Chapter 3 Perfect Practice (Nina)

"Nina? You okay?"

Lily dropped to the floor beside me, her legs folding into a perfect butterfly stretch without effort. I kept my head down, my voice muffled.

"I'm terrible, Lily."

I waited a beat. Then another. When I spoke again, my voice was thin, stretched tight. "My parents completely forgot my birthday. No call. No text. Nothing. They probably forgot I exist. And then I almost missed class today..."

"Jessie didn't drive you?"

I laughed. It sounded like breaking glass. "We fought last night."

I'd gotten home so late. So angry. So sad. I hadn't set my alarm. And Jessie — he'd always come. Even when I didn't ask. Even when I didn't deserve it. Until today.

Lily grabbed my hand. Her fingers were warm, calloused from the barre. "Nina. Maybe you should break up with him."

"It's not that serious. We just... had a disagreement." I pulled my hand back, hugging my knees to my chest. "My parents divorced and remarried. I'm a ghost in both houses. Jessie is the only person who actually... stays."

If I lost him too, what did I have?

"He's careless, and you keep forgiving his carelessness." Lily's voice was gentle but firm. "That's not healthy."

We were still talking when Linda sauntered over, her pointe shoes tied with ribbons that probably cost more than my rent. She landed in a grand jeté right in front of us, her smile sharp as a scalpel.

"Poor Nina. Crying already? The competition hasn't even started."

I stood up. I didn't have the energy for this, but I wasn't going to let her see me crumble. "I'm going to beat you. I'm going to get on that Spring Gala stage. And you — you're going to watch from the audience. Or cry in the bathroom like last year."

Linda's smile stretched wider. "We'll see, won't we?"

Mrs. Thorne's voice cut through the room. "Class. Variation practice."

Lily squeezed my arm and returned to the barre. I went back to my wall.

The music started. Linda took the center floor. With Mrs. Murphy personally correcting her arm placement, she launched into a variation from Don Quixote — sharp, bright, technically flawless. Every turn landed. Every extension hit its mark. She was good. She was really good.

I watched from the wall, my jaw clenched so tight my molars ached.

Was she right? Was I going to spend the Spring Gala in the audience, watching her take my spot? Again?

No.

No.

I closed my eyes. Inhaled. Exhaled. I wasn't watching Linda anymore. I was watching Mrs. Murphy. Every micro-correction. Every line of her arm. Every shift of her weight.

I couldn't dance today. But I could learn. I could memorize. I could rehearse in my mind until my brain bled.

Two hours later, the last student packed up. The studio emptied. Then it was just me. The mirrors. The wooden floor. The afternoon light slanting through the tall windows.

I changed into my pointe shoes. Tied the satin ribbons around my ankles with the precision of someone who'd done it ten thousand times. I stood. I stretched.

Hip openers. Hamstring lengthening. Spine articulation. I woke up every muscle, every tendon, every fiber that had been screaming at me to stop.

Then I began.

Tendus. Dégagés. Ronds de jambe. I worked the barre I'd been denied this morning, my body finding the rhythm my mind had memorized. Then adagio. Then my competition piece.

Swan Lake. The Black Swan variation.

The studio was silent. No piano. No instructor. But the music was inside me, thundering through my chest, vibrating in my bones.

The birthday I'd been forgotten. The fight with Jessie. Linda's sneer. Mrs. Thorne's threat. It all surged up, molten and furious, and I poured it into every movement.

I wasn't careful anymore. I wasn't controlled. I was fierce.

My arabesque — the one I'd struggled with for months — snapped into place, higher and steadier than ever. My fouettés whipped around, sharp and vicious, each landing exactly where the last one had been. One. Two. Three. The speed built, my spotting soprecise the room became a blur.

My body was a blade. Every movement cut the air.

Thirty-two turns. The full set. My legs burned. My lungs screamed. But I didn't stop. I couldn't.

The final pose. I held it. Arms out. Back leg extended. Chin lifted.

Perfect.

For a long moment, the only sound was my breathing. Then — nothing.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, two figures stood in the fading light. Mrs. Thorne. Mrs. Murphy. They'd been watching.

"Mrs. Thorne," Mrs. Murphy said quietly. "You have a student who doesn't know how to quit."

Mrs. Thorne was silent. Then: "She's too easily ruled by emotion. That's her weakness."

