I kick the door closed. Stepping under the light pink awning that reads, “Amelia Institute of Dance”, I pull the French door and walk through the modest entrance. Benches line the glass walls. A tall black granite counter is situated in front of one-way mirrors that separate the studio from the waiting area so parents can watch their children dance.

  The studio has gone through some changes since that first day standing in this lobby, but I remember it like it was yesterday. How on the way Mom had talked to me like I was a grown up about how there was another dance school, a bigger, more popular one, in Greenport, but this one was the best. And she only wanted the best for me. I can’t help but smile as I remember her telling me to go learn how to be a ballerina. To just be myself.

  I was myself, and each class I watched as groups of friends were made. Sometimes, a few of them would welcome me into their conversation, but mostly, I watched as they’d cover their mouths and giggle from afar. Initially, I’d try to join in, but they’d change the subject to something else once I got near them.

  At four years old, the thought never crossed my mind that being myself may not have been good enough because Tiffany, one of the other more reserved students, had become my best friend. She and I were inseparable. The only other person in the class who paid me any attention was Sebastian. When we first started dancing, he was nice, then he thought girls were gross, and eventually he turned into this brilliant dancer who was awkward at best with his long, lanky legs and pimples. But these last couple years of high school, his brown hair has darkened to more of a black, which contrasts more strongly against his green eyes. He’s always been lean, but the lines of his face have defined and his jaw has become square. To say Sebastian is the object of the girls’ affection is an understatement. One thing we all have in common where he is concerned is that we all want to be his partner. I have never even been chosen for a solo, let alone to dance with him. Tiffany was his first.

  She’s always been skinnier than me. By the time we were ten, she was also much taller. Her legs long and lean, whereas mine were slightly chunkier. Well, Mom always scolds me when I call anything on my body names that have negative connotations. Like chunky. She says that implies there’s fat on them, and there wasn’t and isn’t. They’re all muscle. Bulky muscle. The last thing a ballerina should have or want.

  She’s lighter. Easier to lift. I unload my book, dance, and snack bag on the bench and collapse, then open the crunchy cheese doodles Mom bought as the door from the studio opens. “Good afternoon, Miss Claire. How do you do?”

  “Good.” I smile as I pop the first one in my mouth. “Better now that I’m here.” I would live here if I could. Mom was partially right that first day. Dance is in my heart, but also in my veins.

  Mr. Robins’ face crinkles as I bite down. I want to spit it out, but I’m starving and it’s the only thing I’ll be able to eat for hours. His nose scrunches. “You’re never going to be the best ballerina eating stuff like that. How many times have I told you?” I nod, fold the package, and shove the bag into my tote. Twisting the lid off the soda Mom also purchased for me, I take a swig. “Or that,” he grumbles.

  I swallow the fizzy pop and replace the cap. Pointing to the restroom, I excuse myself. When I’m safe in the small room, I flip the switch to the light and the fan, and sit on the commode with my head in my hands as my chest burns, starts to heave, and soon my fingers are wet from tears.

  Mr. Robins drills into us not to mistake hunger for thirst. Maybe I’m just thirsty, so I turn the knob for the water and stick my head in the sink to drink water from the tap until my stomach starts to slosh with every move.

  Unsure of how long has passed, the main entrance chimes, and I snatch a paper towel from the roll, clean my face, and fill my lungs with a deep breath. I bet that’s Nicky. She usually arrives not long after me. Maybe I’ll stay in the bathroom for the rest of the afternoon. That way I won’t have to look up her nose or have my skin crawl when she squints her eyes and shrugs her shoulder as she dismissively walks past me. I hate to call her a mean girl. After the movie titled that, it seems so cliché, but that’s what she is. She’s just a mean girl. There are other words for her that aren’t PG, but that’s the nicest one I have for her. Anyway. Staying in the bathroom. It’s not a bad idea. Until someone knocks on the door. I gaze at my reflection in the mirror and swear I’ll never eat another cheese doodle or drink another soda in my life. Even if my mother buys them for me. Okay. I’m lying. I said that last time. I don’t have the heart to tell her I won’t eat them. And I don’t have it in me to waste them or refuse food. I don’t like being hungry.

