The Way We Dance by Katie Rae

2

Giselle

“One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.”

I looked out among my class of inspiring ballet students and watched their form, their balance, and their focus. Eleven girls, ages 5-12 years old, and one boy, eleven years old.

I always paid special attention to Sam since he was the only boy. Boys belonged in ballet just as much as girls did, but for some reason, kids that age had a hard time distinguishing that fun fact with reality.

The girls tended to giggle and make fun of Sam but to Sam’s credit, he stuck with it. His parents played a huge role in his determination as well. They encouraged him to keep following his path and to do what he loved and Sam fed off their love and passion for him.

It is what made Sam one of my favorite students. Even when his parents couldn’t afford the classes, I padded their account myself so Sam never had to miss class.

No one knew I did that, not even my receptionist. Not even Sam’s parents. I would mention a grant or some other monetary gift to the studio and they would thank me for using some of it to let Sam continue.

Even if it did put me in a bad spot with money sometimes.

I looked at him, with his toes pointed and his knees bent in perfect form. He had his eyes closed and I knew he was picturing himself as the lead in Swan Lake or The Nutcracker. He was made for the stage, for the fans, for the glory. My only hope was he stuck with it and powered through the rough patches.

A flopping ballerina caught my eye and I turned to look at one of my five year olds falling to the ground.

Alycia.

She had the balance and the poise, but she was five. No amount of untapped talent could be drawn out of an undetermined five year old.

“Alycia, up,” I clapped my hands hard and tried not to worry about her mother, who was in the viewing room on the other side of the glass wall. Alycia’s mom thought that at just five years old, Alycia should be headlining broadway. You can only imagine how awkward it got for me sometimes when she questioned me and blamed me for her daughter’s sudden outbursts in class.

I started to walk toward Alycia and quietly begged her to stand when Jasmine let out a scream from the middle of the class.

“Jasmine,” I screeched and redirected toward her. Jasmine was one of my eight year old students. She was here because her grandmother made her be here. She had no desire to wear tights or do an arabesque. Poor Jasmine wanted the world to leave her alone and most days I couldn’t blame her.

The entire class halted and stared at Jasmine as I approached her to see what was wrong. Without even having to ask, Jasmine looked toward the girl next to her and snarled, “She stepped on my foot!”

“Did not!”

“Did so!”

“Girls,” I started clapping again, trying to hold in my anxiety and tears. “Girls, let’s spread further apart to be safe and try again.”

I breathed a huge exhale when they complied. Even Alycia got back on her feet and made more space.

Not all days were stressful, not all days were filled with childhood drama. Most days, there was not anywhere I would rather be than in a studio, teaching the next generation of potential prima ballerinas. It was second best to being on the big stage myself but since I walked away from the tribulations of that lifestyle, I was determined to find my footing as an instructor here in Atlanta.

I was the daughter of the great Galena Metrovik, after all.

People paid me to teach their kid how to be like my mother. What they didn’t realize was I was not my mother. Nor would I ever be.

I loved ballet, and I was damn good at it. But I didn’t love being judged by my peers. I didn’t love the outbursts of fellow dancers that thought I made it on my mother’s name alone.

It happened enough that I eventually folded to the stress. I abruptly dipped out of the lime light of the New York City ballet company and opened up Brisé in downtown Atlanta.

Why Atlanta?

I threw a dart and it landed close to Atlanta.

I'm not even kidding. I had to get away from New York and I had the money to do whatever I wanted, at least for a little while. The years I spent on stage weren't necessarily lucrative but I was a saver. I had enough to start over.

Briséhad been open for a year and while my name alone attracted parents of little dancers, I still found myself struggling trying to live up to that name.

I was struggling, both financially and mentally. I needed a break, or a change of pace. Or maybe I needed the parents of these kids to not put the hopes and dreams they had for their kids on my shoulders.

First and foremost, this was supposed to be fun. Kids would not stick with it if they were not having fun and this class, in particular, was not having fun.

"Ok, let's break," I clapped again and all of the kids tiptoed to the break corner to grab their waters and towels. I looked at the clock and sighed hard when I realized there were ten more minutes of class left. I turned so my back was to the parents watching in and closed my eyes.

"Miss Metro," Sam called. "Are you ok?"

I snapped my eyes open and toward his sweet voice. He was the one that was going to make this worth it. He was going to power me through the next ten minutes because he was the epitome of why I was here.

"Yes, Sam. Of course I am. I was just trying to remember the name of the next set I want to practice."

He nodded but his eyebrows crinkled in concern. I refused to have Sam worrying over me, so I spun and clapped again, "Positions."

Everyone filed onto their marked X's on the hardwood floor and got in their ready position. I started the music and said a little prayer that the next ten minutes went smoothly.

* * *

"See you next week,"I waved as the last of the parents left with their students.

