Chapter 3 : Mr & Mrs Claire

Dallas’ POV

I pushed open the door to the big chunk of terracotta brick. Life here was just so much simpler. The hustle and bustle of the determined and usually laser focused gym goers colliding with lively and always laughing dancers in a beautifully chaotic mix. Part of the facility was free, the showers and bathrooms mainly. Mr and Mrs Claire opened this place a while back. Due to a midlife crisis I assume. I’ve known them almost all my life and they’re the closest I have to grandparents.

I wave to the receptionists at the front desk with a smile as they buzz me in. The locker room was like a giant showroom. Half naked women and girls, seemingly unbothered by their own nakedness. Laughing and ordinary conversations trail of and pick-up effortlessly. A lioness’s den of sports bras and steam from the sauna. None of the exposed skin in this room has marks akin to mine.

Battle scars and wounds are sprinkled here and there.

Paloma’s incision from her C-section that brought her son into this world. Davina’s scar from her knee surgery. The barb wire imprints on Willows shoulder that she got from trying to climb a fence in her youth. The bruise on Alexia’s freckled cheeks from the fight she won in the match yesterday. Jamie’s hang-nail covered in a skin tone Band-Aid. They seem so unfazed by each other’s war stories that play on mute in the background of their mundane chatter.

I’m an outsider in the place I feel most at home. I just people watch, never participating. I kind of like it that way to be honest. If someone were to ask me how I am I’m scared that salty water will sting the waterline of my eyes and id be helpless to stop it.

I overhear their talk almost every day. People usually underestimate the benefits observation. You can get to know someone without ever needing to go through the trouble of getting to know them yourself. There’s a subtle air of power and control behind listening more than you talk.

Grabbing my clothes from my locker and entering one of the many bathroom stalls. I feel so unnerved changing in front of people. The one thing I hate more than looking at myself is other people looking at me. They’ll be looking at my hips and rolls, my dips and curves in all the wrong places.

My sweat pants are a bit worn out, well-loved and cherished. The old grey hoodie with my brother’s name embroidered on the back from the track team. I sweat like a pig under the cosy polyester, but I don’t mind. I’ll throw it in the wash when I get back home.

Dancing. I can’t even explain the extent of how much I love it with every fibre of my being. I t’s like for a split second I feel like I’m floating. I’m weightless in the air. My movements are so fluid and have become muscle memory. I can’t tell where on move ends and another begins. Everything fades away and it just me, the music and the dance.

Sometimes it’s like my mom is right there with me. Guiding my arms and legs in just the right way.

She’s is the only reason I love this form of art. I remember dancing with her in our living room. Laughing and giggling as we shook and shimmied to the beat of the speakers. Once she told me that she listened to music every day without fail while she was pregnant with me. Maybe that’s why I feel like music is a part of me. It was there with me right from the beginning. I’ve been listening to music before I was born.

Sometimes dad would join in. Mom would pull him in after he’d been watching us from his seat on the couch, smiling. I never see that look on him anymore. Like it’s been permanently deleted from his knowledge base. I think he’s forgotten what it feels like to laugh. Or he’s afraid to, it would bring up too many unresolved feelings that he hasn’t brought up in years.

Does he think about them as much as I do?

Does it make him as sad as me?

Has he ever confronted the empty side of his bed?

Mrs Claire led her other students and I, in our stretches. Warming us up for her gruelling class. It’s astounding to me that people who have never taken a day of ballet have the nerve to say that it doesn’t take skill. You try putting your entire body weight on the tips of your toes.

Some are just naturals. They must have the blood of fairies flowing through them. It’s the only explanation as to how effortless they look. Their talent is only something I could hope for.

We are an army of grace. All of us in unison performing for an imaginary audience. The slightest improper movement corrected one by one. Mrs Claire has perfected being strict and loving at the same time. We all adore her. The best of us all. Years of work and dedication to her craft still visible through her every step to this day, many moons after her time on stage.

Her curly red hair starting to grey, pulled up into a tight bun at the top of her hair. Black leotard and tights pulled together with a pink wrap around skirt. Most of the girls in class match her. A few like me in sweat pants, even though I’m the only one adorned in a hoodie.

I watch myself in the mirror. I take note of every detail. Are my feet sickled? Is my posture correct? Are my hands in the right placement? Do I look as good as Kina-Marie? She’s perfect.

Her pirouettes are impeccable and amazing to watch. She flows. She has really good feet with muscular calves that look like they could crush a watermelon in half. Every part of her is toned. Her skin is free from any blemishes, and her smile. God her smile. It would make anyone fall head over heels in love with her. Her white and pristine teeth sparkle.

I don’t know whether I want to be her, or fuck her.

Her dad comes to watch her dance at every recital and performance. Bringing her an orange rose every single time. I envy their relationship.

