When She Was Twelve

"In position, girls."

Our pianist hit the first keys, a sexy ballad made softer and slower for our performance.

My feet moved into fifth position with perfect ease. Left toes in line with my right heel, right toes in line with my left heel. Behind me, I heard some of the girls hissing as they struggled to keep their feet parallel.

I raised my arms, and the silk of my sleeves fell gracefully as I moved. Today was our last practice before the big night, and all of us had come in costume.

Mademoiselle Alberta nodded at the pianist, who then struck the chords that served as our cue.

A fraction of a second to spot, and then we were spinning.

Spin, spin, spin.

One of the girls in front of me stumbled, and our instructor cried out.

"You idiot!"

In the corner of my eye, I saw my father, Daniel Raleigh, nod in approval from the opposite side of the room.

I struggled to keep my face blank as I kept spinning. There was no point offering to help. Mademoiselle Alberta didn't take kindly to failures. It is the way of our world, she liked to say. And today, girls who accidentally strained their muscles while doing their pirouettes were exactly that.

A failure.

Sometimes, I wished I had the courage to be one as well.

I heard the same girl sobbing as she was made to leave the dance hall. She would no longer be a part of tomorrow's performance.

It was the way of our world.

"Faster now," Mademoiselle Alberta commanded.

Spin, spin, spin.

The pressure inside me started to build. The white walls started to merge with the mirrors. The domed ceiling started to cave in. And my father began to multiply in my eyes.

So many Daniel Raleighs, and all of them were grim—faced.

Spin, spin, spin.

I tried counting the number of times I completed a perfect pirouette, desperate to distract myself.

But the pressure kept building.

I strained to listen to the lilting keys coming from the piano.

How many beats were left before I could stop?

How many seconds?

The pressure had reached my heart, and now I could barely hear the music over the chaotic rhythm of my heartbeat.

Spin, spin, spin.

I began to lose sight of my spot.

Noooooo————

Spin.

I started to falter.

Spiiiin.

I started to sway.

Spi———

I lost my balance.

I heard my father roar, the sound mingling with Mademoiselle Alberta's cry. They were not worried. They were not terrified. They were furious.

The sound killed me, and I panicked.

I stretched my arms out and tried to break my fall.

****

"What do you mean she can't perform?"

Dr. Fergus was taken aback by the anger underlining the voice of his patient's father. Thinking it might be shock, he tried to elaborate, saying, "She's broken her wrists, Mr. Raleigh. If I understand correctly, the practice your child undergoes for tomorrow's performance is rigorous and it might cause damage———"

"Nothing's too rigorous for my daughter," the other man interrupted. He was a tall, slim man in his late forties, and according to the doctor's secretary, a rather famous male ballet dancer during his prime.

There was nothing, however, of Daniel Raleigh's reputed grace with the way he none too gently grasped his daughter's chin and forced her to look at him as he asked, "Right, sweetie?"

Even though the words were pleasantly spoken, they were still a threat, and the doctor opened his mouth to protest when his patient said quietly, "Yes, Father." She was a stunningly beautiful child, with long blonde locks and sapphire blue eyes. But her expression, the doctor thought worriedly, was too…blank. It was as if her every thought and emotion was hinged on her father's orders.

Daniel ruffled his daughter's hair. "I knew you'd say that." He turned to the doctor with a proud smile. "She takes after me, this kid. She's going to continue my legacy."

"I see." And indeed, Dr. Fergus was beginning to see. "In that case, I won't keep you two here any longer." He turned to his nurse, who had just finished bandaging the girl's left wrist. "I'll take over and do the other hand, Nurse Simmons. If you could escort Mr. Raleigh to your office so he can sign the discharge papers?"

Daniel eagerly came to his feet. "Yes, yes, that's a good idea." He shook the doctor's hand, saying, "Thanks for being understanding." Without looking back at his daughter, he left to follow the nurse out of Dr. Fergus' exam room.

The doctor took the child's hand, and when he was sure they were out of Daniel's earshot, he asked gently, "Does it still hurt?"

There was no answer, only an unblinking gaze.

Feeling he needed to tread carefully, he lowered his gaze and as he started wrapping the bandage around the child's right wrist, he murmured, "If you feel any kind of pain, you must let me know. I only have to write a letter and you wouldn't have to dance tomorrow."

But the silence only continued, and just when he thought the child would no longer speak, he heard his patient whisper, "Father will get mad."

The doctor stilled. Father. Not Dad, but Father. It didn't feel right, but for now he decided to keep his reservations to himself and said instead, "I think you're wrong, child. You can't disappoint someone who loves you. Your father loves you, and because of that, he would never want you to do something that would cause you pain."

The child didn't speak, and the doctor didn't press her to. He only hoped his words would take root.

And it had, but not in the way Dr. Fergus had imagined.

****