Page 29 of Teach Me to Fly

From the corner of my eye, I see Angelique freeze beside me. Her breath hitches and her spine locks straight.

“The lift?” she whispers, more to herself than anyone.

There it is again, her fear of a lift. Lifts should be muscle memory by now, so I don’t understand what has her so spooked.

Does she think I’ll drop her?

I step into position without speaking, waiting for her to join me. Her eyes search mine like she’s weighing something invisible, but then she crosses the floor, each step looking like it takes extreme amounts of effort.

When I hold out my hand, she places hers in mine, but there’s a tremor in her fingers again. Her touch is light, barely there, but I can still feel her hesitation all the way up my arm. Her body stays rigid, muscles coiled like they’re bracing for impact, and she looks away, jaw set like she’s trying to keep herself from falling apart.

I know I could ask Volkov to skip the lift today, but something about how terrified she is intrigues me, and Ineed to understand it. Not to push her past a line she isn’t ready for, but because whatever she’s carrying, it’s heavier than the choreography, and if I don’t figure out what it is she’s fighting so hard to hide, it could tear the whole production apart before we even begin.

It might even tear her apart.

“Ready?” I ask, and she nods, avoiding eye contact in our reflection.

The music begins, and we move, or at least we try to. Angelique’s timing is off from the first count, and her extensions falter, the lines of her body not quite holding, as though she’s dancing underwater. Her breaths come unevenly—too fast, then held too long—disrupting the natural rhythm as if she’s trying to match the music while fighting her own body. She’s worse here than she was in Layla’s class earlier.

I ease my hand to her arm, trying to guide her into the first sequence with just enough pressure to ground her, but she jerks at the contact, flinching so sharply I feel it down to my bones. I stop for half a second, uncertain, but she doesn’t. She barrels forward, like momentum is the only thing holding her upright. Still, I can feel the tremble in her frame, the way she’s barely keeping it together.

What the hell is going on with her?

When it’s time for the lift, I attempt to place my hands on her waist, but her whole body stiffens, recoiling before I can even touch her. Her eyes snap to mine in the mirror and for the briefest moment, I see it—real, naked panic. Not nerves or stage fright. This is deeper and more feral.

She turns on her heel and bolts across the studio without a word. Her pointe shoes slapping against the floor in harsh, uneven thuds. Silence crashes down around us as the pianist stops playing. No one breathes. Not even me.

Angelique is halfway across the room, both hands gripping the barre like it’s the only thing tethering her to earth. Her chest rises and falls in shallow bursts, like she’s unraveling right in front of us, and I don’t know how to fix it.

Volkov stares, baffled. “What in hell was that? Is rehearsal or horror movie?”

She tries to speak but can’t get the words out. After a few breathless seconds, she swallows and chokes out an “I’m so sorry.”

Volkov throws his arms in the air. “No, no. I do not understand. You dance Odette like Swan Queen reborn, and now? Now you run like scared kitten?”

He paces a few feet, muttering under his breath in Russian, then turns back to her. “This is pas de deux. Not solo. You must trust partner.” He jabs a finger in my direction. “You must trust him.”

Trust.

The word clangs around in my skull like an echo. I know exactly what kind of damage breaks that kind of thing. I’ve lived it. Is that what this is about? She doesn’t trust me?

But why should she after I abandoned her like it was nothing?

Angelique won’t meet anyone’s gaze. Not mine, and not Volkov’s. She stares at the floor instead, as if it might swallow her whole, as if she wants it to. Her cheeks burn with shame, and I can see how hard she’s trying not to fall apart in front of us, her eyes glistening.

Volkov scoffs. “Again. From the lift. This time, do not run.”

“No.” The word leaves my mouth before I can think, sharp enough to cut through the tension in the room.

Volkov turns slowly. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“She’s not ready,” I say, calmly. “You’re pushing too hard.”

“She must be ready. We do not have luxury of delay.”

“We’ll figure it out,” I reply, my tone final. “But not like this.”

Volkov stares at me like he’s deciding whether to fight me or knight me. The man’s too dramatic for either. Eventually, he makes a disgusted sound and throws his hands in the air.

---