Every day, I keep up the ruse of my routine. I go to class. I eat with Willow and some other girls from the dance team—ones who’ve sided with me since Paris declared war. I study in the library, watch movies on the couch at night. I dodge questions about the article, doing my best to ignore the accusing glares.
Willow eventually brought to my attention that someone had made copies of the article and posted them on a blog. Everyone wanted to know what Greyson and I were doing together, and they blamed me for the smear campaign.
How does that happen?
How do they see a single photo of us together, not even together- together, and pin the blame for his actions on me?
They can’t blame their star hockey player. Not when he’s going to help carry the team to a championship…
It doesn’t matter that they sided with me after the cafeteria incident. It doesn’t seem to matter that there’s no hard evidence against me either. What Greyson wants, Greyson gets.
And he got the whole school to loathe me.
I don’t see Greyson for days.
I don’t talk to Paris. She’s been absent from campus, eating lunch or dinner at what I have to assume are off hours. Not avoiding me, probably, but planning her next attack. She’s always been one to hold grudges. I’ve seen her lash out at others, but I didn’t think I’d be on the receiving end.
After Willow goes to sleep, I sneak away to a local gym. Their monthly membership fee wasn’t too hard to swing, and it’s better than potentially repeating what happened in the CPU gym. Sneaking out also affords me the ability to not explain myself.
A week passes. My leg constantly aches, but it isn’t the muscles. And I can’t do anything about nerve pain. Still, I force myself to believe it can be willed away. Mind over matter.
Now, it’s Wednesday.
I load ice into the bathtub. Willow is at class, and my body is screaming at me. Muscles I forgot existed now make themselves known. Once the tub is full, I set a five-minute timer and step into it.
The water is cold enough to take my breath away.
I grip the edge of the clawfoot tub and then let it go, putting my arms under the water. I sink down until my chin barely brushes the surface. It takes me a few seconds to regulate my breathing.
“Relax,” I say. I close my eyes and remind myself why I’m doing this.
It’s a peculiar sort of drive, because I’ve spent the last six months convincing myself that my future will be different than what I had always dreamed. But suddenly someone has shoved it back in my face, and I’m desperate. I want to take it. I want to hold it to my chest and defend it with every fiber of my being.
Dancing is my life. A broken leg couldn’t change that.
My phone chimes, the timer going off. I reach out and tap blindly at the screen until the noise shuts off. I’m not ready to give up, though. I take a deep breath and sink below the surface. Ice chunks bump my face, and I let out a little stream of bubbles.
There are degrees of pain that I got used to as a dancer. I don’t want to let myself get soft. With that thought in mind, I remain submerged until my lungs feel ready to burst.
I surge upward and suck in a gasp. My hair sticks to my face, and my fingers are numb. My toes, too. I lift myself out of the water.
My skin is pink and tingling. I shiver and pull the plug. In seconds, a tiny whirlpool whips over the drain. I step out and grab a thick towel. My phone goes off twice in a row, and I frown.
The list of people who have my new number is small. Since I changed it, I made a decision to limit who had access. Willow, of course, and my mother. Greyson—by force—and some of the dance team.
The first text is from Greyson. I ignore it in favor of the second.
MIA
Dr. Michaels can see us on Friday at 4:30 p.m.
She follows it with his address in Vermont.
Okay. Now I just need to get to Vermont. My phone’s navigation says it’s only about two hours away. Not terrible—at least she’s not having me fly across country. My mother would almost definitely find out about that one.
I send her a thumbs-up, then switch over to my thread with Willow. I send her a screenshot of my conversation with Mia, followed by the emoji that looks like its head is exploding.
ME
How am I going to get there?
In the past, I might’ve borrowed a car… or just had my mom take me.
The little typing dots on Willow’s end pop up, then disappear. Then again. I stare at it, gnawing on my lip, until her text comes through.
WILLOW
I have a solution… but you’re not going to like it.
Uh-oh.
When she comes home an hour later, she wears a sheepish expression.
“I took care of it already.” She’s keeping her hands behind her back, too, which is… odd. She sidesteps me into the kitchen and smiles. “See? Everything is fine.”
I watch her with suspicion. “You took care of getting me to Vermont?”
She rolls her eyes. “You’ve had your head stuck in the sand. Guess who’s traveling to Vermont for a game on Friday night?”
Oh shit. “No.” I immediately step back. “Absolutely not.”
She reveals what she’s holding. Yep , two tickets to the away game.
“It’s the only way I could get us a hotel room. And seats on the bus. This was the best solution, and we can totally skip the game. Even if you just want to mope around all evening, then we can catch the bus back in the morning…” She smiles, brightening. “The bus is basically a designated driver anyway.”
Yeah, right. The only thing I need more than a panic attack is to go to an away game. If Greyson has the wrong idea now, he’ll definitely get the wrong idea then.
“Wait.” I grab one of the tickets and scan it. “Did you just say hotel room? And bus?”
“You know that the school likes its section filled.” She shrugs. “I just paid for the tickets. We can take a cab to the doc.”
I swallow.
She comes forward and takes my hands. “Come on, Violet. You’ve been sulking since the Paris and Greyson thing. It’s starting to freak me out.”
I can’t exactly say that my sulking is due to my body rebelling against my sudden workout regime. It’s only for a few more weeks .
“Okay,” I agree quietly.
“Great!” She kisses my cheek. “Now, I propose a sleepover.”
I blink at her. “Huh?”
