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Taryn
“THIS TEDDY... YOUR last dance partner. You talk about him a lot,” Jaidev says, the next day.
The two of us have just finished an intense practice this morning, and we’re sitting in the canteen. And I’m sore. During the practice, I was still thinking about the threatening lipstick message, worrying still that I hadn’t got rid of enough of the lipstick because it turned out wiping it off a mirror was really quite difficult. I wasn’t concentrating properly as Jaidev and I did a lift because we were in the same studio and I thought the smeary pink mess on the mirror was still way too obvious and someone was going to notice it. I pulled a muscle in my lower back as we landed. I don’t think Jaidev noticed though. Or Evangeline. Luckily, the other company dancers weren’t there—the next time I’ll see them is tomorrow, when I’m transferring from academy classes to company classes. Classes where I’ll be dancing with just the women. Where I won’t have Jaidev by my side.
Jaidev’s staring intently at me, waiting for my answer. Teddy, right.
“We danced together for two years. Primary partners.” I shrug. I didn’t think I was always talking about Teddy. But then I realize I did mention him twice this morning, during the practice with Jaidev. Just little things that I can’t even remember now. Nothing important.
Jaidev nods. “And were you... together?”
Together? “As in...?” My eyebrows shoot up, and I nearly choke on my forkful of jacket potato.
“Boyfriend and girlfriend,” he says, and he says the words so... so casually. Doesn’t stumble on them at all. Not like I would.
I shake my head. “No. Just friends.” But using the word ‘just’ for what me and Teddy have makes me feel bad. Like I’m minimizing whatever it is, because it’s more than friendship, even if it’s not romantic or sexual. Because we were best friends. We were connected. Even if we aren’t now.
Jaidev nods, shovels more food in. Doesn’t say anything more and I don’t ask, because conversations like this always make me more uncomfortable.
There's a flurry of movements by the canteen doors, and I look up to see Sibylle entering with Freya and Alma. Her face is flushed, and she makes a beeline straight for me.
I freeze.
“Oh my God, Taryn!” Sibylle’s voice is high-pitched, and she practically throws herself into the seat next to me. “I’ve got an audition! Next week! And it’s with Berlin State Ballet!”
“Oh, wow! That’s amazing. When did you apply?”
“Just after Teddy’s accident—when they offered you this second chance, because I knew you’d get it, and I’d been going to apply there anyway, as soon as the end of year show was finished,” she says, making room at the table for the other girls to sit down.
She applied then, thinking I’d get this position with Roseheart? So, it can’t be her who’s trying to unnerve me in order to get my place instead. Not when she thinks I’m definitely going to get it and has made alternative arrangements.
“What have you got to do for the audition?” I ask.
“They want a variation from a classical ballet—auditioner’s choice. Have to let them know today which I’m going to do though, so their pianist knows. I’m thinking of doing one from Giselle.”
“You should totally do that.” Alma’s voice is cool, crisp. She holds her hands carefully up from the table so they’re not touching anything. “Just painted my nails,” she says by way of an explanation, but she doesn’t look at me.
Is she jealous of me? Still thinking it’s unfair I get this chance? Even though she never really had a chance at getting into Roseheart’s company.
“Are you applying anywhere?” Jaidev asks her.
Alma shrugs. “Of course. But I’m waiting for auditions to open again at some of the American companies.”
“I’m going on for more training first,” Freya says.
“You are?” This is a surprise to me.
“Yes, I know Roseheart does both classical and contemporary, but I just want to do classical. Really get good at that. Because although the company dancers here are good, don’t get me wrong, proper classical ballet is harder. I’m looking at a course in Germany.”
I can’t help but think that’s a dig at me. Like I’m choosing the easy route by trying to join the company. Not that it is easy. No, this is just Freya trying to unnerve me. She’s always been like that anyway.
“There’s a great classical program at Avril’s school,” Jaidev says. “You should look there, too. They have a lot of connections with the classical companies, too, in Europe.”
“Can you give me a referral?” Freya bats her eyes at Jaidev.
“A referral?” He sounds surprised.
