Ashes & Roses

Chapter 3

Wynter Rose Monroe

Every movement was controlled, deliberate, and precise.

My body slowly warmed as we moved through the combinations, the soreness from the previous day's unpacking already forgotten.

Professor Bennett walked behind us, watching our alignment.

"Longer through the spine."

A correction came from somewhere to my left.

"Turnout comes from the hip, not the foot."

I focused harder.

By the time we finished barre, sweat had begun collecting along my hairline. Professor Bennett looked toward the clock.

"Pointe shoes." She said swiftly.

The room shifted immediately. Students moved toward their bags, pulling out their shoes and sitting along the edge of the studio. I reached into my duffle and carefully pulled mine out. The familiar pink satin felt reassuring between my fingers. I tied them securely before standing. My feet settled into the shoes almost instinctively. Professor Bennett watched us closely.

"Don't confuse being comfortable on pointe with being safe on pointe."

Her eyes moved across the room.

"Your technique doesn't disappear because you're standing on your toes. If anything, every mistake becomes more obvious."

I swallowed and nodded. We returned to the center. The combination began slowly.

Relevés.

Bourrées.

Piqué turns.

Then we moved into a longer sequence. My concentration narrowed until there was nothing outside the music, the floor beneath me, and the movement of my body. My foot brushed across the floor, stretching through the toes until my leg was fully extended. I pulled it back with control, never allowing my foot to lose contact with the floor until the last possible second.

Again.

And again.

By the fourth repetition, the muscles in my legs had begun to warm. The room grew quieter except for the piano and the soft rhythm of dozens of feet brushing against the floor. There was something almost comforting about it. I glanced at the mirror. For a second, I barely recognized the person standing there. Not because I looked different, but because I looked like I belonged. My posture was instinctive. My arms moved naturally with the music. My body knew what to do before I had time to think about it. Then Professor Bennett's voice pulled me back.

"Ms. Monroe."

My heart jumped. I looked toward her reflection in the mirror. She nodded toward my supporting leg.

"Don't lock your knee."

I immediately softened it.

"Better."

I nodded quietly, and she moved on. It was such a small correction, but I stored it away anyway. I wanted to remember everything. The class continued through rond de jambes, fondues, and développés, each combination becoming slightly more demanding. By the time we left the barre, my legs were warm and my bun was already beginning to loosen. Then came center work. Professor Bennett demonstrated the first combination, her movements precise enough that I could almost see the counts written across the floor.

"Adagio first," she said. "Control your transitions. Don't chase the extension."

The piano began. The first group moved. I watched carefully from the side, following the sequence in my head.

Developpé.

Arabesque.

Promenade.

Recover.

When my group was called, I stepped forward. My heart began beating faster. I lifted my arms. The music started. My right leg slowly unfolded until my foot reached my knee, then continued upward. I held the extension before lowering it with the same control I'd used to lift it. For a moment, I forgot to be nervous. I moved through the rest of the combination, letting the music dictate the pace. When I finished, I stepped back. My chest rose and fell with each breath. Professor Bennett nodded once.

"Better, Ms. Monroe."

I wasn't sure what I'd done differently, but I made a mental note to figure it out. The class moved into turns. That was where things became harder. We practiced pirouettes from fourth position, the room filling with the soft sound of feet pushing against the floor.

I prepared.

Spot.

Push.

Turn.

Land.

My first attempt was clean. The second wasn't. I came out of the turn slightly crooked and had to catch myself before stumbling. Professor Bennett stopped the music.

"Again." She demanded and everyone reset. She demonstrated the movement once more.

"Your preparation matters more than the turn itself. If you're rushing into the turn, you've already lost control." Professor Bennet explained

I tried again. This time, I focused on the preparation. My weight shifted, my body tightened, and I pushed, turned, spotted, and landed cleanly.

There.That was it.

The final section of class was jumps. By then, my legs were exhausted. The muscles in my calves felt tight, and every time I bent my knees, I could feel the fatigue settling deeper into them. Still, when the piano picked up speed, something in me came alive again. We started with changements, then moved into assemblés and larger combinations across the floor. I pushed off the ground, feeling the brief weightlessness before landing softly through my feet.

Again.

And again.

The room grew warmer. Our breathing became louder. The music seemed to move faster even though the tempo hadn't changed. By the time we reached grand allegro, I was sweating. My legs were burning, but I couldn't stop smiling. I ran through the final combination, launching into a grand jeté and stretching my legs through the air before landing on the opposite foot. For one tiny second, I felt weightless. Then my feet touched the floor. The music ended. Silence filled the studio. A collective breath seemed to leave the room. Professor Bennett let us recover for a moment before walking toward the center.

"Before you leave, I want to make sure everyone understands what this semester is going to look like."

The room gradually quieted.

"This is not a recreational program. You're not here simply to take ballet classes and collect credits." She folded her arms.

"Your technique classes will be evaluated throughout the semester. Attendance matters. Punctuality matters. Your preparation matters. If you're sick or injured, you communicate with the faculty. You don't simply disappear."

