Beautiful Hell: A Contemporary High School Bully Romance Read online

  I love Madame Olenna. She is strict. Hell, she can be a cold-hearted and ridiculously demanding bitch more often than she is nice. But she appreciates talent. She nurtures it. She encourages it. Most importantly, she sees it in me, which is why she never tolerates the way they try to bully me around. As much as Giselle and Lorna try to make my life miserable, their attempts usually flounder between these four walls.

  The mistress is not done with them yet, though. “Lorna, your Penché makes you look like a thick tree tilting forward. It is beneath our standards. Take ten extra minutes to stretch before you get into it,” Madame Olenna says in her thick Russian accent.

  Sometimes, I imagine what she must’ve been like, headlining for the Bolshoi company.

  Her skin is wrinkled and slightly saggy here and there, but Madame Olenna could easily pass for a young-looking fifty-year old, even on a bad day. Despite the fact that she’s in her mid-seventies now, she’s as spry as a pixie. She has long white hair which she always keeps in a tight bun on the top of her head. Her blue Mongolian eyes watch us like famished hawks. There’s a love for life in that gaze, an unforgiving desire to create and witness nothing but excellence… it’s enough to kick my gears into motion anytime.

  Despite her strictness, she has a heart of gold. Mom used to say that good people are always beautiful, whereas bad people seem ugly, no matter how beautiful they are. Looking at Giselle and Lorna, I can see just how much that statement holds true.

  “Yes, Madame,” Giselle mutters, looking at herself in one of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors that cover all the training hall walls. There’s emptiness in her caramel eyes. A sadness of sorts. I get that she’s got a lot riding on this, much like the rest of us, but she doesn’t have to put anyone down in order to elevate herself.

  From an artistic point of view, Giselle is mediocre, at best. I don’t understand why she insists on auditioning for the lead parts in our school shows. She never gets them, anyway. Even Madame Olenna told her once, in front of her parents, that she should consider other career avenues. Needless to say, Giselle did not let that stop her. I’d normally applaud such perseverance, just not when it comes at my fucking expense. She and Lorna have been trying to screw me over for far too long.

  “Kira, make sure you warm your ankles up properly,” Madame Olenna says. She stands behind me, watching me through the mirror.

  Her gaze occasionally darts across the hall, checking the other students as well, but most of her attention is mine, and that is equal parts thrilling and terrifying. She always asks more of me. She’s asked more of me since I was seven, and my mom first brought me to Trinity High’s summer ballet program. Mom used to say that Madam Olenna is super strict with me because she has high expectations of me. I should be flattered, but there are moments when the thought of success is just… overwhelming.

  “Yes, Madame,” I reply.

  The last time I didn’t do a proper ankle warm-up I wound up with a sprain that benched me for three weeks. I was practically crying all the way until the time I was allowed to dance again. I don’t know what I would do without it. There’s not enough money in the world to replace my passion for ballet. Lord knows dad has tried to get me off the stage and into his office, promising fortunes and success. We live in Hampton Heights. We’re filthy rich… yet none of that matters, if I can’t dance. I hope I can make him understand that, someday.

  Madame Olenna moves around the hall, giving advice and observations here and there. Giselle watches her with burning hate—she can’t do anything against the woman, though. Her flimsy career would be over before it even begins. Lorna, on the other hand, is much more respectful towards Madame Olenna. She’s also more of a follower, hanging around Giselle like a lost puppy, which, in my opinion, is pretty ironic, since Lorna is a much better dancer.

  I can see Lorna making it big, someday. She’s beautiful, too, with cappuccino colored skin and big hazel eyes. Her black afro is neatly combed into a waxed bun, and sometimes I lose myself while watching her dance. Despite Madam Olenna’s jabs, Lorna is almost as good as I am. If only she’d pay more attention to ballet than she does trying to making me feel miserable…just because Giselle wants her to. I don’t understand why she hangs around Giselle, if I’m being honest. That bitter pansy will only drag her down.

  “Alright, ladies, gentlemen!” Madame Olenna says, her voice booming through the entire training hall. “Come December 20th, we will be putting on our version of the Nutcracker under Trinity High’s tutelage. Some of the school’s biggest sponsors will be present, along with at least one recruiter from Julliard, several scouts from NYU… and, I’ve even taken the liberty to invite friends who currently manage the Bolshoi company. I suppose I don’t need to tell any of you how important this show is.”

