Dancing with the Varsity Bad Boy

Chapter 9

Violet's POV

***

After I escape Ethics and Mathews, I find a quiet place to set my bags down and rummage through my laptop bag until I find my phone.

I'd noticed my calender alert during class and I couldn't believe I forgot, but what do I expect when there's so much going on, and with the pain episode last night. I pull up Gypsy's number and call her, checking the time as four rings echo through the device before she picks up.

"Violet, hey, how are you?" She sniffles after asking me, and my heart near tears itself in two.

"Don't Gypsy, don't you dare downplay it." I keep my tone soft, but firm, a gentle scolding really. She sobs on the other end, and I want to crawl through the device and hold her tight. Considering that isn't possible, I rack my brains for something.

"He'd be so proud of you," the words tumble out, and her sobs stop with her surprise, so I run with what my gut's telling me.

"Bradely would be so proud of you. Look at everything you've achieved, look at the awards you've won. He'd be so bloody proud that his best friend, who was tortured, who witnessed her dad's murder, who lost her leg, never let it stop her from achieving her dreams. If he was here he'd be cheering you on, celebrating every single one of your successes," Gypsy sniffles, and hiccups,

"Do you really think so?" The uncertainty in that question really makes me want to punch Eric in the face.

"I know so,"

"Do you think Eric is proud of me too?" She asks, and again that urge to slam my crutch where the sun don't shine increases.

"I bet he is deep down sweetheart," I say gently.

"Do you - Do you think my dad is proud of me too?" She says, her voice so quiet I could have misheard her, but I knew she'd ask, she always asks. It's been our little ritual over our friendship, on the anniversary of the school shooting.

"You bet he's proud of you. He's up there bragging to the angel's about his little girl, now tell me about the competition. I have fifteen minutes to kill before arts," I park my ass on a picnic bench and listen to Gypsy discribe the animators she's up against, going into detail of the details she thinks her competition could improve on, while also talking about the pieces she found difficult while they seem to have found them easy.

There's none of her usual joy in being around other animators, and artists. There's none of her usual excitement at being apart of a competition. She is stranded in the middle of her trauma, desperately trying to hold herself together. I know she won't let herself break until she's back, so I can be there for her, like I have been since freshman year.

"You're going to win first place you know that. That piece you created, it's so breath taking they'd be crazy not to," I tell her, trying in vain to distract her from the trauma that holds her captive.

We chat for another ten minutes before she's called away and as soon as she hung up, I send three texts, telling Lex, Imogen and Tamsyn the anniversary and that they better bring home everything that brings comfort because once everyone is home, we're having a family film night.

The rest of my day passes in a blur of pain, exhaustion, and lessons before I finally get to the dance studio.

Madam Phoebe Harris waits inside, her sharp gaze watching as her students stretch. When I head in, I place my bags in my locker and head to the changing room with my sports bag. Quick changing into the white tights, black leotard and white skirt. I bobby pin my ponytail into a dancers bun and smooth down the thin white skirt and slip my ballet shoes on.

Hurrying back out into the studio, Madam Harris points to the warm up bar beside her, her mouth pinched with displeasure.

"Miss Beckingham, I'm aware of your passion for dance but you should learn when to let your body rest," the corners of her lips twitch with a suppressed smile before she taps her ear, my professors silent permission to play music.

With a small smile on my lips I take first position at the bar and go through the repetitive movements to warm up.

After twenty minutes of focused warm up I'm ready to begin dancing and hurry to the floor.

Time flies as I twirl, leap, and dance across the studio, free from pain, free from exhaustion. I'm giddy, high even from the exhilaration of creating art through movement.

Before I know it, Madam Harris is calling a end to the class and I take up position beside her again, stretching out my muscles and feet so I don't become sore and aching later and in need of an ice bath.

"You really should have taken a sick day," Madam Harris says, coming up to stand near the bar after dismissing class.

"I know what I should have done Madam, but I've never been one who's listened to 'shoulds'," I grin at her huff. She nods and I streach, staying behind so we can discuss the end of the year performance.

"Have you given my suggestion some thought?" She asks, watching me, helping me to fully stretch out the "problem areas" as she calls them.

"I'm not entirely sure I'm comfortable with all the scouts knowing I'm disabled, before they even consider me for their dance company," I say, rummaging through my sports bag to hand her a piece of paper.

"But I'm going to run with the idea anyway. This is a list of what I'll need for props and costume. I've already spoken with a few of the engineer majors to ask if they can wire up my old supports up to light up with different colours," I gush, watching her read through the list, a small, proud grin forming.