“Yeah, like tell her you’ve seen me dance and I’m really good.”
A small line appears between Jaidev’s eyebrows. “But I haven’t seen you dance.”
She rolls her eyes. “Put your fork down and come with me.” She stands, her chair legs scraping the linoleum floor and holds her hand out to him—practically right in front of his face.
Jaidev looks at me for half a second, his eyes wide. Alma snorts.
“Come on.” Freya twitches her hand.
He takes one last mouthful of his food before rising. Freya practically pulls him from the room.
“He’s going to have to tell Madame T that she’s the best dancer in the world now,” Alma says.
“Yeah, and then Madame Troisière will wonder why he’s dancing with you and not her,” Sibylle says, looking at me. “But, honestly, you’re so much better.”
“How is it going, dancing with him?” Alma asks, her voice careful and poised like a snake.
“We’re getting there,” I say, thinking of the graveyard dance. That was a connection, but we still haven’t yet been able to replicate that intensity and connection fully in the studio.
“Maybe it’ll take longer than you think,” Alma says. “Maybe it’s just fairer if none of us joins the company this year.”
Sibylle shushes her. “Anyway.” She frowns. “Have you seen Ivelisse? She said to meet here round about now, and she’d help me look through Giselle. I’ve still got to decide which variation I’m doing.”
“Well, she’s not here,” Alma says. “Probably making herself sick again.”
“What?” I stare at her.
Sibylle freezes.
“Well, yeah,” Alma says. “I mean, I kind of thought it was just anorexia she had, but maybe it can change. She’s been sick so much lately.”
“Purging can be part of anorexia though,” Sibylle says.
Alma shrugs. “But have you seen the amount of ginger tea she’s gone through recently? The common room is nearly out of the Pukka teabags, and they’re my favorite to have, when I’ve run out of loose leaf.”
“Ginger tea?” I say blankly, thinking of the other morning when I heard Ivelisse being sick.
“Yeah, for nausea.” Alma rolls her eyes. “When you purge, it makes you so nauseous. One of my sisters was bulimic. She was nauseous forever. She even had GERD from it.”
“GERD?”
“Gastroesophageal reflux disease. It’s pretty nasty. All about stomach acid coming up and stuff.”
I set my fork down. “Do you think we should tell someone? I mean, we should, right?”
Sibylle nods. “We could mention we’re worried about her, to Joe? I don’t think we can go straight to her dietician or therapist. But he could.”
Alma tuts under her breath. “She’s not going to like you ratting on her.”
“She’s our friend, and we’re looking out for her,” Sibylle says. She looks to me and I nod. “Maybe we should check our room first though?”
“For what?” I ask.
“Evidence,” Sibylle suggests, her voice tentative.
“What, like a diary that tells you she is bulimic now?” Alma laughs. “What kind of world do you think we live in?”
I glare at her. “Can you not make a joke of all this? It isn’t funny.”
Alma snorts. “But, I mean, what are you looking for?”
“Scales,” I say. We’re not supposed to have scales in our dorm rooms. That’s one of Roseheart’s policies to try and prevent eating disorders and obsessions with weight forming. But last year, when Ivelisse began to relapse, she snuck some scales in. Madame found them under Ivelisse’s bed.
There were other things too, things we only realized were signs after Ivelisse was really unwell. She had an app on her phone where she logged what she was eating, her laptop history showed visits to various blogs and sites on extreme dieting and weight loss, as well as pro-ana pages, and we found a lot of stashed food in her wardrobe. Food from various meals that she’d somehow slipped off her plate unnoticed and hidden instead of eating.
If Ivelisse has started purging too now, I don’t know how that might change what we could find—but there’d be something, wouldn’t there? Maybe air freshener or something to cover up smells?
“Well, let’s go,” Alma says. Her eyes have lit up like she’s enjoying this too much. She stands.
I glance at Sibylle. “It feels a bit like snooping, though.”
“Yeah, but we are concerned.” Sibylle pushes her hair back. She’s wearing it loose for once, and it’s a sleek black curtain that dips below her shoulders. “And we can’t really tell Joe unless we’re actually certain about this.”
