Chapter 2 The Lion's Den
The glass front doors of the Vance Academy are heavy. I've polished the brass handles of these doors a thousand times, but I've never actually walked through them as anything other than the help. Usually, I'm slipping in through the service entrance near the dumpsters, smelling like the morning's trash and industrial-grade soap.
Today, the air is different. Cold. It bites at the exposed skin of my neck. I'm wearing my only pair of leggings that don't have a visible hole in the crotch and an oversized grey hoodie that's seen better decades. My backpack is a faded nylon thing I found at a thrift store three years ago. It's stuffed with a pair of socks and the cheap, battered sneakers I used for shadow-dancing in the alley.
I don't have a leotard. I don't have pink tights. I definitely don't have the $120 leather dance bag the girl in front of me is swinging around like a weapon.
I take a breath, push the door open, and step inside.
The lobby is a cathedral of ego. High ceilings, white walls covered in photos of famous alumni, and the constant, rhythmic clack-clack-clack of pointe shoes on hardwood. The noise usually doesn't bother me when I'm holding a mop, but today, it sounds like a firing squad.
I head toward the front desk. The receptionist, Sheila, has ignored my existence for six months. She looks up and blinks, her eyes raking over my hoodie and my messy bun.
"Deliveries are in the back, Zoe," she says, her voice flat. She doesn't look at my face; she looks at my shoes.
I pull the scholarship letter out of my pocket. The paper is slightly damp from my nervous palms. I slide it across the marble counter. "I'm not delivering anything, Sheila. I'm in the Winter Gala program."
Sheila picks up the paper like it's covered in a contagious disease. She reads it twice. Her mouth thins into a narrow line, and for a second, I think she's going to tell me it's a forgery.
"Locker 412," she says finally, shoving a plastic keycard toward me. "The dress code is strictly enforced, Vane. Try not to look like you're here to fix the plumbing."
I snatch the card and walk away before I say something that gets me expelled before my first class.
The locker room is worse. It's a sea of high-gloss ponytails and expensive perfume. As soon as I walk in, the conversation doesn't just fade out. It dies. Twenty pairs of eyes lock onto me with a mix of confusion and disgust, like I'm a smudge of dirt on a pristine window.
I find locker 412. It's tucked in the corner, right next to the trash bin. Fitting.
"Are you lost?"
I turn around. Standing there is a girl with hair pulled so tight I'm surprised she can blink, wearing a leotard that probably costs more than my mom's monthly grocery budget. Behind her stands a group of girls who look like her carbon copies.
"I'm Zoe," I say, my voice sounding louder and rougher than I intended. "I'm here for the Advanced Contemporary block."
She laughs. It's a sharp, tinkling sound that doesn't reach her eyes. "Oh. You're the janitor girl. The 'Outreach' project." She says the word like it's a slur. "I'm Sloane. My father is on the Board. He mentioned they were bringing in some local flavor for the Gala. I just didn't realize it would be so literal." She looks at my backpack. "Is that where you keep your Windex?"
The girls behind her giggle. I feel the heat rising in my chest, that familiar stinging burn. I want to tell her that I've seen her cry in the bathroom after rehearsal. I want to tell her I know she hides protein bars in her locker because she's starving herself to stay thin. I know all their secrets because they treated me like furniture for months.
"At least I don't need a Board of Directors to tell me I'm good, Sloane," I snap. I shove my bag into the locker and slam the metal door. The sound echoes like a gunshot in the silent room. "I'm here because Elias asked me to be. Not because my daddy paid for the seat."
Sloane's face flushes a deep, ugly red. She turns her back on me, and the girls follow, a wall of silk and privilege shutting me out.
I sit down on the wooden bench, my hands shaking. I look at my feet. My socks have a hole in the toe. I tuck them under my sneakers so no one can see.
When the bell rings, I follow the crowd to Studio A. It is massive, with floor-to-ceiling mirrors that reflect every single one of my flaws. Right in the center of the floor, stretching with bored grace, is Caspian Thorne. He doesn't look up when the class enters. He's focused on his own reflection, checking the line of his leg.
Coach Elias enters and claps his hands. "Center floor. Now."
I find a spot in the back, but Elias points to the front. "Vane. Front and center."
Caspian finally looks up. His eyes meet mine in the mirror, and his lip curls. Click. I walk to the front. Every step feels like I'm walking through deep mud. I stand next to Caspian. The contrast is ridiculous. He's a statue of elite training; I'm a mess of hoodies and adrenaline.
"Today we are working on weight distribution," Elias barks. "The Gala piece requires a fusion of styles. Conflict and resolution. Thorne, you'll be partnering with Vane for the semester."
Caspian drops his leg and turns to Elias, face pale. "Sir, you can't be serious. I'm the lead. I should be with Sloane or —"
"Sloane is predictable, Caspian," Elias interrupts, his voice like flint. "You are technically perfect, and you are boring. You need friction to create fire. Zoe is your friction."
Caspian looks at me like I'm a pile of trash.
"I won't have my grade dragged down by a janitor who doesn't know a glissade from a garage door," he says, voice low and dangerous.
I step closer, ignoring the smell of his expensive soap and the way my heart is trying to hammer its way out of my chest. "Don't worry, Thorne," I whisper, loud enough for only him to hear. "I'll try not to get any 'poor' on you. But if you drop me, I'll make sure the floor is the last thing you ever feel."
"Positions," Elias commands.
Caspian reaches out and places a hand on my waist. His grip is cold. He doesn't hold me like a partner; he holds me like a chore. I place my hand on his shoulder. His muscles are like granite.
"Begin."
The piano starts a slow, haunting melody. Caspian moves, trying to force me into his rhythm. I resist. I pull against him, my street-honed muscles clashing with his ballet-trained precision. It's not a dance. It's a war.
As he spins me, his eyes inches from mine, I see a flicker in his gaze. Not just hate. But recognition. He knows I'm not just here for the paycheck. And I know he's terrified that I'm the only one who can see how hollow he really is.
By the time the music stops, I am drenched in sweat. My muscles are screaming, and my feet, used to the flat support of sneakers, are throbbing in the cheap ballet slippers I borrowed from the lost-and-found. Caspian lets go of me as if my skin burned him.
"Watch your alignment," he snarls, wiping his hands on his tights. "You're heavy. Like you're still carrying the bucket."
"And you're stiff," I retort, gasping for air. "Like you've got a silver spoon shoved too far up your spine."
The rest of the class is staring. Sloane looks like she wants to murder me. Elias just watches from the corner, his face unreadable. I want to run. I want to go back to the Flats, to the noisy apartment where the only thing I have to worry about is the rent.
But then I think of Lumi. I think of the way she looked at her old pointe shoes this morning before I left, shoes she can never wear again.
I straighten my back. I don't care if they hate me. I don't care if Caspian thinks I'm heavy. I'm going to win that prize money, and I'm going to do it by stepping all over their inherited grace.
I look Caspian dead in the eye. "Same time tomorrow, Thorne? Try to keep up."
I walk out of the studio without looking back. My feet are bleeding, but for the first time in a year, I'm not scrubbing someone else's dirt. I'm making my own.