"Will your father bring your wheelchair from home so we can choreograph the pieces with it, or do you suggest renting an old one?" She asks, tapping her finger against my choices for music.

"You've chosen some impressive pieces of music. If you can match that level of emotion with your choreography then the scouts would be fools not to poach you," she muses, helping me to really stretch out my lower back until we hear a pop and a click as the ligaments and muscles move my spinal column back into perfect alignment.

"I'd suggest renting one, while getting my one from home shipped over. I'm going to ask Gypsy, my house mate to animate some short clips, to really help tell the story," I say with a shrug as she helps me stand

Madam Harris nods, and for the next half hour we talk about set design, and choreography.

"I think I'll book you in for studio time in the evenings here. but it'll only start once you have your medication and you have your support network back at home," she pats my shoulder while I pull my phone out, noticing there's no message from Jordan, I type out a quick message on his i********: page as I head into the locker room.

Me - Hey sorry its taken so long. I'm just finishing up and will be out in five minutes.

I wait for the message to be read, but nothing. He doesn't even come online. Dread settles in my gut as Madam Harris collects her belongings and I collect my bags and change my shoes, pulling on my clothes over my leotard and tights, wanting to get to Jordan's car quickly so the pain won't explode at me while he's driving and so I'm in a safe place when the exhaustion hits.

"Are you ready?" Madam Harris calls out, I nod and follow my professor out of the studio, shutting off the lights and heading out into the rapidly cooling weather.

My heart drops to the floor upon spotting the empty car park. No sign of his truck, or of him.

"Are you ok to get back?" Madam Harris asks as she walks towards her neat BMW.

"Yeah, I have someone picking me up, they'll be here soon," I tell her, clinging to that conviction.

"If they're not here in ten minutes, take a cab. I don't want you pushing yourself more then you already have," she says, her tone stern, hiding the concern underneath.

I swallow hard, that knot of dread forming in my chest. Giving her a nod I head over to a picnic bench and place my bags on the wooden table before taking a seat. Checking my messages, I notice the ones from Lex, Imogen and Tamsyn saying they'll bring the goodies and a comfort DVD each for our family film night.

Exhaustion washes over me, the adrenalin crash mixed with the lack of sleep last night and the extended period of pain sucking the energy right out of me.

I'll just rest my head here for five minutes while I wait for Mathews. I lay my head on my arms, hugging my laptop bag and close my eyes, the cool breeze and quiet bird song relaxing to the point I swear I've melted.

****

I wake with a jerk. The sky now pitch black when five minutes ago it had been a pale blue.

Sh'it I fell asleep. Not the first time that's happened, but still embarrassing. What had been a comfortable chill in the air is now a uncomfortable cold that has me shivering slightly.

Disoriented, I look around, the blur of sleep fading until the facts hit me like a slap.

I'm still outside the dance studio. Still on the picnic bench. Forgotten by someone I'd foolishly begun to trust.

Pain lances through my body, my back screaming at having been slumped over for half the afternoon and evening, my joints throbbing to a beat all their own. I groan, blinking back tears at the familiar, painful heat radiating from them. That demon back to pouring molten lava into my joints before hammering away at the bone. My stomach complains, loudly, grumbling at having been starved after all the exercise.

I've been a fool to rely on Jordan Mathews. I've been a stupid, hopeful, nieve girl who thought she could rely on a virtual stranger.

My phone buzzes and I glance at it, 2% left. With a groan I call a cab company, crossing my fingers the charge will last long enough for me to get a ride.

It doesn't, just as my call connects, my battery dies and I fish out my emergency charging bank.

Climbing to my feet, I muffle a sob, shouldering my bags and picking up my crutch I begin to hobble to the nearest bus stop. It's 10pm, the exhaustion having caught up to me at the worst possible time.

If the last bus has already left I'll have to wait until I have enough charge to call someone.

If my house mates were home, Lex would have been waiting for me and taken me home. He'd have ran me a bath, using my favourite Bubble and bath salt mix, he would have made me soak while he and Imogen cooked my favourite comfort food or ordered my favourite pizza. I'd have been cuddled up next to my house mates on the sofa or in my bed, a film or something on while they helped me manage the fall out of pain by now.

But no, instead I'm shuffling down dark streets, tears streaming down my cheeks because the pain is climbing in levels of intensity. All because I was stupid to trust and rely on a person who over the past four years has shown he's not a reliable man.

I get to the bus stop and sob. I've missed the last bus by half an hour.

Checking my phone is at least at 5% I make a call. Hoping, praying they'll pick up and come to my aid.