Brookside Academy

10 - Meet Madame

minor tw // mention of disordered eating

I swear I lose three pounds in sweat waiting for Ms. Denotti to finish class. Ben is unfazed next to me, but I have Yale on the line. Any one slip up ruins my chances.

When the bell rings, I can already hear my ballet instructor yelling at me in her thick Russian accent. I am going to be late to rehearsal, and I will be on the receiving end of her rage.

Though, I can't say my mind isn't elsewhere when Ms. Denotti closes the door behind the stream of people leaving, Ryan and Will's apologetic glances among them. The lights in here are real antique lamps, not the fluorescent bulbs in most of the newer classrooms. As the intimidating woman turns toward us, she tilts her head at a door in the back of the hall, and begins walking with her heels making a satisfying click. She doesn't check that Ben and I are following, she doesn't have to. She knows we are.

We take our places in leather chairs on the opposite side of a large mahogany desk. The fear in my eyes is evident as Ms. Denotti takes her place and clears her throat.

"Miss Carmichael, Mister Sterling. As you well know, this is a learning environment. Your actions turned today's lesson into a spectacle, one I would rather you keep outside of these walls. I understand you may be rather at odds with each other," she scans our faces, "it is evident in your expressions, but you must respect the room in which you sit. I don't joke around with anyone, and I don't take shit from seventeen year olds who think they know better than an ivy league educated political scientist. Do I make myself clear to you both?"

Did she just say shit? I think she just said shit.

Regardless, I nod, looking Ben in the eyes. He shrugs.

Giving him a taste of his own medicine, Ms. Denotti raises an eyebrow at the boy sitting next to me. At her expression, he nods, albeit nonchalantly. God forbid anyone disrupt his devil may care attitude.

Our teacher looks at us, as if to silently ask: anything else? We mutter thank yous and walk out of the small office, back into the lecture hall, and eventually into the sunlight. Checking my watch, I realize it's five minutes past the beginning of rehearsal. If I can do a quick(er) change, which is unlikely in this multipart uniform, I'm looking at about 10 minutes late to class. Fuck.

Ben opens his mouth to say something to me as we turn the corner back to main campus, but I run away with a wave and a mutter of something that doesn't even sound like English. I'm in deep deep shit right now. I cannot deal with his remarks.

•••

It takes me three minutes to make it from Denotti's lecture hall to the fine arts building.

It takes me five to change, since my hair refused to sit in the bun my teacher requires.

By the time I walk onto the familiar flooring, my conservatory classmates have moved from center stretching to barre work. I catch my ballet best friend Mariana mid-plié, my spot in front of the mirror saved directly behind her.

I never make it to the space though, as I hear a cough behind me, followed by the tilted Russian voice of my Vaganova trained instructor. I really wish she wouldn't do this in front of the entire class, but Madame Orlov is a big believer in public shame.

"Miss Carmichael. Wonderful of you to join us."

"I apologize Madame, you see, I got caught up in my gover-" she cuts me off with a stomp of her foot.

"I could not care less about your other courses, Miss Carmichael. When you are in my conservatory you are expected to be punctual.

I start again, "But-"