“Sleep. Over.” She loops her arm through mine. “We’re going to Amanda’s apartment. It’s been literally weeks since you had a social outing.”
“Weeks is an exaggeration.”
She pouts. “You wouldn’t go out last weekend. Even though the hockey team was at an away game.”
She has a point.
“Fine.” I heave a big sigh. “I need to dry my hair the rest of the way.”
We separate, and I stew over what the hell a sleepover entails. Like… a slumber party? As if we’re still in high school. I poke my head into the hall. “Are we actually spending the night?”
Willow laughs. “Yes, you dork. We’re going to drink martinis and do our nails and talk shit about Paris and her cronies.”
Okay, you know what? I can get behind that.
I finish getting ready, stuffing pajamas and toiletries into my backpack, and meet Willow by the front door. Ever since the guy broke in—and before that, even, to when my room was trashed the first time—the apartment hasn’t felt the same.
My skin prickles the whole time I’m outside. So much so that I have to resist the urge to hike my bag up higher, and to lift my shoulders to my ears. Willow doesn’t have such a problem. She looks ready to hit the ski slopes with a white-and-pink argyle hat, white puffer jacket, and white leggings. Her pink boots are laced up her calves.
“Really?”
She grins. “You never know, okay?”
Fair enough… but there better not be guys at Amanda’s. Or anyone other than the few people Willow promised would be in attendance.
Shit. I get the sinking feeling that I’m walking into something bigger than just an innocent little sleepover.
We walk to Amanda’s apartment, which is only a block west. She opens the door as we come up the front walkway, grinning at us with a glass of white wine in her hand. She rents half of a house from an old lady who lives next door, so it’s one of the quieter streets.
She usually doesn’t host for that reason. Part of her lease is respecting the quiet hours, and I think she’s terrified of getting evicted. I don’t blame her—she has a good deal.
I glance over my shoulder and scan the street, but it’s quiet.
“Come on,” Amanda calls, stamping her socked feet. “It’s freezing out here.”
Willow and I hurry in behind her, and I stop dead.
This is not just a little sleepover. There are fifteen girls here. I only recognize some of them from the dance team, but that’s not surprising. Amanda does a little bit of everything around campus. Student government, clubs, working in the dean’s office part-time. She knows everyone, and everyone knows her.
I nudge Willow, who just grins.
“We just ordered pizza. I’m so glad you could make it!” Amanda plants a kiss on my cheek and slips back into the living room.
It’s a good-sized room, but still there aren’t enough seats. Many of the girls are sprawled out on the floor. Not that they look put out about it.
“Drink?” Jess asks, coming over with two red cups and a pitcher of pink liquid.
Willow laughs. “What the hell is that?”
“Jungle juice.” She leans in and lowers her voice. “I guess the landlord is out of town for the week, so Amanda is taking full advantage. No fucking quiet hours tonight!”
The other girls whoop and cheer behind her.
I extend my hand for one of the cups, and Willow takes the other. Jess pours us a hefty amount, and I don’t think before I throw back a big swallow. The flavor is fruity, with a citrus tang. It completely blocks the bite of liquor.
Warmth spreads through me.
Jess snorts and refills my cup. “Off to a good start.”
“You’ve been noticeably absent,” another girl calls.
I turn my attention to the group. The one who spoke is a sophomore on the dance team. I think her name is Michelle?
I shift, suddenly uncomfortable with the spotlight.
I shouldn’t be. I grew up in the spotlight. I was cultivated in the spotlight. But somehow, sparring with Greyson has worn away the edges. I’ve come to learn that it hurts when I’m put to the test and don’t pass.
Is that what happened? I didn’t pass his test?
My cheeks burn.
Willow grips my free hand. “She’s been letting Paris cool off. You know how she gets.”
More girls nod, and I relax. We find seats, and the discussion moves from me to Paris. I’m not the only one who’s felt her wrath over the years, I guess. Then from Paris to Greyson—and the whole hockey team. They’re on a winning streak, demolishing the competition at an away game last weekend.
I smile and drink and nod my way through the evening.
I’m as plastic as my cup—and I hate that I feel like this. The more drunk I get, the more I settle into the floor. I go from sitting next to Willow to leaning on her, to resting my head on her shoulder.
When the pizza comes, I pick at a single piece and blame my churning stomach on the alcohol. I don’t want to know how many calories I’m drinking, how much sugar… the hangover will be my punishment.
Tonight I just need to let go.
Before I know it, the pizza is gone and someone puts on music.
I hop to my feet, suddenly invigorated. I haul Willow up with me.
“Dance party!” I yell.
They’re with me. The music cranks louder, and I sink into the rhythm. It took too fucking long to learn how to move the way real people do—not just ballerinas. I was flexible, but I didn’t know how to use my body.
That’s why I joined the dance team.
That, and the Crown Point Ballet has a distinct contemporary flavor. If I wanted to succeed, then I had to incorporate some new theories into my study—a common Mia phrase. She wants the best, but she wants new . Eccentric. Beauty that comes in odd shapes.
She has the best choreography because of it.
I twist and whirl, and the drinks did their job—I can’t feel the pain in my leg at all. I grab Jess’s hand and spin her, pulling her back toward me. I tip my head back and relish moving my body again, until the walls blur and I lose track of myself.
The longer I dance, the more I convince myself that I needed this. I needed to forget for a while. And that’s exactly what I’m doing.
Forgetting.
