Dance, Sugarplum

9. Lyla

CHAPTER 9

LYLA

ACT 1

Like I imagined, the place is deserted, and I breathe happiness so deeply it’s more like soul-shaking relief. Part of me wants to practice, to push myself into the ground until I’m good enough for Mikhail, but how am I supposed to do that when every part of me still shakes from his fingers, when my tights are ripped, and my leotard is bloody?

I curl up on the pads because I can build a little wall and hide in case someone unexpectedly comes inside. My layers of outerwear become my pillow and blanket as I build myself a comfortable spot. The alarm is set on my phone. I decide the theater might be haunted as I fall asleep listening to soft and haunting notes that disappear every time I try to focus on them. Dancers’ feet and swishing fabric that fades whenever I say, “Hello.”

Truthfully, I’m not sure if I ever speak or if I just think the question as I slip away into another realm. Fear seems like a foolish reaction; the ghosts of Christmas past and I probably have a lot in common. I’m happy at the thought that I’m not alone, that other things are trapped in ways they can’t comprehend, just like me. Misery loves company, especially at Christmas.

I don’t mind when the alarm goes off. It’s been a long time since I’ve gotten this kind of warm and mostly relaxed sleep. My body feels more capable and strong than it has in a long time.

I’m up early, wearing my sweats and lamenting over what I’ll do today when I take my bloodstained leotard to the sink and start scrubbing. The tights are a lost cause, and I pray I can find a pair to borrow if I can’t get the blood out.

I’ve made a pretty good attempt at it when the ballerina who complimented me the first day comes in. The leotard hangs over the bench, and she looks at it with a raised brow.

“I spilled coffee on it.” I roll my eyes and facepalm.

“I have a spare if you need one,” she tells me as she puts her bag down. Her name is Maeve, and despite her choice in friends, she might be my personal angel.

I swallow the emotion out of my voice as I answer. “I think I’ll be okay with this, but I could really use a set of tights.”

“Yeah, of course,” she answers as she pulls a set out of her bag and tosses them to me. “Hey, Lyla, want half my donut?” she asks, already breaking it in half and handing me a piece. “Save me from myself,” she encourages, and I don’t even pretend to turn it down. I’m too hungry.

“Maeve, I need to ask you a really big favor?”

“What’s that, Lyla?”

“Please don’t tell anyone about the tights.”

She gives me a kind look and nods before continuing to chat about her morning and her issues with Eduard.

“I swear if Eduard makes one more face looking at my thighs, I’m going to bring a donut to eat in front of him. You’re lucky you’re so skinny.” Her eyes skate over me with longing, and her desire is like a stab to the heart.

I want to tell her it’s crazy she thinks that this is ideal when I’m like this because I’m starving. There’s a difference between a healthy body and mine. A huge difference. Why the hell doesn’t anyone in this industry see that? I know I used to be part of the problem, but truly lacking has changed many of my opinions about food and, more importantly, dancers’ bodies.

I shake my head, clearing my anger and a flicker of guilt.

“You’re doing great. Eat whatever you like, and he can get fucked.”

She giggles. “ We’re going to be fucked if we don’t get changed.”

Chatting with someone while getting dressed for rehearsal is like a flashback to another life. We head to our cubbies at the same time, and my eyebrows push together when I see there’s a package inside mine. My hand closes around the brown paper.

I slept in the dressing room. When the hell did this get here?

I breathe hard as I wonder who dropped it off and when. Did they really not see me? They must not have, and I did build up a wall to make myself harder to spot. My frown distorts my face in my confusion. I look from one side of the room to the other as if I can find some clue or hint as to when it happened. I don’t think the ghosts are buying gifts.

I peel back the brown paper, revealing silky tissue paper that slides through my fingers, and I open it with shaking hands. The fabric inside matches my skin tone precisely. It’s so correct that the choice alone feels intimate, but then I touch it and feel the quality. This gift is obscene. This isn’t something you give to someone you consider a whore.