  Most of us nod, already knowing what is at stake. My heart’s the size of a flea, already. But my muscles are heated up, simmering and stretchy and ready to do their part. I want to be Clara. I want to dance with the Nutcracker and defeat the Mouse King. I want to get into Julliard, so if there’s a recruiter coming, I cannot, under any circumstances, find myself reduced to being one of the Snowflakes. Giselle can do that, if she even passes this audition. Last year, she barely made the cut for Swan Lake.

  “That being said, today, each of you will be auditioning. Not all of you will be selected. There is only one Clara and only one Nutcracker. I have high hopes for each and every one of you,” Madame Olenna continues. “But if you want to be noticed… If you want that Julliard recruiter to pay attention to you, I expect nothing short of excellence. Once you’re all warmed up, line up along the north wall.” She sits behind a glass desk, on which she keeps a printed list of our names with some of her scribbled annotations on the side. I wonder what she’s jotted down next to my name. “I will be calling out your names, and I will expect to watch you perform to the highest of standards. If you cannot hack it, well… there is also room in the drama department.”

  I can’t help but chuckle. It’s what Madame Olenna usually tells aspiring dancers like Giselle. “Acting is a great option. You might even make it to Broadway. Their dancing requirements are… how do you say…? Negligible,” she once told a former student. I can still remember the sizzling red blush in the girl’s cheeks, the realization dawning on her that she might not make it in ballet, after all. When Madame Olenna hands out such a verdict, one can only accept it as the cold, hard truth.

  I go through my usual warmup routine, making sure to have my ankles on point. I practice my arabesque and attitude, then move through the more complex moves, practically gliding through my grand Jeté. Lorna scowls at me, while I smile whenever she does a better penché. To this day, I still can’t understand why we girls are so mean to one another. What’s the point, if we’re all dancing? Then again, I doubt any of my colleagues had the fortune of a mother as incredible as mine. Maybe that’s why she died so young… Maybe she was just too good for this world, so the universe decided to take her away before she stole its shine.

  The auditions begin, and some of the boys go first. Elan Santera nabs the role of the Mouse King. I reckon he’ll make a wicked-good villain. Zack James III, the ever-pompous still-in-the-closet-with-no-intention-of-coming-out asshole is chosen as the Nutcracker. I’d slap the daylights out of him on account of his mouth talking without his brain, but he’s one hell of a dancer. If I get Clara’s part, it will be a pleasure to share the stage with him—provided he doesn’t push me to kill him, first.

  “Alright… So far, so good,” Madame Olenna says after ten dance routines, making additional notes next to the names on her list. “I’d like to weed out the Snowflakes, next… Girls, team up in groups of five and give me the Waltz.”

  I’m confused, all of a sudden. And I’m not the only one. Around me, glances are exchanged, one more baffled than the other. This isn’t usually how the auditions go, at least not as far as Madame Olenna is concerned. She usually selects the main parts and then moves on to the auxiliary cast. I’m n
ot worried, but Madame Olenna has a certain aversion to change, in general… which is why this whole moment is rather odd.

  “Madame Olenna, I thought we would each audition for the part we wanted,” Giselle replies, hands behind her back. Her boobs stretch out the pale blue leotard, capturing the attention of the four straight males in this training hall. “I was going to try for Clara…”

  Madame Olenna laughs lightly, throwing her head back for an additional splash of drama. “Oh, darling,” she says, thickening the r’s and v’s. “You are very brave. But I’m afraid there can only be one Clara, and before I get to her, I cannot waste my time with twenty girls going for the same part, especially when more than half of you can’t even do a decent Pirouette. Now, please… in groups of five. The Waltz of the Snowflakes.”

  Her tone drops a couple degrees, and we all know she’s done taking objections. I decide to give it my best. I’m angling for Clara, but if the worst comes to happen, I want to make sure I make a damn fine Snowflake, too. Channeling a mental image of my mom, I walk toward the center of the training hall. Looking left, then right, I expect to see four more girls joining me, for the first round, while Paul, who’s playing Drosselmeyer, hits the play button on the Bluetooth speaker.