I leaned against the door and let the cool glass soothe me. I had to clean up and get things ready for the next day, but for a silent minute, I needed to breathe.

As much as I loved this job, it was exhausting. I always had to keep myself poised and prim, stoic and eloquent. That was what these parents expected of me and that was what this industry expected of me.

I took one last deep breath, and one step away from the door, when I was pushed from behind and flew into the middle of the room.

"Ahhhh," I yelled as a deep voice started yelling back.

"Shut up," he said before turning around and lowering the blinds on the door.

I was laying on the floor, scared, and looking up as the man started pacing from one side of the door to the other. He would peek out of the closed blinds every once in a while then pace some more. There was a gun in his right hand, his finger on the trigger.

He had dark hair and tanned skin, but that was the only thing I could make out. His hat covered his eyes and I could only see his profile as he paced back and forth. His clothing was nice, though. Not suit and tie kind of nice, but I knew good brands when I saw them.

Apart from telling me to shut up, he wasn't concentrating on me all that much. He seemed to be preoccupied with whatever was going on outside and that thought made me antsy. Was someone chasing him? Were they headed here?

I started to back away with a graceful version of a crab walk when my movement caught his eye. The gun immediately pointed at me and I froze in place.

"Don't move," he said deeply. "Stay still and I will be out of your life before you can say the word dance."

I started shaking my head, not believing him. He had a gun pointed at me, after all. His hat was still too low for me to see his eyes but the scruff on his face was another feature I took note of.

He took a minute to look back out through the blinds and lowered his gun. I saw him holding something in his other hand but he dropped it with what seemed to be an accident. He leaned down to pick it up and sent me a glance. Something I did distracted him because he rose up and walked toward me. He put his face in mine, finally giving me a glimpse of his eyes, and blew a smoky breath into my face.

"Be quiet, be still," he whispered.

I tried to nod, to agree with whatever he wanted me to do as long as he left me alone and unharmed. The motion of my head startled him though, because it was only a flash before his brown eyes widened with concern. With one hand on me and one hand on his gun, he used his head to silence me by head butting me hard.

Blackness was the last thing I remember before waking up on the floor of the studio, alone. I wasn't harmed anymore than the head butt, but some time had passed and I was scared out of my mind.

I lunged toward the door, locking it before sinking back down and bringing my knees to my chest.

I was not in a shady part of downtown Atlanta, but I guess any time after dark was the wrong time to be alone. I was only at the studio that late two days a week for the advanced classes but in an instant, I was tempted to cancel them all.

No one worked with me during the late classes, mostly because Shannon, my front desk clerk, needed to be home with her kids too. Plus, what good would it do for us both to be there? So we could both get hurt?

I crawled my way to the desk and grabbed my cell phone, dialing 911 before too much more time passed.

Within minutes, I was letting the officers in and telling them what happened. An ambulance had been sent because I mentioned being hit but after a quick scan of the damages, they deemed me ok enough to avoid an ambulance ride.

Unfortunately, they took the description of the guy but had no other basis to go on. He didn't take anything, he didn't break anything. Aside from the head butt, I was unharmed.

Normally, I walked across the park to head home, but I asked the officer to give me a ride to make it quicker and safer. I lived in an apartment that my mother had paid for, in an upscale building not far from the studio. It was planned that way so I would not have to worry with a car, but now I was considering it.

Before leaving the patrol car, the officer asked me, "You sure there is no reason someone would want to shake you up and scare you?"

"Nothing. I can't think of any reason at all."

"If you think of anything, give us a call. In the meantime, you may want to have a friend or something stay with you at the studio. No reason to be there late at night by yourself."

Sure, I will simply call up one of my many, many friends I had here in Atlanta. All those friends I made while opening a business and working 14 hours days should pop right up out of nowhere.

Was 9 pm really all that late? Maybe in that area of town but compared to New York time, 9 pm was early.

Things were different here, so I nodded and closed the door, but rolled my eyes as I heard them say behind me, "We’ll stay here until we see you get in the elevator."

I hadn't bothered changing out of my leotards, nor did I worry with a jacket, so I was waving the “ballerina flag” super high when a man in the lobby stopped me.

"Excuse me, ma'am?" I turned to see a well-built, well-dressed man approaching me gingerly.

Considering I had just been attacked in my own studio, I wanted to run away and run fast. I refrained and took solace in the fact that the cops were still outside, waiting for me to enter the elevator, and I could see their car through the floor to ceiling glass windows.

"Yes?"

"Are you a ballerina?"

I scoffed a little and smiled to smooth it over, "I used to be. I am now an instructor and the owner of Brisé."

His eyes widened with joy and he started nodding while clearly running an idea through his brain. I started to excuse myself and tell him I had had a long day, that I was tired and needed to go.

Then he smiled and his eyes brightened up, "I have a huge favor!"