a sum of small things | camren (au)

the third year | april - june

A/N:

It's been 84 years, but we're back.

:::

What happens after shows like this, is grand and important, and not for anyone who doesn't belong there. People get together to congratulate each other; the dancers, the choreographers. There's talk about artistic vision, the new dancing season, the importance of keeping classics like this alive. One person will be shaking hands with someone over here, while this investor wants to talk to someone over there. It's a spinning carousel of money and power and influence, and you've grown up right in the middle of it, so you shouldn't feel so wildly out of place, but you do.

The London Royal Opera House is not for girls in leather jackets who just crossed the Atlantic Ocean.

Still, you make your way through the crowds, taking a flute of champagne from a high table, looking around, scanning the room for familiar faces, for—

Someone's hand catches on your arm, and for a second, for one blazing second, you think it's going to be her.

(you're thinking I'm not ready, and I missed you so much, and look at me please this time just look at me.)

And then you turn around, and there's an older lady in front of you, who is holding out her hand and says, "Aren't you Clara Jauregui's daughter?"

"Yes," you hear yourself say. Your voice sounds hoarse. You haven't talked to anyone in hours and hours. "That's me."

Small talk gets you through the next twenty minutes. Slowly, some of the crowds begin to disperse.

"Excuse me," you say, halfway through the lady's story about her own past as a ballerina. "Do you happen to know where I can find the artist's exit?"

She looks a little affronted, but points in a certain direction.

"Thank you," you say. "I'm sorry. I need to go." You run a hand through your hair, trying to sound confident when you add, "I'm here to see someone."

:::

april

:::

"Again."

You push off, straighten your spine, try to breathe through the harsh strain in your ankle, spin in the direction of the mirror as controlled as you can, just like you practiced, just like you're meant to—

"Again, Lauren. This looks sloppy."

You sigh hard. "God, what is wrong this time?"

Davis raises his eyebrows. "Your attitude, for one."

You push your sweaty hair back, hand on your hip, your breathing ragged. There's a nagging sort of tension in your leg, not exactly pain, but something close to it. You've been cleared to dance a little bit each day, and rather than using the opportunity to brush up on your classical technique, like you're mother wants you to, you've chosen to spend your energy in Davis's classes, working on your choreography piece. That is, if he'll even let you dance for more than ten seconds without snapping at you to start again.

"It's not the movement," he says, stepping close. "It's this." He puts his finger against your temple. "Where's your head at?"

Oh.

You try to swallow the guilt away.

"Nothing," you mumble.

You can't tell him.

You wouldn't even know where to start.

The stress and frustration from not getting any acceptance letters, the uncertainty of what things are going to be like after the summer, the way Keana's lips had felt so soft against yours, and how you didn't really want it to happen, but the fact that you also didn't exactly hate it. The mess that is your thoughts, the guilt — should you tell her, should you not?