Page 112 of Teach Me to Fly

My leotard’s mostly on, the sheer mesh overlay unzipped in the back and bunched around my hips. I’m still barefoot, my pointe shoes beside me—ribbons freshly sewn, toe boxes softened just enough. My thighs are covered in faint marks, but I don’t feel the need to hide them tonight. I’ve stopped apologizing for what helped me survive.

Tonight needs to mean something.

I’m brushing on mascara when I catch the reflection ofa tall frame, dark hair pulled into a high bun, brows slightly furrowed behind me, and I freeze.

Wendy hovers awkwardly, like she’s not sure whether to stay or run. Our eyes meet in the mirror, and for a second neither of us says anything. She opens her mouth, then closes it, then crosses her arms like she’s trying to hold herself together.

“I just—” Her voice cracks a little. “I have something I want to say.”

I turn slightly; mascara wand paused midair. “Okay.”

She looks at me, then down at the floor, then back up, gathering the nerve. “I’ve been awful to you, and I know that. I was… jealous, and pissed off, and I felt like I had something to prove. So, I created this story in my head where you were the problem.”

The word hangs there between us, heavier than I expected.

“I shouldn’t have said all the horrible things I did,” she adds, quieter this time. “None of it was true, and I’m sorry.”

I set the mascara down gently on the vanity and stand up, offering her a small smile as I extend my hand to her. She hesitates, then reaches out, but pauses when her eyes catch on my forearm where my mesh sleeve has slipped up slightly. Her eyes land on the scars, some faded while others are still pink and healing. She flinches, just a little, like it finally clicks for her that I’m not just drama or trauma. I’m a person who’s been trying to survive.

I keep my voice gentle as her gaze lifts to mine again. “I appreciate the apology. And… I wanted to thank you for what you did at the gala.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” she says quickly, her voice defensive even now.

I laugh softly. “I know.”

Her cheeks flush a deep pink, and she immediately glances away like she hates that she’s blushing. “I should, um… go finish my makeup.”

I nod. “Okay.”

She spins on her heel and all but scurries off, mumbling something under her breath. I watch her disappear into the row of mirrors and I half-smile, shaking my head as I sit back down and glance at my reflection again. For the first time in a while, I don’t hate the girl looking back at me.

Backstage is hummingwith a tension that coils in my gut and makes my lungs feel too tight. The lights are low behind the curtains, and the stage crew moves in the shadows, quiet and focused. I stand just out of view of the stage, my hand locked tightly with Lando’s, both our eyes shut as we take one last second to ground ourselves.

“Say it,” he whispers.

I nod, swallowing around the knot in my throat.

“We are ready.”

“We are powerful.”

“We are art.”

“And we’re going to fucking destroy this stage,” he finishes fiercely.

We exhale together, squeezing each other’s hands once more. It’s a ritual we used to do back in school before every big performance. Back when we had dreams bigger than our fears. I take a deep, steadying breath, but pause when I feel a presence beside us.

“Seriously?” Lando mutters, and I open my eyes to find Reign standing next to us, dressed in his costume.

His platinum hair is slicked back, and that signaturesmirk—the one that makes my stomach dip—is already tugging at his lips. My breath catches embarrassingly loud in my throat and his smirk grows because he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Lando doesn’t even pretend to be mad. He just rolls his eyes with a smirk of his own. “All it took was two seconds, and you’re already melting.”

“I’m not melting,” I mutter under my breath, though my skin’s already flushing.

“Right,” he deadpans.

His gaze shifts and lights up when he sees Terry across the stage, waving at him. “Got to go,” Lando says, giving my hand a final squeeze. “Be amazing out there.”

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