Before I have time to hide, Maeve is looking over my shoulder.

“Oh god! They are gorgeous!” She smiles. “I guess you don’t need to borrow anymore?”

Mikhail sent me a brand-new leotard and tights. I blink. It’s the only thing that makes sense after what happened. There isn’t anyone else left alive who would buy me a gift.

It’s been a long time since I put my hands on something so beautiful. My rational side wants to find out what he expects for these. Are they a transaction? Is it a gift? All he would have to do was say they were the latter, and I would open my legs for him again.

Did he leave them here himself? The idea of him sneaking into the room while I slept sends shivers down my spine, but he never would. He’s far too important to run an errand like leaving some clothes in a ballerina’s cubby. But the idea that he could have, that he might have been so near me again while I was so vulnerable has me aching all over. It’s funny how the things I fear most are desirable when Mikhail is concerned.

I change into the new attire, and they fit me like a glove. There’s something so thrilling about the perfect way they grip my body and the precision between the color of the fabric and my skin. It’s as if he’s touching every bit of me. Grabbing my water bottle, I take one last lustful look at myself and follow the rest of the dancers to the rehearsal. He dressed me.

When rehearsal ends and everyone leaves, I find a sandwich sitting on the bench in front of the cubbies. I don’t feel nearly as guilty as I should when I snatch it up and take it to the basement while I wait. Not a single girl here couldn’t replace a sandwich, and this one looks especially good.

I wait in the basement, stuffing my face like the thief I am, until finally, it’s silent except for the few ghostly hints of music that always disappear when you try hard enough to listen. Once I’m sure it’s clear, I return to the rehearsal room. Last night was an exception, not the rule. I’m not just here to pass out somewhere warm. I finally have a place to practice, so I’ll be worthy of this gorgeous fucking leotard.

Even alone, my cheeks burn when I place my hands over the barre. A full day has passed, and Mikhail was nowhere to be seen at rehearsal or after. There’s no reason to flash hot with desire at the memory. It’s even stupider still to hope he might show up and give me an encore.

Get it together, Lyla. That’s not what you’re here for.

I skip the music, choosing to let my mind wander and meld with the choreography. Starting the routine, I get it wrong straightaway, missing a step. It’s embarrassing and frustrating. I expect more.

Mikhail’s words play on repeat in my head as I push myself harder. I fall and hit the ground hard, but I stand and do it again and again. The clock is ticking, and I have no choice but to push as hard as I can or give up, and giving up means letting Carter win.

My mother’s memory doesn’t deserve that.

It’s past two in the morning when I call it quits and go over to wash myself in the sink and change my clothes. I plan on waking up in less than three hours, and I briefly worry I should have finished up sooner and given myself a little more time. That type of sleep schedule never bothered me before, but I can feel how worn down I am, more so than I thought possible.

I pick through the cubbies until I find that someone left an apple in theirs. It may be stealing, but who wants a pest problem? I eat it while listening to music.

I climb into my pile of stunt pads and build the wall to hide me even more carefully this time. No one saw me last night, so they shouldn’t see me tonight. I’m humming to myself when I fall asleep.

Day after day, it goes the same. I eat better because the ballerinas always forget some food item or give up on it to keep their figures. I wait for someone to wonder who is eating the dressing room food, but that never happens. They simply don’t care enough to even ask.

My routine is improving, and Eduard doesn’t look so disappointed when he critiques me.

This situation is the answer to my prayers. I’m always warm, I can practice, and I’m safe from Carter. I’m easily a better dancer than I was a few weeks ago, and my cheeks are even rosy. My body is still dangerously thin, and I’m worried about what might happen to me long-term if I don’t find access to stable food soon, especially with how hard I’m pushing myself physically.

I go to the laundrette one afternoon, clean all my clothes, and get more stuff from my car. I leave enough behind in case Carter is watching, but I have a few good items with me.

Including my pajamas, which I fall asleep in with a silly, hopeful smile on my lips.