The Dancer and the Masks by Bea Paige

Chapter 1

Present Day

“Ican do this. I can do this. I can fucking do this,” I repeat under my breath, over and over again as I enter the main lobby of the Academy.

The air is thick with nervous excitement as I stand in the long queue leading to the harassed looking receptionist. Around me chatter and laughter lifts into the air and floats up high into the glass domed roof. There are girls in leotards and expensive dance gear talking in groups with boys who are just as well turned out. They all look like they’ve walked out of an Abercrombie and Fitch ad, but I refuse to feel inferior. Just because they look the part doesn’t mean they can actually dance. I glance down at my beat-up Nike trainers, baggy sweatpants, and thin black t-shirt that I’ve tied up around my waist and blow out a steady breath.

You can do this, Pen.

A group to my left starts laughing loudly and my body flushes with heat under their scrutiny.

“I didn’t realise the academy was opening the doors to the local chavs,” one particular snooty bitch remarks. I meet her disgusted gaze with a steely one of my own.

“Chav?” I bark out a laugh. “Bitch, I’m a street kid and we learnt from a young age that words have zero power. My fists, however, they pack a punch,” I retort through a gritted smile. Her pretty mouth drops open and her cheeks flush a crimson red. I don’t suppose she expected me to respond.

Well, fuck her.

In my world, bitches get stitches. She’s lucky I’m here to make a good impression or her pretty white teeth would be scattered across the parquet flooring by now. I refuse to let anyone make me feel small. I deserve to be here. This is my last chance to get a dance scholarship. It’s a one-year, intensive course that should I be lucky enough to win, would open more doors for me than hoping to get spotted dancing at nightclubs. I’m twenty and fully aware that the older I get the harder it will be for me to have a career in dance.

“Ignore her, she’s an arsehole,” the girl in front says as she turns to face me. She gives me a lopsided smile then swipes a strand of curly, orange hair off her face before holding her hand out for me to shake. I look at it hovering between us. “I’m Clancy,” she explains.

“Clancy?”

“That’s right, it means red-headed warrior.”

“Because of the hair?” I ask, ignoring her hand, which she drops back to her side.

“No, because my mum once loved the Clancy Brothers…”

“Who the fuck are the Clancy Brothers?”

She snorts with laughter, and shakes her head. “Never mind. Yes, because of the hair.”

“Got it,” I note.

“Aren’t you going to tell me your name?” She cocks her head and gives me an amused look, not put off by my scowl.

“I’m Pen,” I answer after too long a silence.

“Nice to meet you, Pen. Is this a call-back or your first audition?”

“My first audition.”

“Me too.” She glances across the room to the stuck-up, haughty cow who dared to belittle me, and pulls a face. “That’s Tiffany. First class bitch of epic proportions.”

“You know her?” I ask as we move forward, the queue slowly moving up. I’m eight places from the front and getting more and more nervous with every passing minute, though I do a good job of hiding it. I just want to grab my registration documents and get to the audition.

“Know her? Yeah, I know her. That’s my sister. She’s auditioning here today as well. Specializes in ballet, tap and modern,” Clancy explains, puffing out a breath and rolling her eyes for good measure.

“She’s your sister?” I look between them both. They’re nothing alike. In fact they’re complete opposites. Clancy is petite like me, with pale skin and bright red, curly hair, freckles, and pale green eyes. Pretty. Quirky. Tiffany, however, is classically beautiful, modelesque. She’s tall, slim, with dark hair and olive skin. She’s got no tits to speak of, but is beautiful in a cat-like way. Though I’m betting she’d sooner scratch your eyes out than rub against your leg, and has the attitude that only the privileged carry around with them like an expensive Louis Vuitton bag. You know the kind of people I’m talking about, right? The ones that shop at Fortnum and Mason, who drive the latest Audi, wear Givenchy and drip with jewels. Money keeps people like Tiffany on a pedestal, except for days like today, when raw talent counts for something and money can’t always buy happiness or a future in dance. Well, that’s what I tell myself anyway.

“That bitch is your sister?” I repeat, trying to correlate the two.

“My stepsister,” Clancy clarifies.

I pull a face. “Shit outta luck there. What a piece of work.”

“Don’t worry, we hate each other. You can call her all the names you like. I really don’t care. She’s made my life hell for the last five years since her mum married my dad. You’re currently looking at Cinder-fucking-rella. I kid you not, she more than makes up for the lack of a second ugly stepsister, the least she deserves is a bit of her own medicine.”

