Chapter 7 - The Enemy's Routine
The junior solo category started at 2:00 PM.
We sat in the dark auditorium, watching the competitors.
There were some incredible dancers.
Girls who could bend their spines like rubber, girls who spun like tops.
But they all felt... manufactured.
They smiled the exact same fake smiles.
They did the exact same generic choreography.
It was a factory of perfection, completely devoid of soul.
“Next up, entry 114. Madison Clark, representing Hartline Dance Studio.”
The announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers.
I sat up straighter.
Vanessa had been bragging about this routine for a year.
Madison walked onto the stage.
She wore a stunning, custom-made blue costume covered in thousands of Swarovski crystals.
It easily cost over a thousand dollars.
The music started—a fast, aggressive instrumental piece.
Madison went right into a series of incredibly difficult technical leaps.
She was undeniably talented.
Her extensions were flawless.
Her turns were perfectly centered.
But as I watched her, I noticed something.
Her eyes were blank.
She wasn’t feeling the music; she was simply executing a math problem.
Count to eight, leap.
Count to four, turn.
Smile for the judges.
It was a brilliant display of gymnastics, but it wasn't art.
When she finished, the Hartline section of the audience erupted in rehearsed cheers.
Vanessa was standing in the front row, clapping furiously, looking around to make sure everyone saw her.
Mark leaned over to me.
“It was good,” he whispered. “But it was cold.”
“I know,” I replied.
I looked at Lily, who was sitting next to me in her simple burgundy dress.
She wasn't intimidated.
She was studying Madison’s performance, breaking it down in her head.
“She rushed the second pirouette,” Lily noted quietly. “She was off-balance on the landing.”
I smiled.
My daughter was a professional.
“Attention in the auditorium,” the announcer said. “We will have a ten-minute intermission, followed by our final junior solo entries.”
It was time.
We hurried backstage.
The atmosphere was frantic.
Dancers were crying, teachers were yelling, mothers were aggressively hair-spraying flyaways.
We found a quiet corner near the curtain.
Lily put in her earbuds, closing her eyes, listening to her cello track on repeat.
She was getting into the zone.
I stood guard, making sure no one bumped into her.
Suddenly, I saw Madison standing a few feet away.
She looked exhausted.
Vanessa was standing over her, aggressively pointing a finger in her face.
“I told you to spot the exit sign on those fouettés!” Vanessa was hissing. “You lost your center! If you cost me this national title, Madison, you are done in the elite company. Do you hear me?”
Madison looked like she was about to cry.
She just nodded silently.
My heart broke for the girl.
She wasn’t a dancer to Vanessa; she was a trophy.
Vanessa turned and made eye contact with me.
She sneered, dragging her eyes up and down Lily’s simple costume.
“Good luck,” Vanessa mouthed from across the room.
It wasn't a wish.
It was a threat.
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I didn't break eye contact.
I just smiled back.
