The blood was flowing freely now. A rust-colored stain, which had been the size of a quarter at the beginning of the hour, had now spread to that of a silver dollar pancake.

Who thinks of pancakes while they are bleeding all over the place?

Apparently you do, the snarky voice inside my head responded, when you choose to skip breakfast in lieu of getting to class early.

A small price to pay to stake my claim at the barré before the other vultures get here, I responded to it.

I shook the thoughts away as I realized I was having a conversation with myself. Again. This happens a lot when you spend most of your time inside your own head. Sure, I had actual people to talk to—a few that I would even call friends—but more often than not, I was alone. There was only one thing that occupied my mind more than myself.

Dance.

"Emmalynne, you're up!" a slight yet stern voice called out above the twinkling of piano notes.

I turned to see my ballet mistress, Miss Diane, looking at me expectantly and counting out sets of eight to the music. I'd been caught red-handed—or as the case was, red-footed—and I knew at once that all the extra time I'd spent in the studio that week had been nullified with this single stupid move on my part.

There was nothing the teachers at The Richmond Ballet Company hated more than a dancer who wasn't paying attention. Well, except for a bad instep maybe.

With one last look down at my bloody foot, I pushed my thoughts and the pain I was feeling away, and took a few delicate steps forward. Then, as if I were weightless—and at 5'5" and 102 pounds, I practically was—I moved across the floor, performing a series of turns and leaps until I'd reached the other side of the studio. Sauté arabesque, balancé en tournant, run, run, run, grand jeté. Which, in layman's terms, meant: slide hop, dancy grapevine with a turn, run, run, run, end with a big leap. Only in French. And more graceful than it sounded.

As I finished, I brought my feet together, toe touching heel, and let my arms curve down into a low oval shape near my thighs. I knew the combination had been damn-near perfect, and had I not just pissed off my teacher, I would've been satisfied with myself. Instead, my face remained neutral as I tip-toed to the back of the line with my tail between my legs.

The best I could hope for now was to remain invisible for the rest of the class. Or if I was lucky, another dancer would mess up and draw the focus away from me.

I know that sounds horrible—wishing someone else would screw up, fall, forget the combination, sloppily land their quad turn—but if you were like me, a ballerina in one of the most prestigious companies in Northern California, you'd be thinking the same thing. I mean, you might feel bad about it, but you'd still think it.

"Way to piss off the Miss," a voice said quietly in my ear. "Are you trying to give the others a chance to snag your swag?"

I didn't have to turn around to know who it was. After all, there was only one person who talked to me like that.

"Of course not, Zhara," I whispered back. "I was just having a bit of...trouble. Of the bleeding variety. I got distracted for a second, gimme a break, okay? You'd think a girl could expect at least that much from her partner."

He took a step away from me, and then held up a hand, signaling for me to stop.

"Ew, girrrl, that is so not cute. I thought you were all over that mess," Zhara said, circling his finger in front of my midriff. "Isn't that one of the perks of being a teeny-tiny little thing like you? No more girly drama."

"Gross, Zhara," I said, making a face at him, realizing that he thought I was on my period. "And wrong part of the body."

I lifted my foot up into the air gracefully, until it was level with his face. If anyone were watching, it would look like I was just stretching, not socializing with one of my closest friends. Luckily, the fact that we were paired up on the floor gave us an excuse to interact with each other. If we were ever caught talking, we'd just play it off like we'd been discussing partner work. And with a motormouth like Zhara for a partner, the pretext came in handy more often than you'd think.

Zhara glanced at the half moon of blood spreading up from my toe shoe, and realization set in. The sight didn't alarm him—quite the opposite, actually. This he was used to seeing. Ballerinas were always suffering from one injury or another. Just came with the territory.

"New shoes?" he asked instead, turning his attention back to Miss Diane, who was already calling out the next sequence we were to perform across the floor.