“Fuck, that sucks.”

“Yeah, it really, really does.” Clancy grins and I give her a begrudging smile. She seems alright and nowhere near as stuck up as her catty stepsister.

“Is she already a student?” I ask.

“No, she’s auditioning as well today for a scholarship.”

“A scholarship?” I scrunch up my nose. “Then why is Tiffany acting like she’s one of the rich kids that go here.”

“Because she was a rich kid before her mum left her dad and married mine for love. Her dad was an abusive twat and cut them off in spite, so Tiffany has to rely on my father to support her. We’re not poor, but he can’t afford the fees for the two of us. So here we are.”

I nod, making a mental note. There’s nothing worse than a stuck-up posh nob than an ex stuck-up posh nob pretending they’re still rich. We fall back into silence mainly because I’m not great at making friends. Actually, that’s not strictly true. Once upon a time I made four best friends, but then it all went to shit.

Pushing thoughts of the Breakers firmly out of my head, I focus on the receptionist in front of me now that I’ve finally reached the front of the queue. Out of the corner of my eye I see Clancy hovering by the end of the desk. She’s chewing on a nail and when I glance at her she gives me a rueful smile.

“Thought I’d wait for you,” she shrugs, unperturbed by my lack of social skills and standoffishness.

“Whatever you want,” I mutter.

“Name,” the woman behind the desk snaps, raising her perfectly plucked eyebrows.

“Pen Scott.”

“Pen Scott?” the woman repeats, running her finger over the long list in front of her. She looks up at me with her murky brown eyes. “Not on the list. Move aside,” she snaps.

“Wait, what?!” I look at her in shock whilst the boy who’s standing behind me tries to elbow me out of the way. “Back the fuck off!” I growl at him under my breath before addressing the receptionist once more. “I received an invitation to audition. Check again.”

“Listen, you’re not on the list. If you’re not on the list there’s no audition, got it?”

“Got it?” the boy repeats, staring down his nose at me and giving me the same shitty look as everyone else in this goddamn place. Everyone bar Clancy, who’s currently looking at me with pity.

“This is bullshit. I’ve got a letter of invitation! Here,” I growl, pulling out the crumpled audition letter and slamming it on the counter.

The receptionist sighs, taking it from me. “So you do. But you’re not on the list and I have very strict instructions from the principal not to let anyone audition unless they’re on the list…”

I’m close to throwing a fit right here in the middle of the prestigious Stardom Academy atrium when Clancy steps up beside me and rests her hand on my arm.

“There must be a clerical error. Pen has the letter of invitation to audition. I’m sure Madam Tuillard would hate it if a potential student was turned away because someone hadn’t done their job properly.”

Clancy gives my arm a squeeze and I get the feeling she’s willing me not to go apeshit. I take a deep breath and in the calmest voice possible, ask the receptionist to check again.

She looks down her list of names one last time. “Oh, wait,” she eventually says, “There’s a Penelope Sott right here on the list…”

“That’s it. Must’ve been a typo.” Clancy smiles sweetly at the receptionist who nods her head and gives me a tight smile.

“Yes, must be. Studio 14, second floor, third door on the right.” With that she dismisses us both without an apology. Fucking old hag.

* * *

“You’re all heretoday to audition for a scholarship at Stardom Academy. We have just thirty places open and over two hundred dancers auditioning today. You lucky few have myself and my business partner as judges. Make this count, because another opportunity like this won’t come around again,” a tall, elegant looking woman announces to the room. There must be about thirty dancers in here, though I’m not paying much attention to them, honestly. I need to focus.

“Who’s that?” I ask under my breath.

“You’re kidding, right?”

I pull a face. “Should I know her?”

Clancy shakes her head, eyeing the graceful ballerina who is currently talking to a guy who looks like a cross between Ne-Yo and Usher. He’s hot and vaguely familiar, though I can’t seem to place why. The pair together are polar opposites. Elegance and grace versus edgy and street. I like that.

“She’s Madame Tuillard, founder of the academy and the principal.”

“I thought Madame Tuillard was ancient?”

“Nope, not exactly ancient, she’s forty. Set this place up five years ago. She was a prima ballerina for some of the most famous ballet companies in the world. Danced with the greatest. Have you ever heard of Luka Petrin, he stopped dancing when his wife committed suicide? Rumour has it that she killed herself because he was such a manwhore. Madame Tuillard danced with him too, perhaps they shagged…”

“Awesome,” I cut in, not particularly interested in ballet and even less so in some famous dancers’ sex lives. Don’t get me wrong, I do appreciate ballet and its place in the world of dance, but it’s just so… controlled. Every step has to be perfectly executed. A ballet dancer has to have perfect toes, perfect hands, perfect legs, perfect posture, perfect face, perfect body, perfect everything.

