Do Me a Favor

One

Posy

I’ve just broken in this pair of pointe shoes and they’re already ruined.

They’re caked in filth and puddle water, growing more and more soaked by the moment as I’m dragged forcefully through the dingy, moonlit alley. My ballet coach, Baker, has my arm in a vise grip and no amount of convincing will make him release me.

Mid-way through rehearsal for Giselle, he pulled me from the stage and hauled me out of the theater with a look of disgust on his aristocratic face. We drove thirty minutes to an unfamiliar neighborhood, well outside of the city. I have no idea where we are or what he has planned. God knows this man has unconventional coaching methods. As one of the best, he gets away with more than most. But this?

I’m scared.

Make that terrified.

“Please, let go of me.” The words scrape the sides of my raw throat. “Where are we going? I need to get back to rehearsal.”

My ballet coach scoffs, digging his fingers deeper into the bone of my arm. “There is no point in you being there. You’re not focused, Posy. You’re making a fool out of us both.”

“I’ll try harder. Please.”

Unmoved by my begging, he yanks me harder and I stumble along behind him. Where does this alley lead? It runs along the side of an abandoned warehouse. The only sound is dripping water from a drainpipe and a car alarm going off in the distance. And my labored breathing. My occasional sobs.

“You were cast as the principal dancer in the company’s biggest production in years. They are spending millions revitalizing the theater and advertising to the masses. All because you showed so much promise. More than any ballerina in a decade. And you are squandering the opportunity, Posy. For both of us. And do you know why?”

“No. I’m not squandering anything—”

“You have sex on the brain. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

I stumble in the wake of those words. Huh?

“I-I don’t understand what you mean.”

Baker mimics my response with a high-pitched impression. “Always chatting with the male dancers. Fixing your makeup. Did you think I wouldn’t notice you’d padded your bra?”

My face swarms with heat.

Oh lord. If my coach noticed, so did everyone else.

I only added a thinly padded cup. What else was I supposed to do after Baker told me he overheard the other dancers laughing about my “Tic Tac Tits”? I started wearing makeup for the same reason. Ever since I was cast as Giselle, I’ve become the target of every joke, every criticism. I’m a walking target to the others. Isn’t Baker constantly telling me that? Recounting the things they say about me? Their laughter at my expense?

I’ve become so isolated at the company.

As for speaking to the male dancers, they’re only my friends—and barely that. We rarely discuss anything but lifts.

“I can explain everything. I don’t have s-sex on the brain. I’ve never even…” Too much information, Posy. He probably suspects I’m still a virgin at age eighteen, but there’s no need to confirm it for him. “Well, I-I wouldn’t even know what to think about, exactly. I promise I am one hundred percent focused on dancing. On Giselle. It’s just there is so much pressure—”

“Pressure you seek to distract yourself from—with boys. Do you think I’m stupid?” We reach the end of the alleyway and he wrenches open a steel door with his free hand. “You are not going to ruin this chance for us.”

He pulls me into the pitch black warehouse and my heart shoots into my throat, ice forming a layer on my spine. “Why are we here? Why did you bring me here?”

“I have a surefire way to cure you of this fascination with men. Oh yes. Then we can finally get back to focusing on what matters. Giselle. The power that will come with a command performance.” He flips on his iPhone flashlight and shines it down a narrow corridor. At the end of the ominous hallway is another door. Light shines around the edges.

A shadow moves on the other side.

There is someone in there.

“One night with my lunatic brother should cure you real fast, Posy.” Baker laughs and hauls me harder, baring his teeth and pulling me forward with all of his might—which is more than required, because the tops of my pointe shoes are digging into the concrete floor, my body lurching in the opposite direction. One night with my brother.

One night with my brother.