I nodded. As annoying as it was, it always took several classes to make new shoes danceable. That's why so many ballerinas wore their slippers until they literally fell apart. Most of your toes hanging out of your soles? Still good to dance on. Binding bent but not completely broken? Leap away!

But we had auditions coming up in less than a month and my old shoes weren't going to hold up over that time. And since the "breaking-in" process was so painful, I had to start dancing in them now if I wanted to be ready for the company's production of Giselle.

"I've got to be a hundred percent for auditions," I explained to Zhara as we moved closer to the front of the line. "When Silvi danced Giselle four years ago, it was unreal. It immediately became my favorite and I knew I had to play the principal the next time it came around. Zhara, I am Giselle."

"Please!" a girl said suddenly as she breezed past us and cut in line. "The only thing you could ever have in common with Giselle is that you might die of embarrassment when you end up choking out there. If you get the role at all after today's class."

We both watched with slightly open mouths as the younger dancer prepared herself and then took off, leaping through the air as easily as normal people walked.

Zhara snorted. "If girl wasn't such a be-yotch, I'd probably have been impressed by that," he said.

Even I had to admit that Scarlett's insult had been clever. She'd somehow managed to incorporate the plot of the ballet into her little dig. Giselle was actually inspired by two ghost stories, one of which was about a girl whose love for dance literally killed her. It was known to many in the industry as "Ballet's great tragedy." I found it hauntingly romantic and incredibly riveting. And I was convinced it would be the performance I'd come to be known for.

So yes, Scarlett's crack might have been funny...if anyone other than her had said it.

As it was though, there was no one I disliked more at RBC than Scarlett Oakes. I'd never met a more spoiled, self-righteous and entitled 15-year-old. If I had to guess, her over-inflated ego stemmed from her good looks. For all the ugliness she had on the inside, Scarlett was gorgeous on the outside. Skinny, tall, blond. It was the perfection trifecta and she knew it, using it to her advantage as often as she could get away with it.

That especially applied when it came to trying to position herself into the spot of prima ballerina. A spot that I'd earned over years of hard work. Not that the title was set in stone. A ballerina's place within a company could change at any minute for a multitude of reasons. For instance, if you were injured or someone else danced the part better—even having a bad week or putting on a few pounds—teachers could be swayed to switch things up. The point is, there was always someone gunning for the top spot. And that meant I had a lot of enemies.

Scarlett was simply the most vocal. And the most annoying.

I wanted to say something back. Maybe even drop an F-bomb or two. But the truth was...I wanted to beat her more. So, I kept my focus on class, trying to prove to Miss Diane that my lack of attention before had been a fluke. That I was totally and completely dedicated to this company.

I replaced my blinders and slid back into the zone.

Where I belonged.

Ballet was my life. It had been since the age of six, when I'd been dragged to my sister's class one Saturday afternoon. Before the little ones had even finished stretching, I'd fallen in love. Head over heels, I-know-what-I-was-meant-to-do-with-my-life, obsessed, all-consuming, crazy kind of love.

I adored everything about it. The outfits—skirts that flowed around me when I moved, leotards that clung to my body and showed off my strong yet slender muscles. Even the pink tights that itched and the wooden-tipped shoes that pinched my toes, leaving them bright red, raw and blistering, were all welcome side-effects of my newfound passion. Like little battle wounds that proved my dedication to the art.

And there was nothing better than the smell of a dance studio. The pungent scent of varnish that coated the floors and the hint of rosin floating lightly in the air—it was like an aphrodisiac to people like me.

But it was the act of dancing that made it impossible for me to give my life to anything else. There was just something about getting lost in the motions, using my body to tell a story. Every movement became a work of art, something of incredible beauty. When I danced, nothing else mattered. Nothing. I was powerless over the pull that it had on me.

Now, at 17, I'd finally worked my way up through the company, willingly accepting it as my whole world. As far as I was concerned, nothing else existed outside of these mirrored walls. It couldn't if I wanted to be great.

