Filed to story: Penny and Navy Brother Asher
I glance over and find Mila, her dark hair twisted into a messy bun, her cheeks flushed pink from nerves and warm-up drills.
“Hey,” she says, giving me a quick, wobbly smile.
Relief floods through me so fast it leaves me a little dizzy.
I smile back. “Hey.”
We stretch side by side in silence for a few minutes, the quiet comforting in a way words wouldn’t be, both of us lost in our own heads, in the slow, methodical movements we’ve been doing for so long they’re almost muscle memory now,
After a while, Mila nudges me with her knee, grinning crookedly
“My right shoe’s trying to kill me,” she mutters under her breath. I think I’m going to lose half my toes before we even make it onstage.”
I snort, biting back a laugh.
“At least you’ll have a good war story.” I whisper back, tugging at the elastic of my own pointe to adjust the fit. “You can tell everyone you survived Swan Lake with three toes and sheer spite
She laughs quietly, the sound breathless and real, and for a second the tight knot in my chest cases.
It’s easier to breathe when she’s around
It always has been.
When we both settle back into stretching, I glance over at her, feeling a sudden ache I didn’t expect.
“My parents had to leave town for a conference,” I say, keeping my voice light, like it doesn’t matter, like it doesn’t weigh heavier than my bag.
They’ll be gone all week. You should come hang out if you’re free.
Mila’s face softens, but she shakes her head, a little apologetic.
“I wish,” she says. “But my family’s going out of town to Last-minute trip.”
I blink. “Really?”
She nods, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Since we get the week off after auditions, my parents figured it was the perfect We’re driving up to North Carolina to see my grandparents,”
I force a smile, even though a small part of me deflates inside.
“That’s awesome,” I say, meaning it, even if it leaves nie standing a little more alone in the aftermath
Mila beams. “Yeah, I’m excited. I haven’t seen them since last summer.”
I squeeze her hand briefly, grateful for her honesty, for the way y the never pretends to be anything she’s not going to have the best time,” I say, and I mean that too,
“You’re g
Before she can answer, the dour creaks open and a volunteer steps inside, clipboard in hand.
“Mila Rivas?”
Mila stiffens, her face going pale, but she gets to her feet with a determination I admire even more now, smoothing the wrinkles from her tights with trembling fingers.
I stand too, reaching out to hug her tight.
“You’ve got this,” I whisper against her shoulder.
She hugs me back fiercely, her breath shaking a little, and then she pulls away, straightening her spine like she’s going to war instead of onto a
Mage.
“T’ll see you see you after,” she says, her voice small but brave.
I nod, smiling even though my stomach twists tighter, and watch her walk toward the door, her back straight, her chin lifted, her hands fisted tight at her sides.
When the door shuts behind her, the e room feels emptier somehow,
The waiting presses harder.
The silence folds tighter.
I sink back onto the floor, stretching deeper beats to anchor myself. er into a split, pressing my palms flat against the floor, breathing in and out slowly, counting the
I can do this.
The hours bleed together In a bit of soft whispers and muted footsteps, of muted stretches and murmured encouragements, the waiting room shrinking smaller with every name called, with every girl who leaves and doesn’t come back,
I stay folded into my stretches, muscles trembling from holding the same positions too long, heart thudding slow and heavy in my chest, trying to focus, trying to stay sharp, even as the sun creeps lower through the high windows, staining the far wall with the deep gold of late afternoon
Mila hasn’t come back yet.
No one has
Just an endless parade of names-called, answered, gone.
And still, mine isn’t one of them.
I flex my y toes against the floor, feeling the ache start to build along the arch of my foot, pressing my palms flat against the cold wood, breathing deep through the tightness in my ribs,
It’s fine.
It’s probably random.
It doesn’t mean anything that half the girls are gone and I’m still here, waiting, stretching, pretending I don’t feel like the room is pressing in closer with every second.
But somewhere deep in my chest, a tiny, insistent worry scrapes at the edges of my thoughts.
What if Madame forgot to sign me up? hat if there was a
What mistake?
What if my name isn’t even on the list?
I bite the inside of my cheek, tasting copper, and force the thought away.
I didn’t come this far to spiral now.
There are three of us left in the room-three girls sitting in our own little islands of tension, stretching and adjusting pointe shoes and pretending not to glance at the door every time it creaks open.
I shift into another stretch, feeling my hip protest sharply, and glance toward the window, watching the sun sink lower, casting longer, heavier shadows across the floor.
And then the door opens again,
And this time, I hear it-
*Penelope Vale?”
My heart jumps so fast it’s almost painful, slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to break free.
I get to my feet too fast, stumbling slightly, my bag sliding off my knees and thudding onto the floor.
“Here, I say, my voice a little too loud, a little too breathless.
The volunteer sailles gently, stepping aside to hold the door open, and i gras my water bottle, ty phone, my number pinned to step through into the long, echoing hallway beyond
The sound of my pointe shoes tapping against the tile echoes around me, I loud, too sharp, and I try to heath through it, try to let de rhythm settle into something steady, something familiar.
The hallway stretches on forever, a gauntlet of framed posters and faded photographi, an the audition hall wait, just slightly zist, a diver of light culling across the floor, far end, the heavy double doors that
I push them open and step into the cavernous space beyond, blinking against the sudden frightness.
The stage is massive-larger than any I’ve danced on before-stretching out under the high, vaulted ceiling, the polished floor gleaming under the rows of overhead lights.
And at the far end, seated at a long table draped in black cloth, the judges wait.
Five of them.
Faces impassive.
Pens poised.
Eyes sharp and unblinking.
I walk to the center of the stage, heart hammering so hard it feels like it might crack my ribs, and take my position, hands trembling slightly as I raise them into first position.
The music starts-a soft swell of strings, delicate and haunting-and my body moves before I can think, before I can panic, before the fear can root itself too deeply.
I dance.
I pour everything into it-the hours, the bruises, the blisters, the tears.
Every breath, every heartbeat, every fragment of who I am.
I let the music guide me, carrying me through the opening steps, the sweep of my arms, the sharp, clean extension of my legs, the lift of my chest as I leap, as I spin, as I lose myself in the story.
My muscles burn, screaming in protest with every landing, every rise onto pointe, but I push through it, breathing through the fire, through the ache.
The judges don’t speak.