Page 1 of Tendu: Dancing in the Castle

Part One

College

Chapter 1

Theconfusingtangleoflimbs and hands came to an abrupt and neat finish, almost as if it had been choreographed. The instigator of the collision held out my to-go cup of hot chocolate with an understated flourish, like a man presenting a gift. I reached for it, stared directly up into his eyes, and then the usual inner cringe never came. Obviously I was too incensed. How dare this unexpected person crash into me, steal my chocolate, and then behave as if he was being, in some way, magnanimous?

The rest of the morning was suddenly enraging too: London had been doing its special drizzle, the kind that looks like nothing but leaves your clothes damp and clinging in an itchy way. The other commuters had been so slow moving, I’d ended up catching my hair in the tube-train door. And then, once we’d finally reached college, there’d been a threat of expulsion, though only half spoken so as to confuse. People and their insinuating ways! And it had all made us late for class.

The red mist of rage cleared as I spied Justin through it. Justin Bevan: my Puck, mischief maker and beautifully outspoken best friend. He had one eyebrow raised, so: quizzical, possibly amused.

“She’s sorry,” he called after the man, who had continued on his way.

“I’m not sorry,” I said. “If anyone should apologise—”

“Phi! Keep your voice down, or he’ll hear you. And you realise this is exactly the sort of thing our esteemed leader was going on about?”

“I’m just so furious,” I told him, the air reddening again as my hands formed into tight fists.

“Really? With him? Don’t you think that’s a bit misplaced? Madame’s surely the more deserving focus for your anger with all that ignorant autism talk.”

I stated facts. “He barged right into me. And he didn’t say sorry.”

“Actually, you were walking backwards to speak to me, and then you spun round, and you both sort of…” He crashed his hands together in lieu of finishing the sentence. “It was impressive how he caught your cup.”

“You mean stole.” I was almost hyperventilating with fury.

“Now, Miss Treadwell,” drawled Justin, his slim form taking on the mannerisms of the not-really-so-esteemed Madame. “You must be sweet and demure and conduct yourself with perfect decorum at all times. If you want to stay in my school, that is.”

The tension broke, and laughter replaced rage.

“Nice meet-cute, though,” remarked Justin as we continued down the dark and narrow corridor towards the light of the stairwell.

“There is nothing cute about being rammed into.”

“Watch your wording, darling. I’m blushing. However, if there’s a whiff of gaydom about him, he’s mine. Lovely hair.” He patted his own dark curls and flattened down the sides absent-mindedly as he spoke. “Well-muscled arms, bet he has washboard abs, ballet boy with that stance, not British, had that sexy Slavic look about him, well packaged in the trouser department too.”

“How can you possibly have noticed so much in so short a time?”

“How can you not? He had that ‘Look at me, look at me!’ stage-presence thing going on.”

“I only saw his eyes. Brown. Like this chocolate that will now be cold.”

“Actually,” mused Justin as we climbed the stairs. “He might be nice for you after the nightmare of last term.”

“Men don’t like me,” I reminded him.

“Untrue.”

“Not once they get to know me.”

“Nonsense. He looks classy and cultured. You would have shared interests. He might like literature, art, Shakespeare. You could discuss plays. Acting, Phi. You love acting. And then, of course, there’s ballet. You could spend hours dissecting that: over dinner, under sheets…” Such speculation lasted all the way to the studio.

As if to demonstrate the chaotic result of being late, our classmates’ bodies littered the beechwood floor in a bewildering mass of multi-coloured legs, sore feet and ice packs held on knees. Some discussed the latest diet fads, two stretched at the barre, and others stared with dismal inevitability at the biggest personality in the room: the mirror. Lining one wall, this most critical of daily companions reflected back our worst points, our weaknesses and errors.

I sat down beside it to reconstruct my bun with what pins were left, realising I’d stood in front of Madame with half-up-half-down wet hair. But it was the brown eyes that I remembered. They’d seen a girl with the dark and deranged locks of Medusa, and that thought let the cruelty of the looking glass through: breasts too big for ballet, hips… well… the oft-repeated mantra of ‘lumpy-bumpy’ surfaced, but was quickly quashed. The mirror existed to assist with technique. That was all. It was merely a useful tool, helping me in my quest to be the best dancer I could be. The new school year might bring new mistakes, but it was not a time to indulge old ones.

Justin’s chatter had moved on to the subject of rock-hard thighs: who had them, who didn’t. His own frame remained whippet thin regardless of what he ate, a fact that was reflected in his healthy relationship with food, and the mirror.

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