Page 7 of Daughter of a Monster

Mrs Marchand snaps. “That’s quite enough. Mr Priest has said—”

I talk over top of her. “Is it your intention for your ward to make a career from dance?”

Mr Priest blinks, the only indication that he’s heard my question. He stares at me for a good long time, so long that my palms begin to sweat.

“No. It is merely a discipline.”

“Well then, forgive my boldness, but you don’t need someone with years of experience, you need someone with passion and I am that person.”

A flicker of something passes over his face, but I don’t know how to read it. I don’t know how to read him.

Eventually, he nods. “You may audition.”

Even though my body is trembling, I give the signal to start the soundtrack. It’s a song that means a lot to me. It’s emotional and expressive and my movements match the mood of it perfectly. I combine classic pirouettes and arabesques with floor work that connects me to the sound of the artist’s voice until I’m lost. I’m no longer aware of the audience. I don’t see Miss Marchand’s glare or the stares of the other dancers. And I certainly don’t notice the way Mr Priest watches me.

Only once I’m done do I feel the tears sliding down my cheeks. I get to my feet, taking a small bow before lifting my chin and walking away, wiping under my eyes with the back of my hand. I’m not ashamed of my tears. I’ve learned not to be.

No one claps. No one says a thing. Miss Marchand is silent for a few moments before commenting, “Well, at least she has passion.”

My heart sinks. Whenever I dance, I feel free. It’s the only time I can truly let myself go. But as usual, I’m trapped by my lack of ability. My head drops. My shoulders sink.

“Juliet, you may take your place now,” Miss Marchand says.

There are only a few of us that audition, most preferring to stay with the company rather than become a tutor for a child. And I’m sure that some of them that audition only do so to show off. It’s the curse of being a dancer. The need for attention. It’s why I’ll never be great. I want to be in the background so people don’t find out the truth.

Once everyone is done, Mr Priest gets to his feet, informing us he’ll make a decision soon.I can’t quite place what’s off about him, but there’s something which feels like this is all a pretense, a mask meant to hide his true persona. I know the weight of that mask.

As we make our way back to the changing rooms, Monique comes up behind me. “Here she is,” she drawls. “Frankenstein’s daughter.”

Again that horrid feeling twists in my gut. I try to hide it and roll my eyes, keeping my face expressionless. “Wasn’t Frankenstein the one who created so-called monster?”

She doesn’t even try to hide her confusion. Instead, she just shakes her head then lets out a spluttered laugh. “Tell me, did you use to sit on Daddy’s knee?”

And suddenly I’m tired. Bone-weary tired. I don’t want to talk to Monique, or to anyone. I don’t want to imagine what people are saying when they laugh as I pass. I don’t want to hear one more question about my father’s sins. I just want bed.

I start the walk back to my apartment. The temperature has dropped so I wrap my arms around myself and rub vigorously, trying to remove the goosebumps. The moon is high in the sky, giving the city an eerie feel. Small droplets of rain fall, catching the light of the moon and shining like glitter.

“Miss Berkley?” a deep voice sounds.

I look up to find Mr Priest leaning against the wall. He has his arms and ankles crossed as though he’s been waiting for me. He’s alone, the men that accompanied him at the audition nowhere to be seen.

“Oh,” I hold my hand over my pounding heart. “You scared me.”

He frowns. “Have you danced for long, Miss Berkley?”

Straight into it. No preamble. No niceties.

“Just call me Berkley, no need for the miss.”

His frown deepens. His eyes appear lighter than before. Steel-blue rather than black. He’s rather intimidating this close. He stands tall, his shoulders pulled back, his chin held high, looking down at me.

There’s something soft about wealth, I should know, but this man doesn’t have it. There’s a grit to his features that shows he wasn’t born into it.

“I took lessons when I was younger, jazz, contemporary, ballet. I even tried tap for a while,” I reply, remembering he had asked a question. “I was a bit all over the place really, but I’ve only returned to it again recently.”

“And you’re passionate about it?”

Heat rises to my cheeks as I recall Miss Marchand’s comment at the end of my audition. Lifting my chin, I match the tilt of his head and blink against the faint rain.

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