Mid-August
FREEDOM IS DANGEROUS.
I should know. I had enormous, untethered freedom for the last … five years of my life. Oh, at first, I didn’t dare push at the rather loose restraints that were given to me. I was young, scared, and I never, ever wanted to disappoint.
The Dance School for Young Girls in London had a strict staff, an unrelenting schedule, and demanded complete discipline from its students. Dance was put above all else. It was more important than regular school lives, our families, our social life. I thrived under the daily regimen. Waking early. Staying up late. Classes where we had to actually learn about nonsensical things such as math and English and history—God, who needed any of that?
All I wanted to do was dance.
And dance I did. I danced and danced and danced. I injured myself countless times and danced through the pain. I tortured my body and my mind and my spirit, and God, I absolutely loved it.
After I turned fourteen, I became friendly with the rebellious girls at the school. The ones who smoked cigarettes and drank out of tiny silver flasks they hid under their thin mattresses in their rooms. Sometimes I would sneak a cigarette or a sip from one of their flasks, but never indulged too much.
I was too scared I’d get caught. Too afraid of the consequences.
The mere thought of returning home terrified me beyond reason. No way could that happen.
There were no luxurious comforts at the school, not the kind that I was used to at home, and I liked that too. It was all part of being a dancer. No one cared that I was a Lancaster. My last name, my family, my wealth—none of it mattered.
Everything at the Dance School was a reminder that I was nothing. A nobody. Just another number in a long line of young women who were all striving for the same thing.
To be the prima ballerina. The one everyone adored and feared and respected.
I moved on to the London Dance Academy when I was fifteen, and though I was in over my head at first, I worked hard. Harder than I ever had before in my life and by the end of the school year, I was one of Madame Lesandre’s favorite students. I preened beneath her attention and praise. I lived for it, my competition eyeing me with disdain. They befriended me and I decided to let it happen. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, right? My father told me that a long time ago, when I was crying over someone rejecting me as a friend in dance class, though I don’t remember who.
“They’re just jealous, darling,” he’d said. “Look at you! You’re perfection.”
I knew I wasn’t perfection, but I humored him anyway. My father didn’t see any of my faults, though I knew they were there, buried deep within my heart. They were dark and ugly and I did my best to keep them hidden.
I have no emotions, and I’m okay with it. I try to, but I don’t really care about anyone. Oh, I care about dance and my success and my future. I suppose I care about my family. My brother and sister matter to me, though I can’t trust Sylvie, and Whit is so bossy, always telling me what to do that I get sick of him fast. My mother doesn’t care about me whatsoever, and the feeling is mutual.
My father adores me to the point that it’s stifling. He smothers me every chance he gets, so I do my best to stay away from him.
From all of them. From everyone.
Where I made my mistake? Testing my boundaries this summer. My freedom. We were in Paris to perform and I did things I never thought I would do. Danced at nightclubs. Drank and drank and drank. Smoked so many cigarettes, I made myself sick one night, puking my guts out in one of those tiny public toilettes that are narrow and sit low to the ground. Oh, I was disgusting that night.
I even fell in love a little—or as much in love as I could possibly feel for a boy. A gorgeous, sexy boy who kissed me as if his entire world depended on it.
That was my favorite part.
Those lovely friends, the ones who were my competition? They ratted me out to Madame, who immediately informed my parents of my abhorrent behavior. After the performance though. Oh, she wouldn’t let anything interfere with that.
I was perfect that weekend. Still high on the emotions that boy made me feel, I firmly believed I could conquer the world. I could actually be the dancer I dreamed of being my entire life. All I needed was Madame’s approval.
And now here I sit with my parents in my father’s study at our family home in Newport. In the States—God, I never thought this would happen. I should be in London right now, practicing. Always practicing. My feet should be aching and my head full of the music that we dance to. The tinkling piano, the sound of Madame’s cane pounding on the floor, her husky, heavily-accented voice demanding, “Higher! HIGHER!”
Instead, I’m sitting next to my mother in the most uncomfortable chair ever constructed, which has probably been in this house for hundreds of years, my father scowling at me, his disappointment palpable.
“You still haven’t explained yourself,” my father finally says, his voice thick with irritation.
I barely cast a glance in his direction, not wanting to witness his utter displeasure in me for even a second. I’m not used to that. Normally in his eyes, I can do no wrong.
“What is there to explain?” I shrug, keeping my head bent.
I see the way my mother’s foot taps against the Aubusson rug, her beige and black Chanel ballet flats battering away at the swirling cream-colored rose like she’s trying to crush its petals. “Oh, there’s plenty to explain. Like why you ran amok all over Paris like a little whore for two weeks,” she retorts.
“Sylvia.” Father’s voice is sharp. “Don’t say that about your own child.”
“Why not? It’s true. The girl believes she’s fully capable of running her own life and doing what she wants, when it’s obvious she doesn’t have a clue what she’s doing. After all of your hard work for the last five years, you’re willing to throw it away so you can party in Paris?” The disgust in her voice is thick. Party in Paris.
She can’t stand the fact that I actually had fun. That I had the absolute time of my life on my own, without being under her complete control unlike my sister. Sylvie can’t take a crap without our mother knowing about it. While I’m off doing whatever I want, not that I ever tested the limits until this summer.
And now I’m paying the price.
I can feel my mother’s gaze burning a hole through my hair, my skin, as if she’s trying to see inside my mind and figure out why I’d done what I did.
