The Cursed Ballet (2 page)

Chapter 3

That night Ophelia couldn't sleep. She was way too wired. She'd been too late for dinner after her talk with Madame Puant, and anyway, she didn't feel like answering questions from her friends, so she stayed in and watched clips from different productions of
Giselle
.

She loved the costuming, the dance steps, the story … a prince parading around as a peasant for a laugh, the peasant girl who falls in love with him and dies from a broken heart.

Ophelia decided the girl was pretty dumb for falling for something like that, but she loved Giselle's death scene and all the footwork involved. She was going to kick butt at this ballet.

Around midnight, Ophelia couldn't stand it anymore. She'd watched enough ballet for the night—time to do some.

She pulled on her leotard and tights, wrapped a gauzy skirt around her waist, and slipped on some Uggs to warm her legs. Grabbing her bag, she opened the door and looked both ways down the dark hall.

No one around. The candle-shaped lights in the hallway flickered off and on, throwing shadows on the floor.

She tiptoed out, even though she was standing on carpet, and then, light as air, ran to the studio, up the stairs, and through the huge doorway that always stood open.

This wasn't the first time Ophelia had snuck into the studio to practice. But even so, the place looked dark and menacing, window-shaped blocks of moonlight the only thing lighting the floor. Ophelia caught a glimpse of someone and jumped and squealed, putting her hands over her mouth.

It was just her. In the mirror. Still, with her heart beating so fast she could hardly stand it, she wondered if late-night practice was a good idea.

She shrugged it off. She was already there at the studio, so she might as well use it.

She did some big stretches, loving the way her body felt as it started limbering up. Once she finished, she did some barre work, deep pliés, relevés, tendus, the usual warm-up. Then some in-place jumps to pliés, and she was ready to put on her pointe shoes.

After a few spins and some relevés en pointe, Ophelia felt completely warmed up.

She thought about
Giselle
's opening scene. Just from watching clips, she knew the first sequence. The steps were pretty easy, but they included a lot of jumping and bouncing. The scene showed Giselle's love for dancing. Ophelia could relate.

She pretended to come out of her cottage door, and then the dance took her over. She
was
Giselle.

Round the classroom, dance to audience, kicks, jetés, pure love … Ophelia felt all of it. Though the steps weren't in the dance, she added five fouettés, spotting herself in the darkened mirror, her breath coming fast, and feeling the dance through her whole being. Her head whipped around, finding the same place in the mirror for every turn:

Spot.

Spot.

Spot.

Spot.

Spot.

On her last spot, Ophelia fell over and landed on the floor on her hands and knees.

Someone else was in the studio.

She clambered up to see a dark form between the squares of illuminated floor. A soft, male voice said, “Don't be afraid. I didn't mean to startle you.”

The voice didn't belong to any of the boy dancers that Ophelia knew at the school.

Ophelia felt naked in front of this stranger. She backed up against the mirror.

“Who the hell are you? And why are you in this studio?”

The boy came into the light.

He wore some seriously weird clothes, as if he were in the early 1900s: short pants to his knees—Ophelia was pretty sure they were called knickerbockers—and a tuniclike shirt with buttons all the way down one side.

He also wore a cap that Ophelia knew was from the olden times; squat to the head with a bill that stuck out a bit. She wondered if she was dreaming.

He put his hand out. “Forgive me. But your dancing was so beautiful.”

The boy was good looking, Ophelia had to admit. Like, really good looking. He had dark hair under his hat, thick eyebrows, and long lashes. And he had a strong jawline and startling eyes of a color that Ophelia couldn't make out in the light. He looked to be about seventeen or eighteen, right around Ophelia's age.

She stuck a hip out and put her hand on it, but her voice softened a little. “Yeah, yeah, thanks. What are you doing here? Who are you?”

And then, because she couldn't help herself, she said, “And
what
are you wearing?”

The boy chuckled, then took a step forward into the darkness between the lighted squares on the floor.

“I'm Devon,” he said, with some sort of accent Ophelia couldn't place. Then he took another step forward, into the light. “This is my school. And these are the clothes I wear to dance. May I dance with you?”

After another step, Ophelia could see his eyes. They were pale gray with dark rings around the pupils. She couldn't stop looking at them.

When he smiled, she couldn't help but smile back. He put his hand out to her.

Tentatively, she reached her hand out in return. His palm was strangely cold, but he pulled her close to him and Ophelia's whole body tingled.

The boy smelled vaguely dusty, like he'd just walked through an old library, but there was also a deep, woodsy, spicy smell lingering. It made Ophelia just a little dizzy.

In her ear, he whispered, “You are Giselle, no?”

She didn't trust herself to speak, so she nodded.

“Well, I am your prince, come to dance with you.”

