Chapter 3
972 Words
"I said seven sharp, not 7:10!"
Mitsy and I stare at Jac with strange expressions. He always acted annoyed when anyone showed
up late, but today he seemed genuinely furious.
"S-sorry," I stutter unsure of how to respond to his hostility.
He waves his hand and ushers us to the back for hair and makeup.
"This is your first time being Clara. Don't mess this up!"
I'm shoved into a chair with Mitsy on my right and Maca already on hair to my left.
Someone's grumpy.
An unfamiliar makeup artists has at it with my face, drawing on extremely dramatic makeup so
it's visable from a distance.
"Ya know it's rare that the new girl gets to be the lead," Maca says while the stylist pulls her
freshly curled hair into a tight bun with the curls sticking out.
I nod.
Over the past month and a half we've been practicing, about nineteen people have told me this.
It's getting old.
"I know Maca. It's an honor really."
My bland and uninterested tone doesn't deter her as the blonde girl continues to pester me.
"I'm just saying, someone with so little experience-"
I tune her out at that and close my eyes as the artist applies eyeshadow.
Curling my hands into fists, I try to keep bad thoughts out of my head. Ballet is literally all I
know. It's all I've practiced since third grade. I'm not the most literate person, after being taken
out of school so young or even the smartest, but I can dance expertly.
I shouldn't be mad at her. She doesn't know. Nobody does.
"-ow I only got to be a supporting character. If anything I should have at least been the
understudy!"
Maca's rant finally comes to an end and I feel smug that I've managed to miss almost every
word.
There's a tense silence and I'm sure it's because everyone else in the vicinity heard what she had
to say.
As if waiting for my response, the snobby girl looks over to me with expectant eyes, only to
scowl when she receives no attention.
for the next five minutes, she blabbers and whines about how rude I am and that I'm not fit for
the part.
No one really listens and it only angers Maca more when she comes to the conclusion she's
talking to herself.
How did she even get here?
Who hired her?
When my makeup is done, I wait impatiently for my hair to be tied back. The woman had just
put in the band when I leap from my chair. She tries to call me back, but i don't want to wait for
her to admire her work. Instead, I leave Mitsy behind and go to stretch in the practice room.
Since it's seven thirty, it's empty and the other dancers won't come to stretch until after their
wardrobe.
I suppose if I do this now, I can change when they all come in and I can avoid everyone until the
play.
Good plan Flavia.
Taking off my cardigan, I throw my foot up onto the bar and point my toes, stretching well
before doing a few plies.
When my muscles are loose, I let go of the bar and do as much as I can without my pointe shoes.
Turning and jumping in succession, I begin to spin like I'm supposed to in the third number.
With my hands above my head and no additional momentum, I let myself turn rapidly on my
socks.
The circles usually give me a headache, so I close my eyes while I spin, the twenty years of
practice kicking in wonderfully.
About halfway through my turning when I'm a bit slowed down, I feel a pair of wide hands grip
my waist firmly.
"AH!"
I jump away from whoever stopped my spinning and notice a very tall and muscular man holding
his hands up as if to ease me.
I didn't turn on the lights, so the room is dark, but I can make out the strangers features enough to
identify sharp cheekbones and an angular nose.
His hair seems to be dark like mine and for some reason, he has on a nice dress shirt tucked into
his pants.
All black.
"You dance beautifully."
The man has a heavy Russian accent and I think back to what Mitsy said at dinner.
Is this the guy that bought our theatre or just an accomplice?
"Thank you."
I leave it at that, deciding that asking if he's my new boss would be rude.
His clicking footsteps echo in the mirrored room when he steps forward, but I don't feel the need
to step back.
Instead, I let him move a breath away.
"Who are you?"
This seems like a safe question, so I opt for it.
"Dimitri. Who are you little one?"
I never did like being called little, especially when I only reach below the chest of the person in
front of me, but something about Dimitri's Russian accent makes his words endearing.
"Flavia," I say shyly.
Introductions have never been my strong point and I fiddle with my finger nervously.
Dimitri is silent for a moment, seeming to be taken aback, by what I'm not sure.
Do I know him? No. I could never forget meeting someone with an accent.
Perhaps he's shy himself?
"Flavia!"
The lights turn on and I backup a step while blinking rapidly to adjust my eyes.
Who-
"You aren't even dressed! Go get on your costume!"
I avoid eye contact with the stranger, too embarrassed now to acknowledge him.
Jac is still angry, but he seems more relieved as I rush pass him and the other dancers to the
dressing room.
Even as I put on my outfit, all I can think about is Dimitri.
Who is he?
- Writer