“Why is everyone so upset with me? It’s not like I’m a drug addict or pregnant.” I lift my head, my pleading gaze landing on my father before I turn it into a glare and aim it at my mother. “So I had a little fun in Paris. So what?”
“You’re only seventeen,” Mother stresses.
“I’m eighteen.” I only just celebrated my birthday a week ago, or did she forget? I had reservations at my favorite restaurant in London, and all of my so-called friends were in attendance. It was a party to celebrate me sliding into adulthood, though I didn’t have much fun.
Typical.
“You were seventeen when you were cavorting all over Paris with Gideon.” My gaze finds Father’s again, unnerved by his use of Gideon’s name. How much more does he know? “Are you involved with that boy?”
I almost laugh. Should I tell him Gideon is gay? “Of course not.”
The look Father gives me says it all.
He doesn’t believe me.
“Your father and I have been talking. You need to remember where you come from, who you are. This sort of behavior isn’t what a Lancaster does, darling.” Mother hesitates for only a moment before she plunges on. “You’ll be spending your senior year here.”
I blink at her, my brain trying to compute what she just said. “In New York?”
There are excellent ballet companies here. Some of the best in the world. It won’t matter where I came from or what I’ve accomplished. It’ll be like starting over. I’ll have to fight my way to the top of the class, but I can do it.
After all, I’ve done it before.
Mother shakes her head, her smile growing. “Here. Well, nearby. At Lancaster Prep.”
“No.” The word automatically falls from my lips, and my stomach sinks into the vicinity of my toes, if that’s possible.
“It’s what’s best,” Father adds.
I whirl on him, my mind spinning, my stomach twisting into tight, painful knots that make it hard to breathe. “What about dance?”
“You’re on pause,” Mother says. “For only a year. Graduate high school and then you can do whatever you want.”
“B-but I just turned eighteen.” I leap to my feet, my head swiveling back and forth between them, their faces reminding me of blank masks. “I’m coming into my trust fund. I’m an adult. You can’t tell me what to do.”
“As long as you’re enrolled in school, we have complete control of your trust fund,” Mother says, her voice irritatingly calm. “You’re still considered under our care, Carolina. Just because you’re eighteen doesn’t mean you’re a functioning adult.”
“I’ve been on my own since I was thirteen! In another country, taking care of myself. For Five. Years.” I curl my hands into fists, wishing I could pummel both of them. At least Father’s expression is full of regret.
“And now you need to be home near us. You can certainly give us one last year as our child before you take off and become a sensation in the dance world.” Mother’s voice drips with sarcasm.
Staring at her, I take a deep breath, trying to calm my chaotic heart. “You’ve never believed in me.”
“That’s not—”
“Don’t bother denying it. It’s true. You only care about yourself. And my sister.” I turn on Father, who’s standing as well, his fingers gripping the edge of his desk. “I never expected this from you.”
His face seems to break, as if my words are a devastating blow to his heart. “Carolina, you have to understand. We’re only doing this to protect you.”
“Protect me!” I start laughing, and I can’t stop. There are tears streaking down my face, a sob caught in my throat, but I force it down, the laughter still bubbling on my lips. I think I’m in full-blown hysteria. I probably should be committed. “You’re doing nothing but hurting me. As usual. I should’ve known you’d disappoint me.”
“So dramatic,” Mother murmurs, looking pleased with herself.
God, how I hate this woman.
I loom over her chair and she shrinks back, as if I scare her. Good. I hope I do. I’m sure she hates that I am now taller than her. Thinner. She may have money and experience and she married—only to divorce—the Lancaster name, but I was born a Lancaster.
I have more class in my pinky finger than she could ever have in her entire being, and she knows it.
“I expected this from you.” My voice is eerily calm. “You don’t surprise me at all.”
I flee my father’s office before they can say anything else, the tears streaming once more, and I wince every time my heels hit the marble floor.
They ache—more so because I haven’t danced in days. I run through the house until I’m on the other side, the wing that faces the gardens, and I lock myself away in the ballroom, turning the deadbolt into the elaborate, gold-leaf door with a resounding click.
Breathing heavily, I go to the mirrored wall and stare at myself. My flushed cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. I belong in London. I belong with my dance company and I belong with Madame Lesandre. I need to dance for at least six to eight hours a day and work on my studies for two. That’s what’s important to me. It’s my life.
I can’t go to Lancaster Prep for my senior year. I just …
I can’t.
Slowly, methodically, I remove my clothing, my gaze never straying from my reflection. Until I’m standing in a pair of thin white boy shorts and my black sports bra that’s more for looks than support. Since I don’t need it.
I have tiny boobs. Narrow, bony shoulders. And I’m so pale. I can see the veins in my skin, blue and pink. The blood pumping through them the only thing keeping me alive.
Oh, that and my black heart.
I get into first position, lifting my chin. I shift into second. Third. Fourth. Ending with fifth, holding it before I nod once.
I do it again and again, as natural as walking. Muscle memory is a wondrous thing, I realize as I begin to shuffle my feet, my body moving across the parquet floor. Until I’m leaping and twirling, my skin coated in sweat, my brain blessedly empty of any thought.
They can’t force me to do this, I think as I keep my gaze fixed, spinning and spinning, my foot kicking out every single time in perfect sync. I turn and turn until I collapse on the hard floor with a soft cry, and I roll over so I can press my forehead into the parquet, hating my life.
Hating myself even more.