He loves her.

An hour of turns, twirls, practice at the bar and re-runs over choreography goes by in a flash. I find myself following the others out of the class. Exhausted and drenched in my own sweat.

“Dallas, can you stay back for a second?” I look back at Mrs Claire as she started packing up her things on the table in the corner of the room. Walking back over to her curiously. She sits down in a chair, patting the one next to her, inviting me to sit down with her. I lift my leg onto it and sit down on top of my le, sighing as I lean into the comfortability.

“Y’know, you’re an amazing young dancer,” she bores into me with her big beautiful blue eyes. Her smile inviting as usual. I smile at the compliment, ducking my head as a blush rose to my cheeks making them burn red hot. “You just need to not focus so hard.”

“And how am I supposed to do that?” I slump back into the chair in defeat. She chuckles a little at my predicament.

“I know, easier said than done. You’re way too critical of yourself.” She crosses her legs, hands clasped together over her knee. Her grin never falters as she looks down at my laid back form.

“I see how you dance when you lose sight of yourself. When you give yourself into the steps.” I chuckle to myself more than her words. I’d argue that’s when I look the worst. Uncoordinated and stumbling. More like a baby giraffe taking its first steps than anything else.

“That’s the Dallas I want to see more often in class.” She emphasis her point with her hands. She does that a lot. Talking more with her hands than her actual words. “You have the potential to be an amazing dancer, so stop worrying about everyone else and let go.” She nods at me waiting for my agreement with excitement.

“Ok, I’ll try.” I nod with an actually genuine smile that I didn’t need to force onto my features. She so fucking supportive. She always finds something to praise in everyone. A real life fucking ray of sunshine.

After gathering all of my belongings and preparing myself for the walk home. I hear my name being called from behind me, I recognise that voice. I turn, searching for the source when my eyes land on none other than Mr Claire. And next to him, a guy I’d never seen before. He waves me over to the pair of them with a smile and I oblige.

“I can’t believe you were goin’ to leave without so much as a ‘hello’.” He dramatically rested his hands on his hips, looking away with mock annoyance. A playful eye-roll came shortly after.

“I’m sorry I was just in a rush to get home I guess.” I smile and slightly giggle at his antics. He’s always such a character. Always has a joke or ten up his sleeve. That never interferes with his ability to be serious and comforting when the need arises. I once scraped my knee pretty bad while riding my bike to the gym when I was ten. He kept a playful smile while his tender hands cleaned and attended to my wound. I cried and laughed a lot that day. Congratulating me for my bravery as he put a purple Band-Aid over the blood clotting scrape.

“Well, in any case,” He waves me off with a scoff, gesturing to the guy next to him. “This is Brooks. He’s been thinking about joining us here.” I examined him. Dark tousled wavy hair. A slight bruise under his eye on the apple of his cheek. I wonder to myself how he acquired it. His plain black t-shirt looks oversized on his broad shoulders. His hazel eyes look like swirling galaxies. I notice the slight dusting of freckles that dot the bridge of his nose. Then again that yellow faded purple blotch. Is he okay?

“Hi, it’s nice to meet you.” His smile. Fucking god, his smile. He was beautiful. The kind of pretty that’s subtle at first then jumps out at you once you take another look. Like one of those videos where you don’t know what the hell you’re looking at until you change your viewing angle. And then every time you look back you can’t see anything but what’s intended. That’s his kind of pretty. His hand is rough as I shake it. The pads of his fingers have seen many hard days of work.

“Same here.” My voice comes out unusually to my ears. Hazy and slowed. My hand lays in his probably longer than it should before I pull it back, looking down away from him. I can feel Mr Claire’s eyes burning a hole in me. I can practically hear his smile.

“I thought since he’s new in town you two could maybe get to know each other.” Mr Claire’s voice has an inclination of amusement. He sounds like he’s on the verge of letting out a chuckle.

“Yeah maybe, but I um, really do have to get going now though.” I try to avoid Brooks’ eyes, still on me, unwavering in their pursuit. My fingers fidget with the strap of my bag on my shoulder, getting antsy. Swaying my weight from foot to foot.

“A’right, say high to your dad for me hmm?” he nods to me, with understanding eyes. Ever present smile. He brings me in for one of his signature bear hugs that I love so much. If I stay too long in its warm embrace I think id melt under the pressure.

“Sure.” I wave at him, walking away and out the front door.

“See you around.” I hear Brooks’ voice from behind me. I don’t look back, grinning to myself. I can still feel the touch of his skin on my hand. Rough and chapped. I thing I kind a miss it. Is that weird? I don’t even know him. For all I know he could be a serial killer hiding behind a charming smile. Wasn’t Jeffery Dahmer always described as charming as well? Goddamn I’m such a paranoid freak show.