Perfection - Kitty Thomas Page 0,3

shoes and leg warmers.

I'm grateful we aren't starting with pointe work today because those shoes take longer to get on than simple ballet shoes. I move to the indicated empty spot at the barre and start warming up. Some pliés, tendus, several ronds de jambe because my hips tend to get tight. I do a few small jumps and then some stretches on the floor. I have just enough time to get through my most basic warm-up routine when Mr. V clears his throat. Everyone stops what they're doing and stands, facing him.

There is something sort of militaristic about ballet. On the stage it's all about flow and grace, but there is discipline and precision beneath this illusion. Life in a classical ballet company is pretty regimented. Some people would hate this life, but I love it. I love knowing exactly what I'm supposed to be doing. I love that I don't have to make the decisions. I just have to execute the movement as perfectly as possible.

“We'll be starting the season with Swan Lake. Casting was posted just this morning, so if you haven't seen it yet, be sure to check the list,” Mr. V says.

I haven't seen the casting list yet, but as a member of the corps, it's probably not anything spectacular. I might be lucky and get a solo, but ultimately, what does it matter which nameless character I play?

2

The next two hours go by in a blur. It’s kind of hard to focus and be present in the moment when you have a blackmailer threatening to expose your crimes to the authorities. Even so, somehow I didn't fuck up too badly in class. Poor Melinda kept falling out of her turns, and everyone else's minor ballet misdemeanors were ignored as she received the full weight of Mr. V.'s unhappy attention.

“Dinner and drinks on me, birthday girl,” Henry says, attaching himself to me like an octopus as we exit Studio B. I want to laugh at his antics, but I can't. I have to go to the old opera house. Tell no one. Bring no one. What if it's a friend of Conall's who wants personal revenge? The possibility sends a chill down my spine.

“I can't. I have somewhere I have to be tonight, but we can do it tomorrow. I promise.”

Henry looks suspicious. “Girl, if you think I'm going to let you snuggle in bed and binge-watch TV and cry into a rice cake about your aging grizzled self, you are out of your mind. It's your birthday, and we're going to celebrate, because I, for one, am glad you've made it another year.”

“I'm so tired. I got no sleep last night. I have to rest. Please. I need to come to terms with twenty-four and regroup. Tomorrow, I swear,” I plead. This is actually a convincing lie. The angst of twenty-four cannot be overstated.

He sighs. “Okay, fine. But we will celebrate, so prepare yourself.”

I force a laugh at that.

I know the only reason he's letting this go is because I look like shit. Murder and insomnia will do that to a girl. He hugs me again.

“But don't binge-watch. Sleep. Promise me. And use that milk and honey mask I gave you. You need it. Don't get me started on those circles under your eyes.”

“Yes, Mother. I promise.” I wish I could tell Henry. I wish I could tell anyone about the expensive white card nestled inside the birthday wishes in the glittery gold envelope.

The old opera house is a historic landmark. I don't think it's actually officially on the registry of protected historic buildings, but nobody wants to tear it down. At the same time, the city doesn't have the money to restore it, and no wealthy benefactors have come forward to fund such an ambitious project.

So it sits in limbo—a ghost clinging to this world—and no one else can let it go, either. Neither living nor dead, the building stands enormous, imposing, creepy as fuck. There is no good to be had in this building. It's probably not even unlocked.

I try one of the elegant front doors. Yep. Locked. But then I realize there’s a small rolled-up paper slipped under the handle. I pull it out.

The side door, Ms. Lane.

What an asshole. Somehow this note makes me think whoever is in the building isn't going to kill me. I don't know why I think that, but this little bit of sarcasm makes me irrationally think that at least my life is safe. I