Free Pointe by Brandy Colbert

ex-boyfriend come flooding in.
    I remember how we used to drive out to the abandoned park because nobody would think to look for us among the overgrown paths and rusted swing sets. He’d always bring something for us to share—a small, flat bottle of whiskey, a fresh pack of Camel Reds. Anything that might relax me, make me feel better about the things we did when we were alone.
    So many firsts happened in that park. My first taste of strong liquor. The first time I was touched between my legs, the first time a long, slow path was kissed along my breasts. The first time I saw a guy completely naked and held him in my hand.
    It was also the first time I told someone “I love you.”
    It was easy to believe he felt the same way. Especially when his mouth curved into a small smile, when he kissed me long and deep. Those times, the sex was sweet. Slow.
Making love,
he’d say as he held my stare.
I love making love to you, Theo.
    Then there was fucking. Hard and fast and no time for kissing. Just grunting and grabbing. Eyes squeezed into slivers, lips tense with effort. I was surprised the first time because I still responded to him. My body didn’t mind the new way of doing it. But I felt used afterward. Disposable. He never looked in my eyes when we were fucking.
    I yearned for him to look at me, to make that connection. His eyes were hypnotic enough to captivate me, even as he lay on top of me, sweating and drowsy after I’d given him what he wanted.
    It’s those eyes that cause me to stumble on a double pirouette a few moments later. Marisa notices. So does Ruthie.
    It doesn’t help that she’s a machine, Ruthie Pathman. She barely seems to break a sweat during class, but she always works her ass off. She may roll her eyes when Josh and I talk about our careers and she may pretend like she doesn’t want it as much as we do, but she
does
.
If I wasn’t sure before, the determined set of her jaw, the spark in her eyes lets me know how true it is now.
    At the end of class, Marisa asks me to stay behind and I’m cursing myself for practically falling apart until she calls Ruthie and Josh’s names, too.
    I glance at the piano, where Hosea slides the day’s sheet music into a single stack, slings his backpack over one shoulder, and nods in our general direction before filing out of the room behind the rest of the company. I feel Ruthie’s eyes on me as he leaves, but I look down at the floor, stare at the scuff marks that swoop across my pointe shoes.
    Marisa closes the door behind Hosea, stands in front of the mirrored wall, and gestures for us to sit down in front of her. She’s wearing her standard outfit—a black long-sleeved leotard under a thin white wrap skirt, black leggings, and plain ballet slippers.
    â€œI don’t think I have to tell you why you’re here. But just in case . . . Well, you’re my best.” She smiles big, stops to look at each of us. “You have my full support if you’d like to audition for next year’s summer intensives.”
    A professional career has always seemed so far away, but one day, Josh, Ruthie, and I will headline our favorite ballets.
Coppélia. Giselle. Sleeping Beauty. Swan Lake.
Josh was damn near tailor-made for the role of Prince Siegfried and every little girl pictures herself dancing Odile at least once in her lifetime. We don’t kill ourselves practicing all those fouettés for nothing.
    But first, our sights are set on summer programs, at one of the best schools in the country. It’s the next logical step if you’re on our path. The word is that Marisa recommends summer intensive auditions to only a couple of her students each year, if that. And we don’t need her permission to audition, but Marisa doesn’t make mistakes.
    I try to bite back a smile, but I can’t help it. Even my sick stomach and weak legs can’t ruin this moment. These are the