  Tchaikovsky’s Waltz of the Snowflakes inundates the room. My breath is ragged as I stop and assume the first dance position. Soon enough, other girls join me—Giselle and Lorna included. We’re to move in unison, otherwise we’re all screwed. We’ve been training together for years, though. It might be our first time doing the Nutcracker, but the work ethic is all the same. We know the moves and the rhythms already. We’ve practiced for months, taking turns playing Clara and the other characters. We’ve got this… or, so I hope.

  Madame Olenna flashes a bright smile, her attention fixed on me. I knew she’d appreciate the initiative, especially when she throws us such demoralizing curve balls.

  “Try not to stumble and mess up our routine,” Giselle whispers, looking at me.

  I grin coldly. “Mind your spaghetti legs, Elaine Bennett.”

  Doubting she caught the Seinfeld reference, I turn my head to face Madame Olenna as she gives us the go-ahead with a swift flick of her bony wrist. We start dancing, and my legs are in perfect harmony with the rhythm, my body arching and swaying to the melody. I’m only a Snowflake now, but I make sure I’m the prettiest of them all.

  Ballet is almost effortless to me. Every stretch, every step, every arm extended toward the heavens… it’s as if my entire being was designed specifically for this endeavor. Without it, I am nothing. I have never envisioned a future that didn’t show me in a dazzling tutu, flying across the stage and mesmerizing people with endless pirouettes.

  This is who I was meant to be.

  This is who I am.

  My mother would be proud.

  The five of us move at the same time. Our synchronicity is noticeable, and I catch glimpses of faint smiles from the other dancers. We turn left, then go through an échappé, followed by a développé à la seconde. It’s going somewhere, I can feel it! The music, the motions. I’m no longer of this world, taken away by the dance, my mind, body and soul wrapped in every aspect of it.

  Another développé as I draw my working leg up to the knee of my supporting leg. Something hits my ankle, rocketing me back down to real life. My head hasn’t fully caught up with what’s happening yet, but what I do know is that my feet are slipping and they’re slipping fast. Sharp pain shoots through, all the way up my calf. Soon enough, it’s not just my feet that aren’t doing what they’re supposed to be doing. My entire body is betraying me, crashing to the ground. I cry out, sheer anger burning me alive as I hit the surface with a heavy thud.

  Gasps erupt.

  Mouths fall open.

  Eyes squint themselves together.

  And everything. Absolutely everything comes to a sudden halt.

  “Oh, my god, I’m so sorry!” I hear Giselle say, but her tone is flat. I can’t even understand what’s happening. I don’t understand the pain. The looks I’m getting. The tears that are pooling in my eyes. I grip the ankle of my supporting leg, gritting my teeth together to bite back the monstrous cry that threatens to rip me wide open.

  How did I end up down here?!

  How the hell did I end up down here?

  “Kira!” Madame Olenna exclaims. Her rose perfume fills my nostrils as she reaches me and kneels by my side. She looks just as terrified as everyone else. Almost as terrified as I feel. My ankle is throbbing. Searing pain ripples outwards and upwards, making my calf muscles twitch.

  I break into a cold sweat. The air is impossible to breathe. Everyone has gathered around me, tightening this circle of shame.

  “Get some ice!” Madame Olenna roars. I’ve never seen her look more terrified and that terrifies me even more.

  Gently, she rests a hand on my left shoulder, guiding me into a fetal position. The laminated parquet pressing against my entire right side does nothing to quell the pain. This is a fucking nightmare. It’s more than a sprain, I can feel it. I’ve never felt pain like this before. Something might be broken…

  “I’m so sorry, Kira,” There’s Giselle’s voice again. Despite the fact that she’s saying she’s sorry, there isn’t a hint of an apology in her tone.

  I look up at her. Hate oozes out of me as I notice the twinkle in her eyes. She’s enjoying this. “You bitch! You fucking, scheming bitch!” She fucking did this on purpose. She’s the one who made me fall.

  “It was an accident! I slipped!” Giselle replies. If only there was an inkling of guilt in her voice, in her whole demeanor, then I might believe her.

