Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 137433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
“That’s not true,” I murmur, knowing I’m being an annoying brainiac prude and still not able to stop myself. “What about Eleanor Roosevelt? And Harriet Tubman, Ma—”
“La la la la la.” Katia pretends to block her ears, strutting to the door. “This is college. I’m here to have fun, not learn something new.” She puts her hand on the door handle, stopping to glance behind her shoulder. “Sure you don’t wanna come to Luis’s party? The textbooks aren’t going anywhere.”
“I know. And I’m still positive.” I drop my phone on the throw pillow I’m clutching and gesture toward my ankle. It is currently the size of a tennis ball. “I should probably stay off my feet.”
Katia winces. “Did you at least kill it in the audition?”
More like the audition killed me. Hence why you need to get out of here so I can drown in painkillers, low-stakes reality Netflix competitions, and self-pity.
“Yup,” I pop the P. “You have fun for both of us, okay?”
“Scout’s honor.” She raises two fingers.
“Text me if you feel unsafe,” I say, as I always do whenever she goes out. That’s me. Bailey Followhill. Designated driver. Straight-edged, straight-A mathlete. Charity enthusiast. Voted Most Likely to Become the First Female President. Mommy and Daddy’s pride and joy.
Always there to pick up the slack my older, shinier sister leaves behind. That’s just who I am. Little Miss Goody Two-Shoes.
“See you in the a.m., babe.” Katia finger tickles the air.
She leaves me in a cloud of hairspray fumes and despair. I swing my gaze to the ceiling. The room smears behind a coat of my unshed tears. The pain in my legs and spine is so acute, I have to bite my inner cheek until blood fills my mouth. I know what to do. I’ve been doing it for weeks. Okay, months. It’s a temporary solution, but it works wonders and makes the pain go away.
Inhaling sharply, I fling myself off the bunk bed and skulk my way to my padlocked diary. The one Mom gave me the day I moved into the dorms.
“Document everything, Bailey. Every tear. Every smile. Every fail, every win. And remember—diamonds are made under pressure. Shine always, my lovebug.”
I unlock the diary with the key, which I keep buried under a potted plant—yes, I keep plants here to ensure Katia and I get good, clean oxygen. Inside, there are no pages. No words. No ink. I guess it’s a good metaphor for my existence. The way I gutted the glittery, pink-leathered journal my third week at Juilliard and placed a five-and-a-half-by-eight-and-a-half-inch box containing my pills there instead. I don’t have a prescription drug problem—mainly because my doctor hasn’t been prescribing me drugs for months now. So I found other ways to get them.
Dr. Haddock had wanted me to get a cast on my right ankle and go on a four-week bedrest followed by physiotherapy. “I can’t prescribe you more Vicodin, Bailey. May I remind you we’re in the midst of an oxy epidemic?”
I pleaded and begged, argued and bargained, then dished out anecdotal facts to support my quest for painkillers. He ended up prescribing me some Motrin 800 to pull me through my audition today. An audition that was supposed to redeem my failing grade at ballet and dance composition. I gave it my all. Every ounce of energy. Stretched every ligament and muscle to its limit. But it wasn’t enough.
I wasn’t enough.
“I can tell you want this badly, Miss Followhill.” One of the senior choreographers tapped her pen over her clipboard rhythmically, her mouth downturned in dissatisfaction. “But passion without skill is like fuel without a vehicle. You need to work on your Alexander Technique. To relearn how to work your basic movements. You need to revise your plié and tendu. Go back to the roots.”
Slamming my eyes shut, I shake my head, making her words dissipate. Half the time I don’t even know if I want to be ballerina or if it’s the only thing I’ve ever meant to be. My destiny was written for me from the moment I was born, and I went along with it. Mom saw a potential, scouters agreed, letters of invitation from ballet institutions began pouring in when I was around eleven, and that was it. I was on the fast-track to becoming a ballerina.
I reach for the box and pat its insides. There’s only one Motrin left. Not a benzo to pick up my mood or a Vicodin to take the edge off.
“What the luck?” I hiss. Katia must’ve stolen a bunch. She somehow got her hand on my key. I know I had a couple Xannies lying around. No way did I consume all of them in less than a week.
I grab the pill and swallow it without water, then pick up my so-called diary and hurl it against the window with a yelp. It slams against the glass and collapses on the floor. The empty cardboard dislocates, placed face down on the old carpet, like a prima ballerina in dying swan position. The professors’ voices twirled in my head a few minutes after they thought I left the room. Instead, I was still kneeling behind the curtain, holding my ankle and trying not to sob through the pain.