The Phantom's Daughter

Chapter Four

The little body of Jammes bumped into me, making me loose my step and fall. “Watch it klutz!” she sneered. I sneered back. She did that on purpose. She kept doing it on purpose, whether it was pushing into me, tripping me, or tripping over me in a way that looked like she was clear of any blame.

It was making me very mad and forgetting to mind my p’s and q’s in the good favor of Mademoiselle Madeleine Giry, who took me in the corps de ballet.

See Ms. Eleanor, I haven’t forgotten my manners, I’m very much in control of them….for now.

I stared her straight in the eye that usually made adults coil back in discomfort. It’s a look you learn to take up quickly when working for Pierre to show him you’re not afraid. But little Jammes just stared back, seeing if she could call bluff to my stare. Her mother was one of the top ballet dancers in the ballet and had status basically akin to Carlotta in their respective departments. With that status came a feeling of superiority as if they were hand plucked and kissed by God, forgetting their mortality. I bared my teeth. I would wipe that haughty look off that young girl’s eyes. She was ugly anyways. To frail a frame, with a screeching owl’s voice (that would probably turn into her mother’s crow screech later) and black oil hair with deep set dark eyes and sharp bone structure. An ugly duckling, and her mother was no swan, though graceful as one.

“Watch it…klutz.” she repeated, low and threatening. She wasn’t talking about dancing.

“Unlucky for you I’m not afraid of creatures of the night such as yourself.” I retorted and picked myself up. The other girl giggled, betraying their loyalty to her.

“Girls! Girls! Come now! Rita, watch your steps please, you must be quick!” Sorrel, the young lady corrected us. She was a pretty thing, not quite an adult, but far too old to be a child. She was completing her training and was hoping to join a traveling ballet group and had the patience of a mother duck when all her ducklings got out of line.

“Pardon me Mademoiselle.” I forced out. For the sake of the good favor Mademoiselle Madeleine Giry who set me to this job.

“Freak.” whispered, followed the repetitive whispers of her little posey, as we walked through our steps again. I hated dancing so much. Too many moves to memorize, too much stretching. My body hurt from so much forced labor, and was being reawakened and reminded of it with this stupid dancing. The shoes and dress were too tight, I hated that my chicken legs were so exposed, I felt naked like this, in this bouncy white skirt. But this was for the sake of the good favor of Mademoiselle Madeleine Giry and I was trying to be good and push down my rage inside me.

“Why little Jammes, did you see a ghost? Or does your face always look like that?” I retorted, concentrating hard on twisting and placing my feet like-so, willing them not to slip.

“The Opera Ghost will come and get you and eat you in your sleep!” another girl teased.

“His face is parchment yellow…and his eyes, glowing red!” Jammes whispered-sang. “His nose is not there, and his forehead’s sunk in!” the other girls giggled, egging her on, as Sorrel’s sweet voice called to us all to pay attention and mind our steps.

I looked up and saw I was three steps down and over from where I should be, and improvised to my spot, almost knocking into another girl who bleated like a hurt lamb. Sorrel gently corrected me, but the strain in her voice revealed she was getting tired of having to constantly correct me.

Jammes and her friends giggled and moved closer. “He’ll scare the soul out of you with one look at him…then he’ll eat you!” she taunted.

“Oh I don’t know, I think you could scare him off with one look of yours.” I replied nonchalantly.

Jammes looked outraged and hopped over to “bump” into me.

I toppled to the ground, bruised by the unforgiving shiny wooden floors.

“Girls! Girls! Rita, I do declare, you have two left feet!” Sorrel called out.

But I paid her no mind, getting up to tackle little Jammes. She screamed, realizing she was all bark and no bite as I slammed my fists into her.

Lots of shrieking and screaming—gods above ballet girls know how to scream! They’d give Carlotta’s high notes a run for their money—as two pairs of arms separated us, Jammes’ mother taking her child, and Sorrel dragging me.

“What is the meaning of this! You little viper! Tackling my poor little girl!” she squawked.

“Oh like your little Jammes doesn’t go around pecking at the other little girls!” Sorrel shot back. “And you stop it!” she said, slapping me.

I froze and looked at her. I could have bitten her face off. Slapping me does not end well. She winced at my stare.

“Stop giving her attention, and responding to her jabs. You only egg her on! All the girls know this!” Sorrel said quickly.

“Why do you fight Rita?” the voice of Mademoiselle Madeleine Giry interrupted the scene, as the retired dancer stepped into the scene with what could only be her daughter Meg. Meg looked a lot like her mother, with the same sharp features, and dancer’s body, but her face was more heart shaped than her mother’s and her hair was raven-black and straight.

“I was challenged, so I took it up!” I stated boldly, standing up. “Do not pick a fight you can’t win.”

“You took Jammes’ bait.” Mademoiselle Giry corrected, staring me down. “You let her under your skin…she was purposely antagonizing you to get a reaction, and you gave her what she wanted. Exactly like Sorrel said, you egg her on. All the girls know this. Do not fight. There is to be no fighting—”she shot a glare at Jammes and her mother—”And no antagonizing. This is an art production not a circus. You all are dancers, not performing monkeys. Start acting like so!” she pounded her cane to the floor with authority and all the girls, including Jammes and her mother looked chided.

I fumed. Stupid corps de ballet. I’d much rather find work at the stables than deal with this. Loudly, I called out a horrible curse word I knew—getting everyone’s shocked expression except for Mademoiselle Giry’s—and stormed off stage.

Up in the room where we all slept, I tore off my stupid dancer’s dress and donned on a pair of clean breeches I’d stolen from the costume set (there was no way I was wearing the stupid little dresses Mame Giry tried giving me) as well as a red shirt. Boys clothes, but they were comfortable and practical. Girls can’t get anywhere wearing those stupid frocks and dresses and petticoats. I saw no reason why there had to be such a stark difference in our clothing.

With speed and agility to avoid a confrontation, I raced down to the Opera stables to see what I could find there, my auburn hair, pulled back, tickling my shoulder blades.