I thank the percussionist, who I used for the warm-up, and pack up my equipment. I have class myself this afternoon and I don’t want my teaching to get in the way of being a student here at Crestview. I need my degree as much as the next student.
The scent of Natayla still clings to my tank top as I pull a black Dance Props hoodie over my head.
When I step out into the commons, I practically bump into Lance, the douchebot from the party.
“Well, if it isn’t little rags to riches himself,” the piece of work says.
He wants to start a fight over a girl who can’t stand him. My bad. He wants to start a fight over his golden ticket to success by proxy.
“They have you on work-study, I see,” he quips.
“They have me on staff as a guest artist because it’s part of the Dance Props contract,” I tell him.
I don’t need to justify myself to this shithead, but I find myself doing it anyway. If you spend your childhood ruthlessly burned for being poor, the defense mechanisms spring up with a mind of their own. I did work-study my whole life. It’s not like there’s anything wrong with it. But I finally got a break, and now this imbecile wants to tear me down.
“Don’t get me suspended for breaking noses on my first day of work,” I tell him. I look over his shoulder, past him, anything not to answer this loser who believes himself better than me in every way.
“You might be fooling half the dance world right now, but you’re not fooling me. I know your past. Homeless, uncultured trash who learned to dance from YouTube videos. As soon as the reality show patina wears off, everyone will drop you like a hot potato.”
My fists ball at my sides, and anger rises in me like floodwaters. I need to get it under wraps because the douchebot is partially right. It was my talent that got me this far, but it’s true that I’m hiding my past with the help of my newfound television stardom. I don’t need anyone to know about all the fights I’ve gotten in, the shit I stole so that Mom and I could eat.
“What are you even doing here?” I ask him. I thought Natayla said he wasn’t a dancer.
“Picking up my girlfriend. Listen, I don’t want you speaking to her again. She’s under a lot of pressure and isn’t in a great headspace right now,” he says.
I throw my dance duffle over my shoulder and look past him down the hall, forcing one fist into my pocket and nodding at his delusional assessment of the situation.
“Do what you gotta do, Lance. My relationship with Koslova is strictly professional. I’m here to dance, not get involved in any drama.”
What I really want to tell him is that Sam is her own fucking person, and he and Katerina don’t get to decide who she dates, or how she eats, or what fucking pointe shoes she wears on her feet. I’m glad she at least got the hell out from under her parents’ roof and is living on her own.
“See you ‘round,” I tell the guy and walk away. He’d be seriously stupid to try anything with me at school. I’d love to smash his face in, but the reality is that his broken nose is not worth how far I’ve come.
I spend the rest of the day dancing and don’t run into either Koslova or Lance, and despite everyone treating me like a celebrity, I still get my ass handed to me in ballet class.
“Mr. Cunningham, how can you expect to learn the choreography if you do not know the names of the steps?” Mr. Wygard asks me. I improvised the shit out of his adagio combination because it was too long, too technical, and frankly, too boring.
I clasp my hands together and bow my head in apology. “Sorry, Sir, my head’s somewhere else. I’ll follow from the back next time,” I tell him lamely.
“Might I suggest a danseur’s dictionary to help you get acquainted with the French terminology? I know you do contemporary, but a true danseur, no matter the genre, always benefits from classical knowledge and training.”
I see some smirks and hear a few swallowed snickers, but I learned long ago not to let the elitism bother me. The corrections always make me dance harder and do better anyway.
It was Sam who first told me not to be discouraged by the corrections. “They’d ignore you if they didn’t see something in you. When they point out your shortcomings, it’s because they believe you can do better. They believe in you.”
I walk through the parking lot to my car and scrub my hands through my hair. Sam told me those dance school secrets because she believed in me too. She was my anchor and my one safe spot when my life was in complete chaos. I’ve never had such complicated emotions toward anyone in my life. They push and pull me until I feel completely out of sorts. Sam is at once the bane of my existence and the reason I get up in the morning.