With that, he led her around the room in a pas de deux, big dancing movements that covered the entire dance floor.

Ophelia couldn't catch her breath. His dancing was beautiful and fluid, like nothing she'd ever experienced. And the woodsy smell kept her leaning in close.

After what seemed like only seconds but must have been a quarter of an hour, Devon pulled away and stepped back. Ophelia stood there, struck dumb, her chest heaving and her body still tingling.

He began to walk toward the door, and Ophelia almost called out to him. But he turned around and said, “Tomorrow night? Same time?”

All Ophelia could do was nod. And then the boy of her dreams walked out of the room.

Chapter 4

Ophelia got back to her room at two o'clock and couldn't get back to sleep. She could smell Devon on her leotard and on her hair. Every time she moved her head, she could almost feel him near her. Never before had she felt this way. Ever.

In ballet class that morning, though she hadn't gotten any sleep, she danced the Giselle part so well that even Madame was surprised. She hardly needed any help on the choreography and felt light as air. Even her smile, which Madame had called wooden in past performances, was genuine and huge, and it stayed on her face well after she finished dancing.

At the end of class, Kayley, Madeleine, Sophie, and Emma came up to her.

“All right, what gives?” Kayley said.

Ophelia shrugged, but the smile came back.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” she said, almost giggling.

Kayley exchanged looks with Sophie and Emma while Madeleine said, with a sly smile, “All right, who is he?”

How did she know? Ophelia wondered. For reasons she couldn't put into words, she wanted to keep Devon all to herself. She didn't want anyone else seeing him or dancing with him. The very thought made her whole body tense up. She turned on Madeleine, grabbing her arm. “Who do you mean, he? What were you doing last night?”

Madeleine stepped backward with each of Ophelia's words. Ophelia was immediately sorry—what was she doing? Madeleine had just asked a simple, innocent question. She was always nice that way.

Ophelia let go of Madeleine's arm, and Madeleine began rubbing it right away.

“I'm so sorry,” Ophelia said. “I just …”

The others stared at her, their faces shocked and angry. Kayley especially looked upset.

“It just was a long night, that's all,” Ophelia mumbled. Then she grabbed her bag and ran out of the room.

Somehow, for the rest of the day, she would have to avoid her friends, Ophelia thought. Before they had her committed.

Chapter 5

Ophelia faked sick for the rest of the afternoon. She even skipped her second ballet class, which she never did. She just couldn't face Madeleine and the rest of the girls.

But there was something else: she didn't want to tell them about Devon, and she didn't think she could keep it a secret around her friends.

All day, Devon had been all Ophelia could think of. The way he guided her around the dance floor, his smooth steps, and his spicy smell … those gorgeous eyes.

A little thrill skipped down her back. Tonight.

By eleven thirty, Ophelia was pacing in her room. She'd tried to take in more of
Giselle
but couldn't concentrate. She wanted to dance, not sit back and watch.

Finally, she couldn't take it anymore. Ophelia snuck up to the studio and began the warm-ups. Soon she was lost in her work, and when she turned around from a particularly high jeté, she saw him there. In the shadows.

He stepped forward and smiled at her. He wore the same clothes as he did the night before, and even from across the room, Ophelia could once again smell the dusty, woodsy, spicy smell that meant Devon. The moonlight shined across his eyes, it seemed, making them glow with an otherworldly light.

Ophelia smiled back, and nerves sparked like fireworks through her whole body.

“My Giselle,” he said and held out his hand to her.

She took his hand, and they danced again. Ophelia had never felt so at home, so in tune, with another person. Through dips and holds, turns and leaps, they held onto each other, dancing like they were one, completely in synch.

It was intoxicating.

As before, Devon stopped dancing after what seemed like seconds but had to have been much longer and looked into Ophelia's eyes. But this time, he stepped closer instead of stepping away.

Ophelia's heart began to race. He was so good looking that she thought her knees would go weak. Devon ran his hand down her cheek.

“Giselle,” he murmured. “You are mine, always.”

In one swoop, he pulled her even closer and kissed her on the mouth.

The fireworks inside Ophelia exploded.

He stepped back and said, “Tomorrow night, then. Same time?” He smiled at her gently.

All Ophelia could do was nod.

Chapter 6

For the next four days, the same thing happened:

Ophelia went to classes, ballet, and school; ignored her friends; and danced with Devon.

Mealtimes were the hardest, so she just started skipping them altogether, grabbing a granola bar here and there from snack machines, snagging the occasional muffin before the meal crowd came in.

Not that it mattered. Ophelia wasn't even close to hungry.

All she could think about was Devon and their dances. They hadn't even had one real conversation, but Ophelia didn't mind. The dancing was enough for her.