Ballet had made me its bitch from the very start, and there wasn't a day I didn't beg for more.

"See you all tomorrow," Miss Diane called out, clapping her hands to signal that class had ended. "And don't forget to bring your original 8-counts with you. We'll be performing them and then critiquing each other. So if you don't come prepared, you shouldn't come at all."

"She's just a ball of sugary sweetness, now isn't she?" Zhara said sarcastically under his breath as we walked over to one of the benches and sat down.

"She doesn't have to be nice," I answered honestly. "She just has to be good. Or at least, be able to make us good."

Zhara knew I was right, but shook his head anyway.

Pulling my shoes off carefully, I surveyed the damage. The skin had completely ripped away from at least four of my toes and my bunions were throbbing and red. With a sigh, I pulled up the bottoms of my tights until my ankles and feet were free. Then I retrieved my makeshift emergency kit out of my bag and got to work bandaging my wounds. It didn't matter that the job wasn't perfect, because the real cleanup would come after I got home and showered.

When I was done, I tied up my toe shoes and shoved some Kleenex into the bottoms to soak up the excess blood until the next time I'd wear them. Which would be the following day.

No rest for the weary.

"Somebody needs a ped-i-cure," Zhara said, tsking at me. "You aren't gonna pick up any honeys with beat-up, troll-looking feet like those."

I rolled my eyes, but smiled despite myself. Zhara was always like this. Showing his love and respect for our unusual relationship with playful digs and gentle coaxing meant to pull me out of my ballet bubble. He didn't actually expect me to change—he knew I was too set in my ways to do that—but in the off-chance that his outgoing nature might rub off on me, he kept at it anyway. It was a dance we'd played for years, and we wouldn't have been "us" without it.

"Well, it's a good thing I'm not trying to pick up any guys then, isn't it?" I answered, carefully slipping my feet into a pair of flip-flops. Wrapping myself up in a thin green sweater, and switching out my sheer skirt for a solid black one, I stood up and walked toward the door. Zhara followed right behind me.

"You're going to end up an old maid one day if you're not careful," he lectured as we walked down the street.

"Well, I am good at organizing," I said, thoughtfully.

"I think the term is OCD," he responded. "But seriously, I think sometimes you just don't know what you're missing, Emmy."

"There are more important things in life than boys, Zhara," I said, replaying an argument we had at least once a week.

"Bite your tongue!" Zhara said, aghast. "Cute boys make life worth trudging."

It was my turn to give him an incredulous look. "I think you need to reevaluate your priorities, my friend," I said. "Boys are just a distraction."

"A much-welcomed one at that," Zhara said as he focused his attention ahead of us. I looked to see what he was referring to and instantly wished that I hadn't.

Not too far in front of us walked a slender but muscular guy, his black bag slung across his back carelessly, hands hidden inside the pockets of his fitted grey Abercrombie sweats. Even from behind, I knew who it was.

Preston Vale.

The newest addition to RBC appeared only to be half-listening to a conversation Scarlett was having with the group of dancers around her. His thin white shirt clung to his body as if it had been made special for him, showing off back muscles that popped underneath. Just as my attention began to travel further south, he turned and caught us staring.

My gaze dipped to the ground quickly, hoping Preston would ignore what he'd just seen. Unfortunately, when I dared to look up again, I saw that he'd stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, a playful grin spread across his face, as he waited for us to catch up to him.

"Zhara," Preston said easily, giving my partner a bro-like nod when we were within talking distance. Zhara smiled and nodded back before glancing over to catch my reaction. I tried to look anywhere but at the guy in front of me, thinking that if I just ignored him, maybe he'd go away.

No such luck.

"Hey, Em," Preston continued, walking backward to keep in step with us. "Looks like you were having a little trouble out there today."

"Breaking in new shoes," I said, forcing myself to sound as normal as possible when I spoke. Like I wasn't talking to the guy who'd been dubbed the hottest dancer in our studio.