  “Claire. Are you okay?”

  Crap. “Yes, Mr. Robins. I’ll be right out.”

  “Okay. I was just checking on you.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that.” Please. No, you don’t appreciate it. Would he check on Sebastian if he were in here? What if I was taking a crap? Who checks on someone for being in the bathroom for too long unless you’re five? Ugh.

  Taking a last peek in the mirror, I slap my cheeks and try to run a paper towel through my hair to hide the fact I’ve nearly bathed in the sink bowl before unlocking the door. When I exit the bathroom and make my way back to the lobby, Nicky is sitting on the bench by my stuff. Like we’re best friends. I roll my eyes, grab my bag, and head to the locker room to change into my leotard, tights, and pull on a pair of my slippers before going back to my things.

  She’s on one corner of the bench. I try to go to the total opposite side and prop myself up on pillows and start doing my homework. It’s hard to ignore the weight of Mr. Robins’ eyes or the crunch of her carrots.

  Carrots are a lot more expensive than cheese doodles. They also require refrigeration and aren’t as easily obtained at the little convenience store across the street. With each snap, I wish our circumstances were a little different. I don’t want to be her because yuck. And carrots, yuck. But I’d love to have the natural crisp and snap versus the fake Styrofoam crunch of the cheese doodles.

  I’d really hoped I’d wasted enough time in the bathroom that Robins would be in the first afternoon class by the time I came back out, but apparently not. He does a rap a tap tap thing on the counter that I’ve become accustomed to. It’s like a call for attention. I look up under my lashes, hoping it’s not me he wants. I’m sure Nicky would love some one-on-one time with him.

  But he’s staring at me. My shoulders automatically push back, my chin rising at his attention. He looks over at Nicky then back in my direction. “Claire, you know you’re not supposed to have bangs. My ballerinas should always wear a bun. There should be no loose hair. Not even a strand.” He grins at Nicky. Her blond hair, when down from her bun, is long and scraggly. Most days, it drives me crazy. I want to buy her a brush and tell her to keep it and use it often. But that’s not the type of person I am. No matter how nasty she is to me, I always try to be polite back to her.

  Nicky’s hair is already pulled back into a perfect bun on the top of her head. She doesn’t need a bottle of hairspray to keep the wispy strands tucked into place. There’s enough grease for that.

  My hand instinctively goes to my scalp. The humidity of the studio, the rain, and my black wavy hair don’t mix, and I trace the soft ringlets that have formed around my ears. I swiftly tuck them away. I can’t tell him the girls cut my bangs at the company slumber party while I was sleeping, and I’ve refused to grow them back for two reasons. One because I kind of like them, and two, because I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of thinking they’d actually successfully hurt me.

  Nicky snickers, and I glare at her, clenching my teeth while narrowing my eyes.

  I turn my sight back to him. “I’m growing them out. And I’ll spray my hair before class.”

  He nods. “Good girl.”

  I smile.

  Just like that, in the snap of a finger, he compliments me, and I yearn for it to happen again. His eyes glimmered when he looked at Nicky. And for a moment, when he complimented me, they did the same. It hasn’t happened since that first day when he said he liked me too and wanted to teach me how to twirl on my toes with Tiffany.

  Nicky isn’t pretty, but she’s an excellent dancer. If I’m lucky, I’m a quarter as good as her. If eating carrots, having long bangs, and kissing Mr. Robins’ butt is what makes her that way, then I guess I’ll try to do better note taking. And butt kissing. I’m so not good at that. But I guess I could try harder because it sure feels good to be complimented.

  The door chimes. I’m relieved to see Tiffany walk through it. I smile, wave, and push myself up from the bench. “He—”

  Much to my surprise, she doesn’t even look in my direction or acknowledge my existence. She grins from ear to ear and embraces Nicky. Six months ago, she wouldn’t talk to Nicky, let alone hug her. She’s switched sides. We’ve been friends for twelve years. Over the years, Nicky’s done horrible things to every girl in this studio. And Tiffany’s hugging her? I gape in horror. It’s like someone just took my heart, put it on the floor of the studio, and went up on top of it with their pointe shoe and did pirouettes on it. My throat tightens, tears start to spill over the edge, and I quickly look down so they can’t see the evidence of my weakness. I sniff back the nasty snot from my nose and wipe it with the backs of my hands. They aren’t worthy of my tears, but I can’t stop them. How am I going to dance like this? I look away and try to cry into a pillow, or at least muffle what’s now turned into weeping. Mean, mean girls.