"It's also her strength." Mrs. Murphy's voice was soft. "She channels everything into the dance. Not many can do that."

I didn't hear the rest. I'd already lowered my arms, my chest heaving, my body trembling with exhaustion.

I sat down. My toes were numb. My calves shook. But inside — for the first time in days — I felt full. Complete. Happy.

The day had been garbage. But I'd just danced the best practice of my life.

I changed out of my shoes, packed up, and limped toward the exit. The evening air was warm, smelling of jasmine and exhaust.

Jessie's car was parked in the usual spot. Old Honda. Dented bumper. The car that had been missing this morning.

He leaned against the hood, hands in his pockets, and smiled when he saw me.

"Hey."

I didn't smile back. I walked right past him, toward the Metrorail station.

"Nina, wait —" He jogged after me, cutting me off. "I'm sorry. About the party. About Linda. I was wrong. Forgive me?"

I stopped. "What about today, Jessie?"

"Today?"

"You didn't show up. I almost missed class because of you." My voice was controlled, but my hands were shaking. "You know what that class was? Mrs. Murphy. My idol. The person I've been dying to learn from. Everyone else got personal corrections. I stood against the wall like a punishment."

Jessie's face went pale. "Oh God. I forgot. The party ran late, and then I drove Linda home, and I got back so late, and by the time I got to your place you'd already left..."

"Linda. Linda. Linda." I cut him off. "I'm your girlfriend, Jessie. Why is she always more important than me?"

"It's just one class, Nina."

"It was a master class with Mrs. Murphy." I gripped my bag strap so hard my knuckles went white. "This is my last year for YAGP. My last shot at the Spring Gala. And you made me miss my chance to show her what I can do."

Jessie opened his mouth. Closed it. He saw my eyes, red-rimmed and furious, and said nothing.

I exhaled. "Forget it. I don't want to fight about Linda anymore."

"Neither do I." He was quick to agree. "You know I don't feel anything for her. We're just friends."

"That's what you think. She doesn't."

Jessie was handsome. Sun-bright. The kind of boy who lit up a room and a volleyball court. Girls had always circled him. And Linda was the worst of them.

"Can we not talk about Linda?" Jessie begged.

I pressed my lips together. He was the one who brought her up. He was the one who invited her. Every. Single. Time.

"I promise," he said, stepping closer. "No more being late. No more forgetting. I'll drive you every day."

"You promised that last time."

"I know. I messed up. I shouldn't have let your birthday get ruined, and I definitely shouldn't have let you miss class." He was earnest, his eyes wide and sincere. "All my fault. One hundred percent."

I looked at him. The boy who made me laugh. The boy who made me feel visible. The boy who kept making me feel invisible.

"Don't think you can just apologize and I'll forget."

He knew that look. He'd seen it before. So he reached out and ruffled my hair, then — quick as a magician — produced a small bouquet of roses from behind his back.

"What about with these?"

I took the flowers. My mouth twitched. But I didn't smile. "Not enough. I'm still really mad."

Other things I could forgive. But this? This I couldn't just brush away.

"Close your eyes," Jessie said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

I hesitated. Then closed them.

Footsteps. Running away. Running back. The rustle of paper.

"Okay. Open."

I opened my eyes.

Jessie held a box. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, was a headpiece. Black feathers. Layered. Delicate. Stunning.

"Did you make this?" I breathed.

"Took me forever. I messed up so many times. I was going to give it to you last night, but you left early." He smiled, soft and genuine. "For the preliminaries. I know you're doing the Black Swan. Let it stand in for me. Let me be there on stage with you."

I lifted the headpiece from the box. I remembered last month — he'd been sketching something, mysterious and excited, showing me a design with feathers.

He'd been planning this for weeks.

Maybe I should've been more understanding at the party. He'd done so much. The surprise, the cake, the apology, the gift.

My anger cracked. Just a little.

"It's beautiful. Thank you." I finally smiled. "I'll wear it. For the competition."

Jessie looked like the weight of the world had lifted from his shoulders. "Can we get in the car now? Please?"

He opened the passenger door with a dramatic bow. I laughed — a real laugh this time — and slid into the seat. I buckled in, tucking the headpiece box carefully on my lap.

My parents had forgotten my birthday. But I had Jessie.

He was all I had.

And for now, that had to be enough.