Page 1 of A Dark Duet

Giselle

“One, two, three, and up pirouette, back down.” I remember the best way to start the movement is in the fourth position. My instructor at Juilliard is making sure we are all perfect as one unit, in sync, and is one of the hardest movements to conduct in sequence. We have been at it for the past hour. I can see the other girls’ faces and they are tired, but I’m not. I love all things dance. When I was five, my mom saw me watching a recital with admiration and awe in my eyes. She immediately enrolled me in a small dance academy in South Dakota and I have been dancing ever since. Jazz, dance, ballet, and contemporary dance—I learned it all. I watched all things ballet and studied it; it’s all I have been interested in since I knew it existed.

My parents are hardworking; my mother is a schoolteacher, and my father runs a farm. I was never into farming, just into horses. I learned how to ride, but that’s about as far as my interest went back home, living on the farm.

My parents were savers and did not splurge on the finer things in life. The only allowance they gave me was when I helped around the house or on the farm. I worked for everything, but they taught me values and never let me give up on my dream of being accepted into Juilliard. I danced every day until I auditioned, and then I got accepted—to one of the most prestigious dance schools in the world, no less.

New York is a far cry from Houghton, South Dakota, but I learned to grow a thick skin. New York is a beautiful city with bright lights, glamour and fashion. Your dreams can come true, or they can leave you pinching pennies to make rent. I was on of the lucky ones because I was promised a career in dance. I already had a spot in the dance company and possibly in the theater. I have prepared and concentrated my whole life on dance and ballet to live the dream of receiving flowers after finishing a performance at the American Ballet Theatre. To be a professional ballerina. It’s my dream, and I’m so close I can taste victory. This is my last year as a senior at Juilliard. They say I am one of the best they have seen in a while, but I am humble enough to know there are other girls, even guys, who are just as good. I have never been the snobbish type to think I am better than anyone. My parents taught me to believe in myself and never let success go to my head.

I listen to my instructor as she calls my name in front of the class.

“Giselle! I want you to finish the piece with a fouetté,” she says. I nod, understanding what she wants. She wants to save the hardest move for last, a move I have perfected since I was fifteen.

“Yes, madam,” I respond.

Our instructor for ballet is French, and she insists we call her madam. I thought it funny here in New York but wanting a career in dance or in the company, I will embrace the French culture and comply. I studied all there is on the culture of dance and ballet, even hip-hop, pop, rap, and especially music. Lana Del Rey is my favorite artist to create dance moves and choreography for my contemporary pieces. There is just something about her voice.

I was homeschooled for high school at my mom’s instruction. My parents told me if I wanted a shot at Juilliard, then they would have to pay for extra lessons during the weekdays at the dance academy. I would have no time for school or a real social life. It is one sacrifice I had to make. I wanted, deep down, to have a social life in high school, to have friends, and maybe a serious boyfriend; all the things a teenage girl dreams of, but I chose my calling and passion. I had to put those wants and needs on the back burner. My mom would have a mom-to-daughter talk every so often, making sure homeschooling and Juilliard were what I really wanted, and if I changed my mind, all I had to do was say the word and they would both understand.

There was really nothing they could say to change my mind. Even if I had crazy doubts, all the money and sacrifices they made just for me, so I could fulfill my dream as a little girl, would have been for nothing. I used to hate being an only child, but I knew I was blessed to have the best parents in the world, and being a selfish daughter isn’t who I am.

They blessed me in the looks department with chocolate-brunette hair and green eyes. Since I didn’t have siblings, I couldn’t call a sister or brother. I had my best friend at the trailer park just down the road, Brielle. I would call her Brie for short. We hit it off in elementary school when I would sit with her at lunch. No one wanted to be her friend because of her mom. Her mom was the town whore, and everyone thought she would end up just like her. I felt terrible for her on most days as I watched her eat lunch on her own. Kids can be cruel sometimes and would make fun of her mom to her face or behind her back. It didn’t stop in middle school, and only got worse in high school.

She would come home with tears streaming down her face and sobbing. I would comfort her and tell them they were assholes and were just immature. She would tell me that the guys would think she was just like her mother just because one day she gave her virginity to Jace.They were dating her whole sophomore year, and once they had sex, he dumped her. I was there for her when she would just come over and cry. He made up stories of how she would let him and his friend have a threesome with her. A total asshole in my book.

He continued to spread rumors that her mom didn’t care, and because her mom was a whore, that’s why she didn’t know who her father was. She said I was lucky to have parents like mine and that she wished her mom wasn’t the way she was. If Brie’s mom would just be a decent mom and get a good job, maybe they wouldn’t have to live in the trailer.

“Giselle,” my instructor drawls in her French accent. Surprised and lost in my head, not realizing I was up for the fouetté.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Madam.” I walk up to the center of the stage in haste and execute the fouetté effortlessly. I know I nailed it, but if you looked at my instructor’s face, you would think I flopped. You never know what that woman is thinking. She keeps such a straight face and stern demeanor, never cracking a smile.

When the class is over, I rush out, heading for the girls’ dorms to take a shower. My feet are killing me. That’s one downside of being in dance and ballet—our toes take a beating, and I need to dip them in bath salts to prevent further damage. I hardly wear sandals because it is pointless to get a pedicure. One of the many things that are overlooked. Dancers have magnificent physiques but lack in the feet department. I keep my toenails cut super short, and it has worked just fine.

Nate

Iwalk into the gym ready for my workout session and immediately see my best friend and manager, Jaden.

“There you are! I have been waiting,” he says. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Dude, why do you sound pissed?”

“Nothing. I’m just in a mood and need to let off steam.” Jaden is my best friend, and he doesn’t know about my innermost feelings. I don’t talk about the demons that come out to play at night in my head, reminding me where I came from, or how I got here. I have always had nightmares since I was a kid, but they have become stronger the longer it takes for my next fight to come.

My next fight is a month away and I can’t wait to feel the crack of bone and the smell of blood spilled in the cage. I feed off it, calming the rage built up inside, needing to be unleashed. My nightmares are the same, different scenes playing out from my childhood. My dad beating my mother and my mother taking another hit off the needle to dull the pain. Heroin is a bitch to come back from, even when you go to rehab. Some people make it, and some don’t. My mother didn’t. She died of an apparent overdose, or it could have been from blunt force trauma from my dad beating her. So, when she was gone, he took his rage out on me.

One night I came home from school, walking down the sidewalk at eight years old, and noticed my dad’s old beat-up truck in the driveway. I found it odd that he was home this early. He usually got home around midnight from drinking at the bar. Because as much as he smokes meth, he is also an alcoholic, coming home and usually finding my mom passed out on the couch from her last hit. If he found her like that, he slapped her awake, and if she woke, she was lucky to just endure slaps instead of punches. I reached the door to find it unlocked and the stench of death in the air from my father’s last hit.

“Get up, you stupid bitch!” he snarls. “Where is the money you stole from me?”

I look in the living room to see my mother passed out, her body on the couch with one strap of her dirty tank top falling down one shoulder while her eyes look into space. My father is over her, slapping her repeatedly. He is spitting as he screams at her, wearing his filthy jeans and dirty mechanic shirt. My parents were drug addicts. I wonder how I wasn’t born with birth defects from all the drugs and alcohol my parents consumed.

When the front door creaks open, my father turns to find me watching them from the door. “What the fuck are you doing standing there, boy? Close the fucking door, you scrawny piece of shit.” I close the door quickly to avoid him getting angrier.

“So-so-rry, sir,” I stammer.

“Well, hurry and go to your room before I beat you silly.”

“Yes, sir.”

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