Stupid Cupid

Oh, your motorcycle is looking particularly deadly today

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Excuse the mistakes

Picture of Reed's Mom on the side (fun fact, her mom's name is Claire)-->

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 I wasn’t breathing.

This was the third time in the last ten minutes that I was doing this set of turns. My lungs had long ago given up, and they would only work if I wasn’t doing something that required a lot of focus and balance. So, breathing during turns, side aerials, and pretty much my whole dance routine was just not going to happen.

As the music ended, I finished my last turn, touched the floor for second, and did an aerial. I landed gently on my knee. As I kneeled there, panting but otherwise frozen, Katja, the owner of my dance studio and choreographer of my dance, stood up from her chair.

Without a word, Katja nodded once and walked out of the studio. I let out a choked sound of relief and flopped onto my back on the hard, rubber floor.

Contrary to popular belief, Katja not saying anything to me after an hour and a half of working on a dance was a good thing. It meant that she didn’t have any corrections. When Katja said something, it was usually in a mixture of English and Russian that scared the crap out of me.

Russian was a very aggressive-sounding language, especially when you had no idea what Katja was saying.

As my heart attempted to return to its regular pace, the door to the studio opened. My head lolled to the side, and I saw Zephyr standing just outside the door. She was wearing a pair of yoga pants and an electric blue Bella Dance Company t-shirt, which was the name of our studio.

“What do you want?” I moaned, folding my hands on my sweaty forehead, “Can’t you see I’m dying?”

“You’re fine,” Zephyr replied, rolling her eyes at my overdramatic admission of impending death. “And,” she continued, “That fake boyfriend of yours, who is waiting at the front desk, is also pretty damn fine.”

“What?” I sat straight up, wincing as the sudden movement stretched my sore muscles. “Parker’s here?” I asked shrilly, “At this studio?”

“Yep,” Zephyr quipped as she casually untwisted the strap of her tank top. “Now get out there before the other dancers start throwing themselves at him.”

“Why should I care about that?” I replied, pushing myself up to my feet, “We’re not actually dating, Zeph.”

“Well, you should be,” Zephyr stated, flicking her bangs out of her eyes, “Parker’s hot.” Before I could respond, Zephyr gestured towards the front desk with her hand, and after giving me a stern look, she turned and walked out of the studio.

As I watched the door swing shut slowly behind her, it hit me that I’d never told Parker where I danced. I frowned and started to stomp out of the studio to demand to know how he’d found out, but then I became intensely aware of how I must look.

My hair had been thrown carelessly up into a ponytail, and my eyeliner and mascara was smudged, which made me look sort of like a crack whore. Not to mention, I was wearing just a sports bra and a pair of short, spandex shorts.

I thought about grabbing my sweatpants and a t-shirt to cover up, but then I decided not to. I had a pretty nice body because of my years of dancing, and I wasn’t going to hide it. I wasn’t embarrassed.