  “Enough!” Madame Olenna barks. “Giselle, Lorna, to the side. I’ll be talking to you later. Paul, call an ambulance.” An ambulance? Why the fuck do I need an ambulance? I’m shaking my head, still biting back the tears. Madame Olenna rests her hands on me again, trying to soothe, me. “Kira you need to get to the hospital as soon as possible, love. It’s starting to swell…”

  At the sound of that word, I raise my head to get a better look and— “Oh, Jesus!” I croak, observing the lump growing, expanding where my ankle is supposed to be. The skin is red and purple. It hurts so goddamn much, I can barely keep my eyes open. Soon enough, I’m bound to pass out. My breathing is shallow.

  This is a fucking nightmare…

  “Madame Olenna,” I manage. “Is it broken?”

  I can hear whispers. Threads of gossip are already forming, eager to feed the entitled population of Trinity High.

  That Kira Malone girl… Yeah, the real estate tycoon’s daughter. Oh, man, she slipped and broke her ankle while auditioning for the Nutcracker. Yeah, she’s fucked. You don’t come back from a fractured ankle. That’s the end of her career, right there.

  Madame Olenna takes another look at my leg. I don’t dare do the same. It might swell up to the size of a football if I give it any attention. It feels like a sentient organism of sorts. My downfall, coming way too soon…

  “It’s not good, Kira, I’m sorry,” Madame Olenna replies, and the tremble in her voice tells me everything I need to know.

  Losing control over myself, I burst into tears and fail to gather my composure, now splattered across the floor. I am broken, far beyond that ankle. I’m a bird with clipped wings, a fish without his fins. This isn’t just about this one dance. This isn’t just about the Nutcracker and the chance of playing Clara. It isn’t just about the chance to meet the Julliard recruiter this one time. It’s about all my chances. All the moments after every other moment. All the dreams I’ve had. All the dreams I won’t get to have anymore. Because I know it. If my ankle is broken, there really is no working my way back to perfection. And even if, by the grace of something holier than Thou, perfection doesn’t remain unattainable, the time it’ll take to get there…

  I bite back another sigh, my mind pumping, calculating, trying to hold onto even the thinnest thread of hope.

  A break carries a minimum s
entence of eight weeks in a cast.

  Add to that the recovery time, the physical therapy and gradual return to a warmup routine… I am screwed. I’m looking at three months or more of no dancing, unless I want to damage my ankle more and beyond repair.

  I’m crying so hard, I wheeze and cough and sniff, struggling to make sense of what future lies ahead of me, now. How fickle the life of a dancer can be… One minute you’re gliding and moving to the music… the next, you’re in pieces, on the floor, helpless and drowning in pain and shame.

  “I’m sure it will be okay,” Madame Olenna says. “Your body is young. It will heal.”

  I can’t even process that sentence. I can’t accept it. The pain is fucking unbearable, rising into my throat like putrid bile. I’m sick. I might throw up.

  The ambulance arrives, and I’m moved on to a stretcher. The paramedic checks my vitals before shooting a small amount of painkiller directly into my bloodstream. Within seconds, every muscle in my body relaxes. I’m all mushy now. Compliant. Madame Olenna tells him I’ve been screaming for the last twenty minutes. I think she’s right. My throat is coarse, as if I’ve just swallowed a truckload of sand.

  I give the paramedic my name as he lifts the wheeled stretcher and pushes it out of the training hall.

  “I’ll call your father,” Madame Olenna says. “I’ll see you at the hospital, Kira. Stay strong!”

  Stay strong. What the fuck does that even mean? How do I stay strong? My ankle’s the size of a bleepin’ watermelon, and the only thing that’s stopping me from screaming my lungs out again is whatever tranquilizer the paramedic just gave me.

  It’s like watching a movie. A bad one, in which I never intended to play.

  I’m taken out into the main hallway, where more gasps and murmurs await. Oh, my gosh! Is that Kira Malone? Holy hell, what happened? Shit, look at the size of that thing! Poor girl…

  Tears come up to my eyes, an endless stream that barely scratches the surface of how I’m feeling. This is it. This is where it ends for me. It has to be. It feels that way, at least.