“Just tell the damn story, East.”
“I don’t want to have to repeat everything two or three times.” I try to talk my way out of it, but I should have known that it wouldn’t work. Colin can be pretty stubborn when he wants to be.
“Don’t worry, I’ll tell him,” Beck offers. Helpful as usual.
I give in. It’s pointless to resist, anyway. My gut tells me that this won’t be the last time Rayne comes over, and it would be nice if my friends behaved themselves when they see her.
So I tell Colin about Rayne’s visit to the record store—if I didn’t, Beck would probably feel compelled to fill him in anyway—and how we ran into each other again at the New England School of Ballet. I give them the short version, without mentioning Rayne’s breakdown or anything else she told me. That’s none of their business.
Still, Colin looks serious when I finally stop. He’s always had a knack for reading between the lines, and since his dad died when he was thirteen, he’s probably the only one of us who can truly understand Rayne’s pain. “How is she?”
I shrug and sigh. “Not good,” I answer honestly. Just because I’m not telling them the whole truth doesn’t mean I want to lie to them.
None of us speaks for a few minutes, and the only sound is the voices on the TV.
“She’s not Text Girl anymore?” Beck finally asks.
“No, she’s not.”
“And now you’re... what, friends?” Colin pushes back his reddish-brown hair and looks at me curiously.
I don’t know why I blush. Maybe it’s because I have to think about how her lips brushed my cheek and it triggered something in me that I definitely didn’t expect.
“Of course, what else?” I make an effort to keep a neutral expression on my face, but when Beck begins to laugh quietly, it’s clear that I didn’t do such a good job of it.
“Oh boy,” he says, and even though it doesn’t really mean anything, at the same time it says far too much.
Chapter 14
Rayne
Lost Along the Way—All Time Low
I was out like a light as soon as I got home, but I’m still exhausted when my alarm clock rings the next morning and Mae and Zoe come to pick me up for breakfast. Crying at Easton’s last night completely wiped me out.
My friends chatter nonstop on the way down to the dining room. Either they don’t register how quiet I’m being, or they can tell I’m not feeling well and are respecting my silence. Even though I slept soundly, the night was too short, and yesterday took way too much out of me.
Everything hurts, and when the first class begins, I’m ready to give up right there and then because my muscles are killing me. Of course I don’t, though. I grit my teeth and carry on.
It’ll get better, sweetheart. You can do it. Every day will be a little easier than the one before.
Mom’s words are burned into my memory. I was ten years old; we were practicing in her attic studio, and I had just burst intotears because I couldn’t lift my leg as high as all the other girls in my class in an arabesque. She was right. It really did get a little better every day.Igot better, until I eventually reached my limits. There are reasons that I’ve only practiced halfheartedly in the last few years.
This is my second day at the New England School of Ballet, and so far it’s not getting any better. My muscles are no longer accustomed to the constant tension and strain. It frustrates me even though it shouldn’t; I knew this would be difficult. Still, I feel like crying.
The fact that Easton is here stealing glances at me in the mirror doesn’t help. It only distracts me. We don’t have time to talk today. After our first class together, we both have other things to do. He’s in a rush and gives me a quick smile before he disappears. But that smile is enough. It makes me feel a little bit better.
Pointe class is just as much of a disaster as it was yesterday, even without pointe shoes. When we finally join the sophomores for pas de deux, all I want is to crawl back into bed.
Francesca, our teacher, assigns Chester to be my partner. He’s a slim, dark-haired boy with a friendly smile and kind brown eyes. He’s nice and doesn’t let on how awful it must be for him to have me as his partner. Still, I’m infinitely relieved when the day is finally over.
I spend the evening alone in my room with headphones on, reading a book. I’m not used to being around so many people all the time anymore. I need a break from their stares, their conversations, and the unspoken questions that so many of them clearly want to ask but fortunately don’t.
At some point I fall asleep, only to wake up in the middle ofthe night with my headphones still on and music playing. I don’t bother getting up and getting ready for bed; I just take off the headphones and go right back to sleep.
When I wake up on Wednesday, I feel better. My muscles still ache, but at least I can move without whimpering in pain.
“It went pretty well today,” Mae says cheerfully after pointe class.