#senseofcontrol

Lottie sat at the head of a small congregation of girls, her dance partner, Salinger Jones, sitting by her side. She fielded conversation between them in her Cockney accent, its distinct British quality immediately drawing questions from the students. She answered them, of course. She was from Peckham, a neighborhood in London. No, she didn’t know the Queen.

Her responses were a little offhand as she began to stretch by herself, waking her muscles up for a full day of ballet. She gave of an air of grace and professionalism as her head touched her ankle, her hands grabbing the sole of her pointe shoe. She barely noticed the small laugh, blending in with the other conversation, but was caught by complete surprise when she heard a loudthud.

“Jesus!” Lottie yelled, clutching the Juilliard logo on her sweatshirt and leaning into Salinger, both of them laughing at her surprise.

She looked up, finding a blonde girl standing with an air of annoyance, hair pulled back in a ponytail and eyebrows raised. Ignoring the woman’s perceived irritation, she gave her a polite, happy wave.

If there was one place Lottie Reynard did not fit in, it was a political gathering.

She knew how to operate in one, of course. Hold her head high and straighten her back and say please and thank you and restore some semblance of class to her accent. That didn’t give her any reason to enjoy them, and for the rising feeling in her gut that reminded her that she didn’t belong.

“’Nother glass of champagne, please.”

She shouldn’t be drinking, but she let the nagging voice go as the bartender handed her a flute of bubbling alcohol. She resisted the urge to down it in one go, instead taking a small sip and letting it burn its way down her throat.

Looking up from her glass, she saw a woman staring at her, her eyebrows knitted as if to place where she had seen her before.