  So, apparently, Tiffany’s been initiated into the popular girls’ clique. I wonder if cutting my bangs off was her challenge for entry into the elite group. Surely not. Suddenly her goal seems to be to crush my spirit. Never have I experienced such hatefulness. As the other girls in my class begin to arrive, they all sneer in my direction. None of them even attempt to hide their insults toward me with a whisper. After my moment on the bench burrowed in the pillow, I manage to hold the tears back for the entire class by biting my lip, blinking frequently, and swiping my face with the long sleeve of my black leotard. From time to time, the sensation of eyes boring into me causes me to scan the mirror, and I catch Sebastian’s gaze. He winks at me. I quickly look away, swallowing the lump in my throat. Is he in on the joke?

  When class is over, I gather my duffle and book bag, change into my sneakers and shorts, then head outside to wait on Mom. The humid air should suffocate me, but it’s nothing compared to the sub-zero chill of the other dancers’ attitudes that have already frozen my lungs, making it impossible to breathe. The door creaks, then slams shut. I glance up, and Sebastian lets his body slide down the brick wall behind us. “Those girls are all stupid. And they’re jealous of you.”

  The laugh bellows out of me. “Jealous?”

  He nods.

  “Not true.”

  “It is. You’re pretty. You’re a great dancer, Claire. They wish they were you.”

  Swallowing back the tears, I glance over into his big green eyes. “You think I’m pretty?” He went through a growth spurt during the summer, and he’s no longer lanky. The juncture of his arm and shoulder’s accentuated against the black ribbed tank top. He’s still tanned from the summer, and his dark hair is wet from sweat. My insides flip, my heart skips a beat, and I gulp at the tornado swirling in the pit of my stomach.

  “Did I say that? I, uh…”

  I nudge him. “You’re stupid. Just shut up before you ruin it.” How could I have thought he was a part of their childish games?

  He chuckles, then he reaches his finger out and smudges the tear that’s fallen down my cheek. “I’ll shut up if you dry it up. You’re too pretty to cry. Stop before they see you. They’ll interpret your tears for weakness. And you’re too strong for anyone to make that mistake.”

  I hold his masculine hand to my face. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For just being my friend. You’re the only one I’ve got right now.”

  We both freeze in place. “I’ve always been your friend…Claire…”

  The sound of a car roars closer, and when the headlights turn the corner, I quickly drop his hand and push myself off the brick façade of the building. “I’ll see ya, Sebastian.”

  He brushes his hands on his legs. “Chin up, Claire.”

  The way I’d craved Mr. Robins’ compliments earlier was but a mere appetizer to the feeling of being the object of Sebastian’s affection, even if it is just as friends. I smile at him. “Chin is up. Glad we had this talk,” I say as I toss the strap of my duffle and book bag over my shoulder. We go to different schools, so I wave, knowing it will be nearly a whole twenty-four hours and a full school day of mean girls before I get to see him again. Torture. “See you tomorrow.”

  His hand goes up as his lips curve into a lopsided grin. “Later, pretty girl.”

  I glance back over my shoulder. “So you do think I’m pretty?”

  He winks. “Just a little. Don’t let it go to your head too fast.”

  “I’ll try. Night.” I practically skip to the car, swing the door open, and slide back into the bucket seat. “Hey.”

  “Hay is for horses. Hi.”

  I glance out the window and roll my eyes so Mom can’t see. “Hi.”

  “Is there something you wanna tell me?” Her forehead crumples. “You’ve been crying.”

