Odette’s solo in Act II.

And I fly.

The evocative sweeps of the string instruments and the somber sounds of the oboe carry through the abandoned space as I dance in the company of the lonely moonlight.

Por de bras, développé, arabesque—I glide through the poses. I’m the graceful white swan I saw that magical day when I was ten. It’s my white feathers sparkling now, effervescent, luminous under the cloak of the night.

But, as it has been every single time in the past, the story shifts and the mood deteriorates. Instead of delicate movements, my limbs won’t cooperate. My muscles tense, but I push through. I persist.I’m the white swan. The fucking white swan.The frustrated motions come out stilted and sharp, nothing like the effortless poise of Odette. Nothing like the beautiful ballerina from all those years ago.

“Graceful, Taylor. Why do you dance like you’re angry at the world?”

“Gentle. You’re in love, but you’re afraid to lose it. Have youeverbeen in love?”

Madame Renoir’s voice rings in my head, chasing away the ethereal notes of Tchaikovsky’s music.

Love. What is love? It’s nothing but pain and betrayal. The first time I felt the emotion was when I watchedSwan Lakewith Mom.

The second time I came close to the elusive emotion was six years ago—well, that was when I realized how wrong I was.

Images of Camden barge through my consciousness—his light auburn hair reminding me of my favorite food, carrots; his boyish smile; the intensity in his green eyes when he told me he’d wait until I was ready to say the three little words back to him and to sleep with him for the first time because he knew I was a virgin then.

“I love you, Tay. I’m the luckiest guy on earth to be your boyfriend.”

Lies. Pathetic lies. Gut-wrenching pain I still feel today, many years later, especially after what happened. I remember the day he broke up with me vividly.

He stared at me with revulsion, his face flushed. “Youdisgustme.”

I recoiled in horror, tears welling in my eyes. “Camden… I w-was forced. I tried to stop them…I really did! I c-couldn’t m-move and—”

He curled his lips into a sneer. “You know, I saw you that night. I saw you with him…withthem.” He spit out the last word. “It didn’t look like you weren’t enjoying yourself.”

Betrayal punched a hole in my heart. I shook my head. I thought he was different. Different from Mom’s horrible rich ex-boyfriends who gave her black eyes and bruised lips. Camden said he loved me and I thought I was falling for him.

I thought I was safe because he was the sweet boy next door, not one of those rich assholes. He was the boy who shared the same ballet dreams as me.

“I just can’t look at you the same way ever again. You’re…ruined,” he gritted out.

I’m not fucking ruined, you asshole.

Angry at myself for thinking of the past, I dance harder, stretching my limbs higher and farther, making up for my lack of focus with effort. I ignore my aching muscles, the blistering pain of my swollen toes from cramming them into old pointe shoes—shoes I should’ve tossed a week ago, but fuck, they’re expensive to replace at the rate I go through them.

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