It feels bad as the three of us head to the dorm room. Like we’re all in conspiracy now against Ivelisse, but Sibylle keeps reminding me how we’re doing this to help.
“Like an intervention,” Alma says.
I get my keycard out and let us into the dorm building, then we head up the stairs to the second floor where the third-year girls’ rooms are. The keycard unit by our room flashes as I swipe my card, and I open the door.
Everything just looks the same as earlier, and Ivelisse’s not here.
“Wonder where she is,” I mutter. With the semester officially being over now, it’s not like the others have scheduled timetables, so Ivelisse could have gone off pretty much anywhere. Not just in the school grounds but she could be on a day trip. Or at an appointment.
“Let’s start the search, then,” Alma says, heading straight for Ivelisse’s bed.
“I’ll check the bathroom.” I head there, mainly so I can shut the door and just stand here. It feels wrong, doing this. And I know there’s nothing to find in here. Only our shampoo and conditioners in the shower cubicle, and then toiletries and disinfectants under the sink.
After standing here for a few moments, I head back out. “Nothing in there.”
I freeze as I see Alma holding the box with Helena’s shoes. My wardrobe door is open.
“Hey,” I say. “That’s mine!”
“What is?” Alma holds up the box and shakes it. “There’s nothing in here.”
Nothing? My heart pounds, and then I’m running the few steps to my bed. I skid onto my knees, crashing into the bed frame, and pull the box from Alma.
It is empty.
I lunge for my wardrobe, poring through the contents in there, but there are no shoes. I turn, looking around the room.
“What is it?” Sibylle asks.
“Uh, some shoes. Repetto pointes,” I say. My voice doesn’t even sound like me now. “They’ve...they’ve gone.” I pull a hand through my hair. Have they been stolen?
“Oh, come on, there are loads of shoes.” Alma points to the side of the room where several pairs of my pointes are in a messy row. Each of us has about three or four on the go at any one time, in various stages of breaking in.
“They’re not those ones... These are...special.”
“Special?” Sibylle asks.
My sister’s. Helena’s. But I can’t say the words. Neither of them should know about Helena. No one here should. But someone does. The lipstick-threat writer knows, and now they’ve done this. It has to be the same person.
Revenge.
I know you’re a murderer.
“If something’s been stolen, you should report it,” Sibylle says.
My gaze snaps to her. The person who stole them wouldn’t want it reported, so she can’t be behind this. Unless she’s bluffing.
“For a pair of shoes?” Alma laughs. “Come on. You probably just left them somewhere else. Or in your warm-up booties?” She points to where my pair of Uggs sits by the door. When I’m wearing full costume for performances, I wear Uggs over my pointes when not on stage to keep my pointes and tights in immaculate condition.
“I didn’t,” I say. I know I tucked the box with Helena’s shoes into my wardrobe before I went to the graveyard yesterday. And they were definitely in the box, then.
“Let’s go,” Sibylle says.
“I thought we were searching for Ivelisse’s diary or something?” Alma says.
Sibylle tells her we can still do that later and adds that it may well become a search bigger than just our room if my shoes have indeed been stolen. Roseheart doesn’t tolerate stealing.
We find Maggie, a housekeeper for our dorm, and report it to her. She says she’ll tell Madame and to try not to worry, that they’ll turn up again soon. Probably by the evening. Someone may have taken them, thinking they were theirs: “A lot of you girls have Repetto shoes, you know.”
Only—they don’t turn up. Evening draws in, and there’s no sign of it. Madame’s been on the case, alerting everyone to my missing shoes. Several people say the same as Alma, that pointe shoes aren’t that important, but I can’t correct them. Because I need to be watching people’s reactions. The thief has to know the significance of the shoes, and they’re going to be watching me for some sort of confirmation. Setting up this hunt for them does kind of confirm it to them anyway, I realize, but I don’t want to be getting upset more than I already am. I need to be calm. I need to figure out who’s watching me, who’s done this.
Because someone is out to get me, and something tells me this won’t end here.
.