Each day in ballet class, she danced as if she were alone with Devon, and her dancing had never been better. She even heard Madame describe it as “exquisite” over the phone when she passed by Madame's office.

Even though the long nights were taking their toll, she felt energized like never before. She knew she had big bags under her eyes, that she'd lost weight, but she didn't care.

The only thing that mattered was Devon and the way he made her feel.

After the last ballet class of the day on Friday and after Ophelia had sprinted out of the studio to avoid her friends and wait alone in her room for her time with Devon, she heard a knock on her door.

For a ridiculous second, she thought it might be him. She ran to the door and flung it open.

It was Kayley. And Kayley didn't look happy. Her arms crossed, she said, “Can I come in?”

Ophelia didn't even try to hide her disappointment. But now that Kayley was there, Ophelia didn't know how she'd get rid of her, so she opened the door wider and gestured for Kayley to come in.

Her frown remained as Kayley strode over to the dressing table chair and sat down. Ophelia remained standing, crossing her arms and tapping her feet, her eyebrows up.

For a moment, the two of them just stared at each other.

“Well?” Ophelia said.

Kayley sighed and knit her hands together, looking down with an expression so forlorn, Ophelia actually felt bad for a second.

“What's going on with you, Ophelia?” Kayley finally asked.

“I don't know what you're talking about.” She turned around and pretended to shuffle things on her desk, though she hadn't done her homework all week. A note from one of her teachers atop the pile of papers gave Ophelia two days to finish an assignment or she'd get a zero. But all of that seemed so trivial—what did any of it matter when there was dancing to be done?

Kayley shook her head and fiddled with a brush on the dressing table. When she finally looked up, there were tears in her eyes.

“You've been disappearing every day. You don't talk to any of us or eat with any of us. You look like crap. I know something is up. Just like you knew something was up when I took those shoes. This house has a way of … isolating you. You know that.”

Ophelia waved her hand. “Oh, come on! That's ridiculous. And anyway, I'm fine. I just feel like being alone right now.”

“I know you believe in this stuff,” Kayley said. “Remember the ghost hunt?”

“I didn't actually believe a ghost was taking our stuff! I just wanted an adventure.”

Kayley took two steps toward her, her eyes earnest and concerned. “Whatever adventure you're on right now, Ophelia, it is doing something strange to you. You look like your life force is draining or something. And you're not talking to your friends. That means something is up.

“Whatever you believe about the house, know this: Don't always believe what you see or hear. Question anything that seems a little strange. Because in this house, it probably is. And with the curse of
Giselle
… well, you especially have to watch your back. Until then, whether you want it or not, Madeleine, Sophie, Emma, and I are watching your back.”

Before Ophelia could respond, Kayley marched out of the room.

Ophelia stared at the door in disbelief. Was that some sort of threat? Had her friends been spying on her? Did they know about Devon?

Panic gripped her as she searched her mind, trying to find a time when someone might have spotted her. But it couldn't be. Devon would have noticed, even if Ophelia hadn't.

How dare the girls decide they knew what was best for her! They were jealous of her dancing. They were jealous that she'd found something (someone) else to take up her time, that she no longer involved herself in their petty lives and the school's petty goings-on.

Jealous.

Rage raced through Ophelia. She needed some distraction before her midnight date with Devon. She tapped her mouth with her fingers, trying to think of what could work.

Riffling through her closet, she found the old box she kept full of yearbooks, show programs, and old notebooks. She dug through the box and came up with what she was looking for: a journal. Her mom had given her the journal when she came to Dario Quincy three years ago. But since Ophelia wasn't much for feelings, she'd tossed the journal aside with a snort and hadn't thought of it since.

Now, though, she felt this was the perfect time to put down her thoughts. She felt compelled to write about Devon. He was so ethereal that she was afraid he would disappear. She wanted to write down everything he said or did, everything he made her feel. And she wanted to write about her friends and how strange they were acting.

She opened up the diary and wrote the first words that came to mind:

My friends are acting strange, and I know it is because they are jealous. The only thing that gives me comfort right now is Devon. Dancing with him makes the whole world disappear. I find that I long for him every single night—I wait with bated breath to be reunited with him. He feeds my soul like nothing else can. I needn't eat nor sleep, for Devon is my nourishment. Those around me only serve as distractions, and they will never understand this need I have for him, this yearning that consumes me.

After an hour and a cramped hand—who ever writes longhand anymore instead of using a computer?—she read over the first few lines. Crinkling her forehead, she reread them. The words were exactly how she felt, only somehow, they didn't sound like her.

A trickle of nervousness ran through her. Kayley's words about the strangeness of the house echoed around Ophelia's head. Then she happened to glance at the clock. Eleven fifty.

She jumped up and got ready to sprint to the dance studio.

Devon would be there, and she couldn't be late.