Page 2 of Freestyle (Academy of Stardom 1)

1

Present Day

“Ican do this. I can do this. Icanfucking do this,” I repeat under my breath, over and over again as I enter the main lobby of the Academy.

The air is thick with nervous excitement as I stand in the long queue leading to the harassed looking receptionist. Around me chatter and laughter lifts into the air and floats up high into the glass domed roof. There are girls in leotards and expensive dance gear talking in groups with boys who are just as well turned out. They all look like they’ve walked out of an Abercrombie and Fitch ad, but I refuse to feel inferior. Just because they look the part doesn’t mean they can actually dance. I glance down at my beat-up Nike trainers, baggy sweatpants, and thin black t-shirt that I’ve tied up around my waist and blow out a steady breath.

You can do this, Pen.

A group to my left starts laughing loudly and my body flushes with heat under their scrutiny.

“I didn’t realise the academy was opening the doors to the local chavs,” one particular snooty bitch remarks. I meet her disgusted gaze with a steely one of my own.

“Chav?” I bark out a laugh. “Bitch, I’m a street kid and we learnt from a young age that words have zero power. My fists, however,theypack a punch,” I retort through a gritted smile. Her pretty mouth drops open and her cheeks flush a crimson red. I don’t suppose she expected me to respond.

Well, fuck her.

In my world, bitches get stitches. She’s lucky I’m here to make a good impression or her pretty white teeth would be scattered across the parquet flooring by now. I refuse to let anyone make me feel small. I deserve to be here. This is my last chance to get a dance scholarship. It’s a one-year, intensive course that should I be lucky enough to win, would open more doors for me than hoping to get spotted dancing at nightclubs. I’m twenty and fully aware that the older I get the harder it will be for me to have a career in dance.

“Ignore her, she’s an arsehole,” the girl in front says as she turns to face me. She gives me a lopsided smile then swipes a strand of curly, orange hair off her face before holding her hand out for me to shake. I look at it hovering between us. “I’m Clancy,” she explains.

“Clancy?”

“That’s right, it meansred-headed warrior.”

“Because of the hair?” I ask, ignoring her hand, which she drops back to her side.

“No, because my mum once loved the Clancy Brothers…”

“Who the fuck are the Clancy Brothers?”

She snorts with laughter, and shakes her head. “Never mind.Yes, because of the hair.”

“Got it,” I note.

“Aren’t you going to tell me your name?” She cocks her head and gives me an amused look, not put off by my scowl.

“I’m Pen,” I answer after too long a silence.

“Nice to meet you, Pen. Is this a call-back or your first audition?”

“My first audition.”

“Me too.” She glances across the room to the stuck-up, haughty cow who dared to belittle me, and pulls a face. “That’s Tiffany. First class bitch of epic proportions.”

“You know her?” I ask as we move forward, the queue slowly moving up. I’m eight places from the front and getting more and more nervous with every passing minute, though I do a good job of hiding it. I just want to grab my registration documents and get to the audition.

“Know her? Yeah, I know her. That’s my sister. She’s auditioning here today as well. Specializes in ballet, tapandmodern,” Clancy explains, puffing out a breath and rolling her eyes for good measure.

“She’s yoursister?” I look between them both. They’re nothing alike. In fact they’re complete opposites. Clancy is petite like me, with pale skin and bright red, curly hair, freckles, and pale green eyes. Pretty. Quirky. Tiffany, however, is classically beautiful, modelesque. She’s tall, slim, with dark hair and olive skin. She’s got no tits to speak of, but is beautiful in a cat-like way. Though I’m betting she’d sooner scratch your eyes out than rub against your leg, and has the attitude that only the privileged carry around with them like an expensive Louis Vuitton bag. You know the kind of people I’m talking about, right? The ones that shop at Fortnum and Mason, who drive the latest Audi, wear Givenchy and drip with jewels. Money keeps people like Tiffany on a pedestal, except for days like today, when raw talent counts for something and money can’t always buy happiness or a future in dance. Well, that’s what I tell myself anyway.

“That bitch is your sister?” I repeat, trying to correlate the two.

“Mystepsister,” Clancy clarifies.

I pull a face. “Shit outta luck there. What a piece of work.”

“Don’t worry, we hate each other. You can call her all the names you like. I really don’t care. She’s made my life hell for the last five years since her mum married my dad. You’re currently looking at Cinder-fucking-rella. I kid you not, she more than makes up for the lack of a second ugly stepsister, the least she deserves is a bit of her own medicine.”

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