Perfect, perfect, perfect.

I like to move my body in a different way. I like the imperfection of hip-hop, of break dance, even contemporary allows for it. I like the freedom those dances allow me, and the fact I can improvise in those dances without pissing off someone like Madame Tuillard who epitomises perfection with her willowy figure and coiffed hair. I like the way I can express myself through those dances.

“And the guy?”

“Ah, that’s Duncan Neath, or D-Neath to the dance world at large.”

“He’s D-Neath? Fuck!” I glance back over at the guy and a thread of nervous energy lashes through my stomach. That explains why he’s vaguely familiar. I can’t believe I’m about to audition in front of the D-Neath.

“You’ve heard of him then?”

“Heard of him? He’s a bit of a legend where I come from. He grew up not far from where I live. The guy’s known in all the illegal underground dance clubs. Believe me, his reputation precedes him, and it isn’t all about dance either.”

“So I’ve heard…”

“You have?”

“Yup. My dad’s a lawyer in a big law firm in London. They represented him. Got his sentence down from fourteen years to just five for drug racketeering.”

“How come he’s here then?”

“He was released a year ago. Apparently they’re fucking…” Clancy explains, her eyes widening with glee as she looks between D-Neath and Tuillard.

“Shut-up! Those two?”

“Opposites attract and all that…” Clancy’s voice trails off as Madame Tuillard coughs, her pretty grey eyes falling on us both. She arches a brow and we both shift uncomfortably under her stare.

“Let’s get started, shall we?” she says, glaring down her nose at both of us.

Nervous energy ripples beneath my skin as she picks up a clipboard and runs her fingers over the list of names before her. Around us, the chatter dies down and everyone holds a collective breath as they wait to be called.

“First up is Zayn Bernard,” she says, looking up from her clipboard and towards the back of the studio.

“What the fuck?” I whisper-shout, my whole body going rigid. Next to me Clancy flinches, my abject horror startling her.

No.

Fucking.

Way.

“What is it?” she hisses, but I can’t answer her. All I can do is shift my gaze to where Madame Tuillard is staring.

“Why? How?” I grind out, my mouth drying up as I watch the boy I once loved unfurling from his spot in the furthest corner of the room. I hadn’t noticed him when I entered, too distracted with my residual anger at the receptionist and that stuck up bitch Tiffany, but by the look on his face, he sure as fuck noticed me. He’s scowling, a sneer pulling up his lip as he stares directly at me and unzips his black hoodie. Shaking it off, it falls to the studio floor at his feet, and all I can do is stare open-mouthed at his muscled physique and tight black t-shirt. Both his arms are covered in multicoloured tattoos that work their way up from the crook of his elbows to his shoulders, disappearing beneath the material. The last time I’d seen him he didn’t have any tattoos. None. He wasn’t as broad or as tall either. He was a boy on the cusp of manhood. All four of them were.

Zayn, Xeno, Dax and York were my Breakers and I was their girl.

Wasbeing the operative word.

Now Zayn’s a man. A man who’s looking at me like I’m an enemy, not a long-lost friend.

A shiver tracks down my spine as my stomach curdles with anxiety and long held pain.

“Do you know him?” Clancy presses.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see her check him out. In fact, every damn female in the room is unable to take their eyes off him, Madame Tuillard included. He knows it too. He’s always had this kind of magnetism, and he oozes confidence. I’d admired that once. Now I can barely look at him without wanting to sprint from the studio and throw away my chance of a future in dance. It takes every ounce of strength to remain seated.

“Yeah. We’ve met before,” I say vaguely, not willing to elaborate further. I can’t. It hurts too much. Looking at him hurts. His hair is the same shade of dark brown, his eyes still a deep black and his mouth just as plump and as kissable as it was three years ago when I last saw him and the others…

Stop it.

“He’s hot,” she states, matter-of-factly. “But can he dance?”

“He can dance,” I confirm with a whisper, wrapping my arms around my legs and hugging myself tightly as I watch him move out into the empty space. “He can most definitely dance…”

As if he heard me, Zayn meets my gaze and winks, reminding me of the first time we met six years ago. Except this time his wink isn’t followed by a warm smile and the possibility of friendship.

Now there’s nothing but hate in his eyes.