Martinique watched the nine ladies dancing elegantly across the polished hardwood floor. Her mouth curved into a smug smirk. She would soon be the tenth. Poor Elizabeth, the former number ten, had fallen down an entire flight of stairs last week, leaving her with multiple broken bones and not a single chance of staying in the show.
Closing her eyes, breathing in the satisfaction, Martinique smiled. No one saw who pushed Elizabeth down those stairs. It was such a dark area. Must’ve been an accident, they all said. Martinique knew better. She knew how to get what she wanted, so that’s what she’d done.
“Ah, Martinique,” the rail thin instructor said, tapping his fingers together in front of his face. “So happy to have you. You’ve quite graceful shoes to fill. Come on, let’s see what you’ve got.”
Martinique fought the grimace trembling behind her lips. She wanted to spit in the man’s face. How dare he treat her like some green, off the street, dancer? Pushing down the burst of red fury behind her eyes, she lifted her chin and headed out onto the floor.
First she sprung into her classic chasse, that led to a flurry of perfectly pointed toes as she executed a flawless sous sous. She ended with particularly difficult grand jete, which she nailed. Slowly letting her arms fall from above her head, she kept her eyes focused triumphantly on the doubting man.
“Is that what you had in mind?” she questioned.
He snapped his fingers at the other nine dancers, who had pressed in a line against the wall to watch her performance. “Okay, break time is up, let’s get started.”
She fumed. He didn’t so much as nod at her work. As she took her position in line, she pondered the ways to make him pay for his disrespect.
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