Hunger

Rory: No Love Story

"Aurora, vhere eez your turn out?" a voice barks at me in a strong Russian accent, each word punctuated by a sharp clap.

It's my instructor, Mischa. She's Russian and scary, and she's not afraid to twist you into the right position with her bare hands. She may be an old, tiny, post-ballerina wisp of a woman, but she's got crazy strength.

I quickly adjust my hips as she passes by, but she stops and narrows her dark eyes at me and says in her thick accent,

"I should not be hah-ving to remind my most talented of dancers to correct somezing like turn out. Vhere is your head, Aurora? Vhere? Is it on boyfriend maybe? School? Netflick TV show? Or ze dance? Maybe you join leetle ones in baby class? You think iz just practice, eezy time? No. Eet. Eez. All. Ze. Dance. Yes?"

I don't respond. I know I'm not supposed to. These are all rhetorical questions to throw me off and make me embarrass myself further in front of the class, who are all dying to see the top dancer fuck up. I just keep going through the set of rond de jambes until she moves on and takes her sharp eyes off me. It's like being pricked by needles every time she stares at you. I sense the satisfied smirks of my fellow dancers but don't let my humiliation show on my face or in my body.

The truth is Mischa is right. I am distracted, picturing the boy from the grocery store and trying to remember where I've seen him. This is not a good time for daydreaming. I'm in our daily full company class, the one that everyone attends, an hour and a half of repetition at the barre and center, crucial for warming up all of our muscles before rehearsals and performances. If we don't, we risk massive injury.

In front of me, I stare at Gwen's back as we stretch at the barre, her spine a strand of pearls rolling under her snow-white skin. I love bones. They are so beautiful: vertebrae like marbles, collar bones creating little teacups under your neck, hip bones arcing out like birds about to take flight. Gwen has them all in addition to beautiful, white-blond hair, like an angel's. I daydream about looking like her onstage.

"God I've gotta quit drinking," Gwen says under her breath as she back-bends toward me.

I chuckle, knowing she's trying to ease the sting of Mischa's critique. "Seriously, I don't know how you party as much as you do and still look and dance the way you do," I say.

Gwen shrugs. "I'm young. In a few years I won't be able to do it anymore so I'm living it up now. YOLO."

"Oh God, you did not just say YOLO."

Gwen laughs softly so that Mischa, who's on the other side of the room now, doesn't hear us talking.

"Ryan invited us to a frat party this weekend. You interested?" I ask under my breath.

"Like you have to ask me," she says.

Gwen is a party girl, which is weird considering what she does for a living. She's eighteen, drinks like a fish, sleeps with anything beautiful and somehow still looks like a goddess when she dances. I don't know how her body can handle it all. I used to party with her a lot before we found Seth, but my priorities have changed in the last few months. Especially now that Kyle dumped me. Every social interaction is a threat that I'll have to see him again and relive the betrayal I experienced in the backseat of his truck. Seth's return may have eclipsed the worst of the heartache, but I'm still bitter and angry.