  I shrug. How is it she can tell that within two point two seconds of me being in this vehicle? Is that some kind of mom superpower? “Tiffany and I are no longer friends. Sebastian says she’s jealous. Of what I have no clue, but whatever.” I sigh. Mom presses the gas, and I glance over my shoulder at him as the car is propelled forward. He turns and walks backward inside, his eyes never leaving mine. “He’s actually being really nice to me. Can you believe it?”

  “Yes. I’m surprised it took him this long, actually. Just dance. Please, just dance. And what do you mean Tiffany is no longer your friend?”

  “She has a new best friend, and there’s apparently no place left for me.”

  “Then she was never your friend to start with.”

  “You know that’s not true. Twelve years. Twelve years we’ve been best friends.”

  She shakes her head, but she doesn’t look at me. “I’m aware of how long it’s been, and I know it’s hard for you to imagine, but a true friend wouldn’t be able to just walk away.”

  “Whatever.” I cross my arms. “I hate her.” Tears prick the backs of my eyes, but I remember what Sebastian just said about being too strong, and I will them back to wherever tears hang out when they’re waiting to spill over the edge of my lids.

  “Don’t say you hate her. You can dislike her all day, but don’t hate people, Claire.”

  “Fine. I really, really dislike her.”

  “The pain will get better. Just take all that hurt and pour it into your dance.”

  I nod. “Yeah. Okay.”

  Maybe Sebastian can help me with that.

  It’s amazing how easy I got through the school day. That’s because it’s been impossible to forget Sebastian’s words. They’ve been cycling on repeat since he said them yesterday. The only thing that’s alternated with them is the way his green eyes flashed when he looked at me and the way my stomach twisted like I’d just survived a series of corkscrews on my favorite rollercoaster.

  Okay. I’d be lying to say that’s not followed by my mother’s words about just dancing. Those are followed by dancing with Sebastian. Then kissing Sebastian. Followed by very inappropriate images of Sebastian on top of me doing things I don’t even know how to do. His hands touching me in places no one ever has before. His lips on mine, and it’s so vivid, I can nearly feel their softness. Snap. Out. Of. It. Claire.

  Just because he said those things doesn’t mean he means them. They were sympathy compliments. He felt bad for you. Besides, there’s no way he doesn’t have a girlfriend. It’s not like you’d know. We don’t even go to the same school.

  “Claire. What are you looking all dreamy about?” Audrina asks. If it is possible Nicky was born with a fraternal twin sister that’s everything she’s not physically: tall, beautiful, etc., etc., then that would be Audrina. But personality wise, they’re exactly the freaking same. It’s like someone cloned their petty little minds. I sigh. Dang her for screwing up my perfect daydream.

  “Nothing.”

  “That’s not true. You’re most definitely thinking about something. I saw you talking to Sebastian last night.”

  My eyes quickly avert to hers before scanning her. “So.” What’s her motive?

  “So. What did he say to you?”

  I shrug. “Nothing.”

  Her lips curve into a wicked grin. “His mouth was moving, so I hardly think it was nothing.”

  “You’re right. It was moving, but what he said is none of your business. If you want to know what he said, you can ask him. If he wants you to know, he’ll tell you.” Because if I tell her he said I’m pretty and a good dancer, she’ll laugh in my face, and frankly, I’m not in the mood for that. So, I push my books to the side. My feet make their way to the bathroom, my legs increasing their pace with each step, and my face reddening with each passing moment. Audrina is the ring leader of the mean girls’ cult. It’s on pretty good authority, she’s the reason I no longer have a best friend, and if it’s up to her, Sebastian will be next.

  Since the studio is an old building, there’s only one bathroom, so it’s gender neutral. It’s around a corner in a little alcove with a wall of lockers, and as I turn to rush through the door, I plow into a steel chest. I inhale a whiff of cedar, water, and apple. “I’m…” My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. “I’m…” My palms are on his abs. I know whose they are, so I let them linger a little longer than I should, feeling the ripples beneath his ribbed black tank top. I gaze up, but I get stuck on his crooked grin before I find my way to his hooded green eyes. “I’m sorry. I just need the bathroom.”

  “Don’t be.”

  I furrow my brows and swallow.

  “Sorry,” he says. “Don’t be sorry.”

 

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