she had hoped the rain would let up upon arrival. ⠀ but as the cab rode up, ⠀ the academy coming into focus, ⠀ she gave up on that. ⠀ the cab driver quickly pushed her and her luggage out and drove off, ⠀ leaving her in the pouring rain. ⠀ [really, ⠀ a great first impression to make.] ⠀ her hair billows in the wind, ⠀ blocking her vision as she walks up.

THE PRODUCTION WANTED TO SEND HER TO A BALLET ACADEMY ⠀ for a more ‘realistic depiction of dancing’ ⠀ or something. ⠀ mj was not particularly stoked. ⠀ she can dance, ⠀ she’d consider herself a great dancer. ⠀ but the rigidity and the confines of ballet don’t align with her performance style. ⠀ IT’S NOT A ROLE SHE REALLY WANTED. ⠀ but, ⠀ her agent and her manager said it would be a ‘great challenge’ ⠀ & ⠀ it also held the possibility of a golden globe nomination along with it. ⠀ SO, ⠀ begrudgingly, ⠀ she agreed.

as she stands at the door, ⠀ clothing stuck to her skin, ⠀ drenched in rainwater, ⠀ she already regrets her choice. , ⠀ she knocks on the door ⠀ — ⠀ the echo of the metal reverberating.⠀ she stands there for a few moments, ⠀ shivering. ⠀ then, ⠀ a click. ⠀ a face peeks out.

Although I try not to show it, I am kind of annoyed that I must be the liaison for Mother, instead of practicing for our upcoming recital. A punishment no doubt — but perhaps a deserved one. Good is a stupid word. I don’t want to be a good dancer.

Her knock frightens me out of my song, the awful metal sound reverberating in my inner ear. I cringe, and my mouth flexes upwards into a smile. Pleasant, agreeable. It’s more on impulse now than of genuine feeling. I hold it that way as she enters, brushing past me as I close the door. I can feel the lingering wetness splatter against my thighs. “ Hi. ” My voice is too soft, too low, so I start again. “ Sorry — Hi. I’m Nina. ” The soft of my palm meets with hers in greeting.

Mary Jane Watson. It’s all I’ve heard the girls whispering since Mother announced her upcoming arrival. Already they wait like hyenas outside their doors, gazing with horribly selfish eyes. They want to make her a piece of them. I can understand the sentiment, just not with her. I think of Beth — our prima ballerina in New York. I keep clippings of her recent news beneath my pillow, and at night, I dream of inhabiting her body, of performing on stage as her …