Serial
written by Harsha Jean Chase
Emmy will stop at nothing to become the next Prima ballerina - so what will she do when she finds out that a serial killer is stalking her?
Last Updated
05/31/21
Chapters
5
Reads
476
Chapter 2
Chapter 4
I turned to see my ballet mistress, Miss Diane, looking at me expectantly and counting out sets of eight to the music. I'd been caught red- handed - or as the case was, red- footed- and I knew at once that all the extra time I'd spent in the studio that week had been nullified with this single stupid move on my part.
There was nothing the teachers at the Richmond Ballet Company hated more than a dancer who wasn't paying attention. Well, except for a bad instep maybe.
With one last look down at my bloody foot, I pushed my thoughts and the pain I was feeling away, and took a few delicate step forward. Then, as if I were weightless - and at 5'55" and 102 pounds, I practically was - I moved across the floor, performing a series of turns and leaps until I'd reached the other side of the studio.
Saute arabesque, balance en tournant, run, run, run, grand jete. Which, in layman's terms, meant: slide hop, dancy grapevine with a turn, run, run, run, end with a big leap. Only in French. And more graceful than it sounded.
As I finished, I brought my feet together, toe touching heel, and let my arms curve down into a low oval shape near my thighs. I knew the combination had been damn- near perfect, and had I not just pissed off my teacher, I would've been satisfied with myself.
Instead, my face remained neutral as I tip- toed to the back of the line with my tail between my legs.
The best I could hope for now was to remain invisible for the rest of the class. Or if I was lucky, another dancer would mess up and draw the focus away from me.
I know that sounds horrible- wishing someone else would screw up, fall, forget the combination, sloppily land their quad turn- but if you were like me, a ballerina in one of the most prestigious companies in Northern California, you'd be thinking the same thing. I mean, you might feel bad about it, but you'd still think it.
"Way to piss of the Miss," a voice said quietly in my ear. "Are you trying to give the others a chance to snag your swag?"
