Very Wicked Things (Briarwood Academy 2)

The hinges on the wooden door squeaked when I opened it and walked in the studio. The little girls stopped their exercises and openly gaped at me. I hadn’t even brushed my teeth or my hair in days, but it didn’t matter. I made my way to her, a fire burning in my chest.

“I want to dance,” I said fiercely, stopping in front of Sarah, close enough to see the fine lines that feathered out from her eyes. “I’m tall and skinny. I can do fifty push-ups. I can outrun a grown man. Even my gym teacher says I’m flexible, just like a rubber band.” I stretched my ams up high, leaned over backwards and did a backbend kick over. Hey, it wasn’t ballet, but it was a pretty cool move.

My shirt had ridden up, so I tugged it down. “Can’t pay you, but I can take out the trash. Maybe do your laundry in the basement? It’s creepy down there, but I’m brave.” I held my breath for a moment. ”Wanna teach me?”

Sarah let out a tiny puff of air, as if I’d surprised her. She opened her mouth to speak, but paused as if she was thinking and reevaluating. This was the most I’d ever said to her at one time.

“Please,” my voice thickened. “I’ll give it everything. You’ll never have a better student than me. And I already know ballet.” I didn’t mention that I frequently picked the lock to her studio and made full use of the facilities. I didn’t mention that I’d stolen numerous ballet DVDs from the library. Juvie was probably in my future.

“Katerina—”

“My name is Dovey. Like the bird.” Only my father used the Russian name.

She nodded. “I’ve already let you and your mother live here rent free for the past two months. Look around,” she said, waving her arms at the peeling paint on the walls. “This place is falling down around me because I don’t have the money to repair it. I can barely afford to fix the plumbing in my own apartment.”

I stared at her.

“And I don’t have time to teach a beginner,” she added.

“The stairwell’s a mess. There’s trash everywhere. Maybe I could pick it up for you?”

Silence from her.

Didn’t she know that once I set my mind to something, it was a done deal? Mama said it was the Russian in me. I think it was just me. Failure was not an option.

I would dance. I would, I would.

“I will die here.” Truth. “I want out. I want something better than what I have.”

She gazed at me with a pained expression, knowing my circumstances.

“Don’t want your pity,” I said, thrusting my chest out. Pity is for losers and weaklings. “I want somebody to believe in me.” I backed up, bumping into one of the other girls, who quickly gave me room.

My body was cold, but I forced my limbs to work. “Look at this,” I said, attempting a simple plié. Giving my best, I did the duck-feet thing and bent my knees, keeping my heels on the floor, but in the end, my jeans were too thick to get a proper position, and I weaved. I powered on and tried again, this time keeling over and busting my butt.

The little girls snickered.

Red-faced, I stood, refusing to give up so easily.

To their astonishment—if their open mouths were anything to go by—I unsnapped my pants and jerked them off, throwing them across the room. Standing in my old underwear and sleep shirt, I put my feet in the proper position and did the plié again, this time without stumbling. This time summoning every scrap of control I had to stay put.

Sarah didn’t look impressed.

Fear of winding up like my mama spurred me on. “First position,” I said, executing the movement. “Second position, third, fourth.” I moved my arms and legs how I thought they should go, yet it felt awkward, my limbs not cooperating like the videos.

I needed lessons.

“And here’s my favorite, fifth position,” I said, lifting my arms up and rounding them out over my head. I tried to align my feet, praying I resembled a ballerina inside a music box.

Silence for at least a minute as she stared at me, her eyes lingering on my limbs. Taking advantage, I did a pirouette and stumbled, probably resembling a drunken Tasmanian devil.

She gave me a quizzical look. “Your form is off. But you’ve had lessons?”

I shook my head.

“Then how do you know ballet?” she said, waving her arms at me.

I tapped my noggin. “I’m quite gifted.”

She assessed me. “I’m not surprised.”

“My mama says I’m different.”

“It’s good to be different,” she added.

I nodded. Sure.

“Do you love ballet?” she asked me.

“More than anything.”

She sighed, her eyes wary. I’m no mind reader, but I recognized hesitation when I saw it. Being near me—teaching me—was dangerous because of who I was. No one wanted to associate with the little girl who belonged to the hooker and the rich man.

Her face softened. “Don’t make me regret this, Dovey. Extra ballet slippers are in the basket by the door. Oh, and put your pants back on, please.” She smiled.

I practically skipped over and grabbed a pair, elation erupting inside me. “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

She knelt down to face me. “Today, we’ve been working on embracing our roles when we do ballet. Dance lets you be anything you want to be, Dovey. A snowflake, a toy mouse, a witch, a forest fairy. Who do you want to be today?”

“I don’t know.” It was all so much to choose from, and it was my first day.