When Kylo Johnson - an aspiring dancer and college students finally gets the opportunity of a lifetime to attend his dream school in the bustling city of New York City. After a night of unfortunate events he finds himself in the hands of the city's...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"SHIT . . . FUCK,"
The swear words fly from my mouth uncontrollably as I scowl at the small tear in my tights underneath my shorts. I stared at the black hosiery's fray that landed at the side of my calf, hoping that it was my eyes playing tricks on me. But no, as my finger brushed along it, careful to not do more damage, I could feel my skin underneath. "Fuck." Did I scrape it against the bar? Did my bag's zipper snap at it? Did I simply not notice it prior and it's been there for much longer? The latter thought made me slightly dizzy. There's no way.
"Kylo?"
Looking up I stared up into the soft eyes of my fellow dancer Penelope. She looked at me with slight worry, noticing the panic on my face I was failing at hiding. "You okay? You seem panicked?"
I exhale a low sigh, hand running over through my hair. "I'm just a dumbass," I say aloud.
"U-um," I paused, taking a look around the rest of the dance studio. No one else seemed to be looking your way, busy with putting on their own tights or perfecting their bun. "Here, look." Pushing out my calf I exposed the small – barely three-inch – tear. Penelope looked down, squinting her eyes to better focus on the leg. A few seconds later she met my eyes with the same panic I had inside.
"Do you have a spare?" she whispered, looking over to my gym bag. She looked like she had a small twitch, her body reacting in a way that made it seem that she wanted to rummage through the zippered bag too.
"No," I hushed back, "there's nothing in that damn bag but thoughts and prayers. I'm so fucking stupid." Barely a second went by before I noticed Penelope quickly going through her own bag – also trying to not draw attention to the situation. "I'll see if I have my other pair," she murmured.
This is why I love Penelope Jones. She wasn't like every other Prima Ballerina wannabe bitch who would laugh in my face if they noticed my attire fluke. She genuinely cared for others and wanted the best for everyone. I noticed that the day I met her at orientation, she smiled at everyone and cared little for the enormous amount of competition that came out of people in this program. Instead of stepping on people with her pointe shoes, she was the angel who would help you get back up – with a graceful hand while at it. A true diamond in the rough.
She looked back at me with a grim look, tucking her ginger stray hairs bend her ear – a nervous habit. "Sorry, Kylo . . . I don't have mine either."
Well, this was just perfect.
I gave a grateful smile anyway; the only person I knew I could ask for help in this room. "Well," I looked down at my torn tights once again before adjusting the rest of my outfit, "let's go." I shrugged, a defeated breath escaping my lips.
I stood at the bar with Pen to my left, completing warmups that my mind didn't even have to process. After years of ballet and hours and hours of warmups, my body went into a robotic mode that gave me the ability and finish quickly and efficiently. Flex. Point. Shift. Flex. Point. Shift. Trying to go unnoticed, I did go one rep less on my right side, quick to go back to my left to hide my tights from the class's view.