I sat a little straighter and she continued.

"You'll have practical evaluations throughout the semester, including a midterm and final assessment. Faculty will be looking at technique, musicality, strength, flexibility, artistry, and your ability to take correction."

My stomach fluttered at the word evaluation. Professor Bennett glanced around the room.

"You'll also be expected to participate in the department's performance season. The fall showcase auditions will be held next month. Casting for the university's major production will follow shortly after."

A few dancers exchanged excited looks.

"We'll also have guest choreographers coming in throughout the year. Some of you may be selected for workshops, repertory projects, or outside performance opportunities." She paused.

"And for those interested in our competition ensemble, auditions will be held later this semester."

My heart gave a small jump. Competition. I'd competed for years. The thought of doing it at this level made my nerves return, but underneath them was something brighter. Excitement. Professor Bennett picked up her folder.

"You're going to be tired. You're going to be frustrated. There will be days when you question why you're here." She looked directly at the class.

"That's normal." Her expression softened slightly.

"But if you want to be here, then work for it."

Nobody spoke.

"Questions?"

A hand went up near the back of the room, and Professor Bennett began answering while the rest of us slowly gathered our things. I sat on the floor for another moment, letting everything sink in. A full season of opportunities I'd spent years dreaming about. This wasn't just another dance studio. This was where I was going to be challenged.Where I was going to grow. Where I was going to find out exactly how far I could take this. When Professor Bennett finally dismissed us, I down reached for my pointe shoes and carefully untied the ribbons around my ankles. I gathered my things slowly, still feeling the exhaustion settling into my muscles. My water bottle went into the side pocket of my duffle, followed by the small sweat rag I'd used throughout class. I tucked my pointe shoes carefully into their place and reached for the zipper.

"Ms. Monroe."

I froze immediately. Professor Bennett stood near the front of the studio, watching me.

"I'd like to speak with you."

My fingers stopped on the zipper. For a moment, I didn't move. Around me, several students glanced in my direction. My stomach tightened.

Why did she want to speak to me? Had I done something wrong?

I replayed the class in my head almost immediately. The pirouette I'd stumbled out of. The correction at the barre. The adagio. Maybe she thought I wasn't good enough.

I swallowed and nodded.

"Okay."

Professor Bennett returned to her desk while the rest of the students continued gathering their things. I tried to pretend I wasn't nervous, but every conversation around me seemed louder than it had before. Eventually, the studio began to empty. One student after another stopped to speak with Professor Bennett before leaving. Some asked about the upcoming auditions. Others had questions about the syllabus or performance opportunities.I waited, and waited. Until finally, the last student walked through the door. The studio fell silent. Professor Bennett looked up at me and motioned toward the center. I adjusted the strap of my bag and walked over. She studied me for a moment.

Not my face, my posture, my legs. The way I stood. Then her eyes traveled back up to mine.

"Tall."

I blinked.

She tilted her head slightly and nodded with slight approval and maybe a hint of appreciation.

"I like tall."

I wasn't sure what I was supposed to say to that.

"Thank you?" I said looking down at myself

Her expression didn't change.

"Out of all the students in this class, you're the only one here on scholarship."

My stomach dropped slightly. I hadn't expected her to say it so plainly. She continued before I could respond.

"That means you have something to prove."

I tightened my grip around the strap of my bag. Professor Bennett stepped closer.

"You're good, Ms. Monroe."

I waited, I could sense a 'But' coming

"But you're a long way from great."

And there it was, the words stung. Not because they were cruel but because I knew she was right.

"You have the physicality," she continued. "The discipline. The foundation is there. But I need you to dance like you mean it."

Her eyes held mine.

"Don't give me half of yourself."

I nodded slowly.

"I won't."

She glanced toward the empty studio.

"This program will challenge you. Your classmates will challenge you. Some of them will be supportive. Some won't."

My stomach tightened again. Professor Bennett's voice remained calm.

"Not everyone is going to like you" She continued "They may try to make you feel like you don't belong here. They may resent the fact that you're on scholarship. They may assume you were given something they had to earn."

I swallowed.

"Don't let them get inside your head.Your job is to dance."

She paused. Her words settled heavily between us.

"You cannot allow people outside of this studio to take a toll on your craft. Whatever happens out there stays out there. When you walk through these doors, you leave it behind."

I nodded.

"Yes, ma'am."

Professor Bennett studied me for another moment before finally stepping back.

"You have potential, Ms. Monroe. What you do with it is up to you."

I felt my chest tighten. It wasn't praise. Not exactly, but somehow, it meant more than praise would have.

She wasn't telling me I was already great. She was telling me I could become great.

"If you want to earn your place here," she said, "then show me."

I nodded again.

"I will."

Professor Bennett gave me one final look before returning to her desk.

"Good. Now go to your next class."

I turned toward the door, my duffle hanging from my shoulder. My legs were still sore. My feet hurt, and now there was a strange knot sitting in my stomach. But as I stepped into the hallway, one thought followed me. You're a long way from great. I didn't know if it was supposed to discourage me. Instead, it made me want to work harder.