Page 19 of Teach Me to Fly

He gestures toward a trio I don’t recognize—two girls and a guy, all lounging nearby.

“This is Quinn, Alfie’s long-suffering boyfriend,” Lando says, motioning to the guy with pink buzzed hair and a septum ring. He gives me a little salute.

“And that’s Sora and Jules, Willow and Max’s partners.”

Sora, in oversized sweats and flawless eyeliner, smiles and waves, while Jules, with her ginger curls and quiet energy, offers a soft “hey”.

“Angelique,” I say, offering a small wave. “Nice to meet you.”

“She’s the infamous one,” Alfie says, nudging Quinn. “The one I told you about who dipped from Big Apple.”

“Big Apple can suck it,” Willow mutters, then turns back to her stretch.

I laugh under my breath, and for a second, everything feels almost normal. Like I’ve always been here. The plan was always to join Imperium, but when my father died before my eighteenth birthday, I had no choice but to move to America under my mother’s care. And when I finally turned the legal age to return, I’d already landed a principal position at Big Apple, so it made little sense to come back.

We head to Studio B together; the group falling into a comfortable rhythm. The floor is cool as I claim a spot near the back, sitting down and stretching while the others talk about Swan Lake.

“I heard auditions are next week.”

“I bet Reign already picked Wendy as his partner.”

Wendy?

“I doubt he’ll be in this one. He hasn’t danced a production in almost a year.”

I keep quiet, folding into a forward bend, palms flat on the floor. No one knows the lead roles are already taken, and I’m not about to be the one to tell them. Suddenly, the atmosphere shifts and the murmurs die down as Reign walks in, dressed in black. His shirt is fitted, his sleeves pushed up, and on his arm is a girl.

She’s petite, with sharp cheekbones and smooth, luminous skin. Her long, inky hair is pulled into a slick high ponytail that swishes with every step. She wears a blood-red leotard, and a soft ballet wrap tied neatly at her waist, her legs in pristine white tights.

I notice how her hand rests on his arm, and how she smiles while she speaks to him. Something tightens in mychest. Of course he has a girlfriend now. I mean, he always could’ve had anyone he wanted, so why did I think he was single?

Maybe because I never dated anyone in the time that I’ve been gone.

Maybe because a part of me had hoped he’d do the same, even if he was the one that ghosted me.

Lando leans in and whispers out the side of his mouth, “You’re staring.”

I look away quickly, pretending I’m fascinated by the way my foot looks in a flexed stretch, my neck burning. “I was not.”

“You so were,” he whispers, like the smug little chaos fairy he is.

I keep my head down and reach for the barre, pretending the pressure building in my chest is from my calf muscles, not whatever the hell that just was. Forcing my focus back to my stretches, I press into a deep lunge, trying to shake off the static under my skin. But I can still feel his presence in the air surrounding me.

Curiosity wins out after a few minutes, and I look up one more time. Reign is on the other side of the room, one leg up on the barre, leaning into a stretch with intense, effortless control, but he’s not focused on his posture, or on Wendy. He’s looking at me. Dead-on. Eyes locked. My breath catches—a small, sharp inhale that feels like an internal scream. He doesn’t look away, so I do, my gaze snapping back to the floor, my heart thrumming behind my ribs.

The studio doors open seconds later, and I nearly sigh in relief as a woman walks in, tall and willowy, with long honey-brown hair cascading down her back and green eyes that scan the room warmly. She wears beige wide-leggedtrousers and a fitted black sleeveless top, moving with the grace of someone who doesn’t need to prove she belongs here because everyone already knows.

And rightfully so, she was Imperium’s biggest success. A prima ballerina that went big, travelled the world guest starring at various companies that paid exorbitant amounts of money to Imperium to borrow her. And once she retired as a dancer, Charlie offered her an instructor position.

She claps once, drawing the room to attention. “For any newcomers,” she says, her voice calm but confident, “welcome to Imperium. My name is Layla, and I’ll be your techniques instructor.”

Her gaze finds me in the crowd and softens as she gives me a small, encouraging smile and I nod back with a small smile of my own, but my insides are still tangled.

Layla begins the warm-up moments later, the energy in the room shifting as everyone removes their sweats and ties their hair into buns. Dancers silently fall into formation, heads bowed, bodies alert. There’s a hunger here that hums beneath the surface.

Layla walks us through a brutal series of pliés, tendus, dégagés, and battements. Her voice is calm, but her expectations are anything but. She corrects angles, demanding sharper articulation, and never lets a single bent wrist or lazy port de bras slip past her gaze. My muscles scream in protest halfway through, but I grit my teeth and push deeper, harder.

When she calls for adagios at the centre, I feel the shift in the air as everyone's postures straighten. This is where the actual competition begins. We move through a round, each combination testing my balance, control, and artistry. My legs and arms burn, but I keep going, sweat tricklingdown my spine until she finally signals the end of the session.

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