Serial

The blood flowed freely now, a rust-colored stain on the pristine white of my toe shoe, spreading like a morbid watercolor. It started as a quarter-sized mark but had bloomed into something the size of a silver dollar pancake.

“Who thinks of pancakes while they are bleeding all over the place?” the snarky voice in my head chimed in. “Apparently you do, when you choose to skip breakfast in lieu of getting to class early.”

A small price to pay to stake my claim at the barré before the other vultures got here, I countered. I shook the thoughts away, realizing I was having a conversation with myself. Again. This happened a lot when you spent most of your time inside your own head. Sure, I had actual people to talk to—a few that I would even call friends—but more often than not, I was alone.

There was only one thing that occupied my mind more than myself: dance.

“Emmalynne, you’re up!” Miss Diane’s voice cut through the air, sharp yet precise, above the twinkling piano notes. I looked up to see her looking at me expectantly, counting out sets of eight. Caught red-footed, I knew my extra practice time this week had just been nullified by this one stupid lapse in attention. The Richmond Ballet Company teachers hated nothing more than a distracted dancer.

With one last glance at my bloody foot, I pushed the pain and my thoughts away, taking a few delicate steps forward. Then, as if weightless, I moved across the floor, performing a series of turns and leaps until I reached the other side. Sauté arabesque, balancé en tournant, run, run, run, grand jeté. It was damn-near perfect. But my face remained neutral as I tiptoed to the back of the line, tail between my legs. The best I could hope for now was invisibility.