Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 44617 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 223(@200wpm)___ 178(@250wpm)___ 149(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44617 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 223(@200wpm)___ 178(@250wpm)___ 149(@300wpm)
So now, I just needed to salvage what was left.
“Please go,” I said, turning my face away. “Just go.”
Mr. Channing knelt before me then, taking my hands in his big ones.
“You’re special to me Laney Jones,” was all he growled. “You’re special, don’t forget that.”
His hands felt so warm, so reassuring, but I didn’t believe it for one second. Because I hated that word “special.” It meant nothing, it was just an empty phrase, a mean-nothing, toss-off filler that he was using because we were in a bad spot. So I refused to look at him, jerking my chin away.
“Go,” was my final word, low and trembly. “Go.”
And with that, the big man got to his feet, huge form looming, taking up all the space in the room.
“I’ll be back,” was all he said. “I’ll be back.”
And with long strides, he was out the door. I sat wooden in the chair, heart racing, unable to move as the sound of a car’s wheels screeched outside. That must be Thorn and his buddy, with Miss Lane tied up in the backseat. But I didn’t want to think about it anymore, because tiredness washed over me in a wave then. The events of the afternoon had been crazy, and suddenly I was boneless, weak and helpless, collapsing to the floor.
“Laney!” screamed my mom, scrabbling over to help me. “Laney!”
But the world grew dark, my vision going black. Because I was nothing. The man I adored had come to save me, but his actions underlined what I already knew. Right now, I was the flavor of the moment, so he’d swooped in like Superman. But there was no substance behind it. There were no reasons behind Thorn’s infatuation, other than being young and available. So I gave into the wave then, drifting off. Better to go unconscious than think about the future and what it held. The darkness overcame me, and gratefully, I let myself go.
CHAPTER TEN
Laney
Six months later …
“Plié, one, two, three,” I chanted. “Plié, plié, now bow.”
The little girls in front of me giggled, and I couldn’t help but smile. They were so cute, tiny tots dressed up like Tinkerbell in pink leotards with baby ballet slippers. My heart warmed even as I smiled sadly.
Because I’ll never have a child of my own, and these little girls were a reminder of that. Since coming back to Kansas, I took my mom’s advice and opened up a ballet studio in the middle of town. It’d taken some persuasion on her part.
“You can do it Laney,” Mary encouraged. “You’re talented, real talented, people know you.”
“But Ma,” I’d protested, shaking my head. “No one’s going to come. Even if they can afford it, who wants to learn ballet out here? People here like cheerleading and football, not classical music.”
Mary frowned.
“We liked it, and we’re no different from our neighbors,” she scolded. “What, you think you’re better than them?” And seeing the shamed look on my face, my mom softened. “Honey, just give it a try, please? The rent is really cheap over at the mall, that tiny space would be perfect with a barre and some mirrors. Just give it a try.”
And so here I was now. Mary had emptied her bank account for the deposit on this place, and lo and behold, but folks signed up for classes. Or they signed up their daughters to be more accurate, and now I had full days spent teaching little girls the basics, how to move, how to balance, and how to feel the music.
Because dancing is still my escape, what brings me joy in these dark times. It’s been a horrible six months, and more than once I’ve finished a day at work, all cheerful smiles, only to collapse on my bed at home in tears. But slowly, things have gotten better. The girls are genuinely cute, and quite a few show promise. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, out here in rural Kansas, but several of my students and are fairly serious about pursuing ballet. Sometimes they ask me questions about my old life, and I try to answer as best I can.
“So what was it like at the Academy?” breathed Tania, a pretty pre-teen with especially narrow feet. “Was it hard?”
I nodded slowly.
“It was difficult, definitely. We practiced at least thirty hours a week. That’s every day, for hours at a time.”
Tania was stunned, her brown eyes widening in shock.
“But how?” she whispered. “Weren’t you tired?”
I smiled kindly.
“I was tired all the time, Tania,” I agreed. “But it was worth it. Because New York opens possibilities that you can’t imagine, it’s the type of place that makes your imagination fly.”
“I want to go there!” the pre-teen squealed. “Maybe my mom can take me next year!”
“Maybe,” I said kindly. “Auditions for the junior corps are held when a dancer turns fourteen, so maybe then.”