He's just a guy, not a God. He's just a guy, not a God...

Preston nodded, his gaze fixed on me. I began to feel uncomfortable under his stare, like he could somehow read my mind. And I definitely did not want him knowing what I was really thinking.

"Well, change can be good," he said, after a few seconds.

"If you say so," I muttered.

"I do," he said, a hint of a sparkle in his eye. "You know, I have some experience...breaking in new shoes. Let me know if I can help in any way."

I nearly stumbled over my own feet as he shamelessly flirted with me. He wasn't even trying to hide it. My mouth went dry as I grasped for something to say to that.

"I'm fine, thanks," I said, quickly. "I've got Zhara here, if I need anything."

Zhara snorted beside me and I resisted the urge to elbow him.

Preston gave me an amused look, running his hand through his caramel-colored hair and letting it spike up messily in various directions. I wondered what it would be like to touch it myself, but then forced the thought away.

"Okay, well, if you change your mind, you know where I am," Preston said and then turned and jogged away.

After a few seconds of silence, I let out the breath I'd been holding and then looked over at Zhara pointedly.

"See? Boys are a distraction," I said forcefully. "One I'm not willing to allow in my life right now."

Zhara let his mouth drop open in disbelief. "Are you channeling the Virgin Mary, because that's what you're gonna be if you keep pushing away hot guys like that," he said, watching Preston admiringly as he rejoined Scarlett's group. Then, under his breath he added, "I would lick that boy's abs like a popsicle."

I rolled my eyes. "I'm not interested," I said aloud, trying to remind myself of this fact, too.

"Girl, you're crazy," Zhara said, shaking his head.

"Look, I admit...he's attractive," I said, recalling his bright green eyes and perfectly chiseled jawbone. "But he makes me flustered, and clumsy, and he knows it, and he still flirts anyway. He draws my focus away from ballet...."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Zhara interrupted.

"It is for me," I insisted. "Getting involved in a relationship at this point in my career would be idiotic. I'm not willing to derail my chances of being Prima—no matter how cute the boy is. I have greater aspirations than that."

Over the years, I'd seen too many girls become sidetracked by love. And once the relationships inevitably ended—and they did end—the dancer would go back to her first love, only to realize that her place within the company had been scooped up by someone else. Someone who'd made her craft the top priority in her life. And that's what I was going to do.

Because I wanted to be the best.

Without thinking, my eyes wandered back to Preston, who was now leaning over and saying something to Scarlett that I couldn't hear. Almost immediately, she tossed her bright blond hair over her shoulder and looked at us. When she saw me she scowled, before turning back to her entourage, all of whom were guys. Two gay, one straight, and then, of course, Preston. Scarlett's choice of companions wasn't surprising, considering she wasn't exactly a "girls girl." To her, we were the enemy. Another obstacle she needed to conquer if she wanted to end up on top.

Then again, this was the attitude of most of the females in the company. It was too hard to be friends with someone who desperately wanted you to fail. So, most of the girls paired off with the male dancers or chose to only have friends outside of the company.

I was perfectly happy sticking with Zhara.

With class over, seventeen of us, all RBC members, walked in tiny groups down the street in the direction of home. For most, this meant the collection of small apartments nearby, which we'd dubbed the "dancer's complex." In actuality, it was just a set of buildings like any other. Located feet away from the highway and less than ten blocks from the studio, the group of individual living quarters housed all of the dancers who chose to "live-in" while training.

Since the Richmond Ballet Company was the only real dance company for hundreds of miles, it drew in ballerinas from all over. And unless parents were willing to move for their kids' craft or didn't mind spending hours on end in the car each day, the only other option was to send their kids to live on their own.

Well, not completely on their own. There were adult supervisors who lived in the complex for those of us under the age of 18. And of course, plenty of the older dancers lived there, too, so it wasn't like we had an all-access pass to total freedom.