Bad Habits Box Set

by Staci Hart

  I pulled off the double-crossing shoe and inspected it, grateful that I hadn’t hurt myself, almost wishing I’d abandoned the performance to switch them out. I hadn’t had a ribbon fail since I first started pointe and didn’t have a system. But I did have a system. A damn good one. It didn’t make any sense. I took the other one off and checked the ribbon. One of my stitches was cut.

  Jenni stood next to me as I stared at the ribbon, trying to make sense of it. Had I accidentally cut it? I couldn’t figure out what I’d done wrong. I had to have made a mistake.

  I looked up and found Nadia staring at me from across the stage. Her smile said one thing.

  She’d done it.

  Rage shot through me like lightning, and I marched across the stage, not even seeing Blane until he stepped in front of me.

  “Hey, Lily.”

  I tried to side-step him, but he grabbed my arms.

  “Hey,” he said softer, and I met his eyes. “What happened to your shoe? Are you okay?”

  My nostrils flared. “No, I am not okay. She fucking cut my ribbons, Blane.”

  His eyes widened, and he glanced over his shoulder at Nadia, then back to me, jaw set. “Let me talk to her.”

  “If you think I’m letting this shit go, you’re crazy.”

  He leaned down to get eye-level with me. “She’s not going to listen to you, but she’ll listen to me. Let me handle it. Otherwise, this is going to end in a fight, and that makes you look just as bad. Okay?”

  I was so pissed I could barely see straight, never mind trying to form sentences that weren’t peppered with expletives.

  He looked to Jenni. “Get Lily out of here. I’ll deal with Nadia.”

  Jenni touched my arm, eyes searching my face. “Come on. She’s not worth your reputation.”

  They were right. I knew they were right. But all I wanted to do was take a shank roller to that bitch’s face.

  I took a deep breath and addressed Blane. “You let her know that she’d better back off, or I’m coming for her. This is bullshit, Blane, and I’m not going to put up with it.” I hoped he heard the threat to him in there — it wasn’t just Nadia who would feel the consequences. By the look on his face, I think he got it. “Would you grab my things, Jenni? I’ll meet you in the dressing room.”

  “Of course.”

  I gave Nadia a long look that I hoped transmitted my thirst for blood. The smirk she had on her face made it nearly impossible to walk away, but somehow I picked up my feet and left the stage with shaking hands, making my way to the changing room where I paced in front of the mirrors.

  My mind went a million miles an hour and was no closer to slowing down by the time Jenni got there.

  “Hey.” Her voice was soft, like she was trying to approach a wild bear. She wasn’t far off.

  I turned to span the room again. “There’s nothing I can fucking do about it, Jenni.”

  “I know.” She set down our bags and leaned against the counter.

  “Telling Ward would start a war. She would deny it. I would look petty. I can’t confront her, or we’ll end up in a fight, and I could end up fired. I can’t believe she did this,” I rambled. “I mean, I believe it, but fuck my life.”

  “Blane was talking to her when I left. I caught a little bit of it when I went to pick up your bag. When do you think she did it?”

  I let out a breath, feeling stupid. “It was in here all night. She could have done it at any time.”

  “At least Blane stuck up for you.”

  The statement nettled me, and I felt like I had to make an excuse. “It’s just because we’re partners. No one wants someone they have to work with daily being terrorized by their ex. God, she’s so fucking unprofessional. Trying to make me look bad in rehearsal is one thing, but to sabotage a performance?”

  “Worse than that — you could have really hurt yourself.”

  I rubbed a hand over my face, pulling it away like it was on fire. My hand was covered in makeup, and I looked in the mirror to see that my eyeliner had smeared. “Ugh.” I reached for my bag and dug around for my makeup wipes. Jenni grabbed one too, and we went to work, scrubbing off the warpaint.

  “I’m sorry, Lil.”

  I sighed. “She’s always been like this, but she’s crossed the line. If she does something like this again, I’m going to Ward. Will you back me up? Even if Blane won’t, if I have you, that should be enough.”

  “Of course I’ll back you up.” She scowled. “I hope he would, too.”

  “I hope he would too. But I can’t pretend to understand the dynamic between the two of them.” The realization that his loyalties might not be with me after all — the reminder that I was the new girl up against the one he’d been with for years — didn’t sit well.

  “Promise me you’ll tell Ward if she does it again, for real.”

  “I promise.” I smiled at her in the mirror, our faces pink from scrubbing. “Should I plot a revenge tour?”

  “I’ll help.” She reached into her bag for her clothes.

  But I shook my head. “I wish I had that in me. I’ll do the right thing and wait for her to fuck up again. And then I’ll bury that bitch proper.”

  Jenni smirked. “I’ll grab my shovel.”

  West

  I recrossed my ankles on Lily’s coffee table late that night and sighed, glancing up at The Bachelor when one of the contestants threw a champagne glass at a wall.

  What? Don’t judge me. You have your vices, I have mine.

  The room was mostly dark, with only the small lamps on the end tables lit. I sat near one of them with an essay in my hand, trying to make progress on my Herculean stack of terrible papers. Rose was at work, and Lily was at a show, so I’d opted to work at their place instead of mine for a change of scenery.

  We all had keys to each other’s apartments, as close as we all were and since we lived down the hall. It wasn’t unusual to come home to find one of the girls in our apartment, though Patrick and I were at theirs more often, on account of the cable. Plus, their apartment was more comfortable. Nicer things, softer couch. It even smelled better, which — thinking about it — I guess isn’t that surprising.

  I heard the key in the door behind me, and I glanced over my shoulder to find Lily walking in, looking exhausted with her bag slung across her chest. Her blond hair was down and loose, still damp from her shower at the theater, blue eyes dull and lids heavy. She dropped her bag with a thump next to the door.

  “Hey, West,” she said wearily as she kicked off her flats.

  I watched her toss her keys into the dish on the table and take off her denim overshirt, worrying over her a little. The slope of her shoulders and tightness in her cheeks told me plenty. “Hey, Lil. Long day?”

  She shuffled around the couch, falling into it with a flump. Her feet found their way into my empty lap, and I rested a hand on her ankle. She sighed. “Definitely very long.”

  I laid the essay down on top of the stack. “Want to talk about it?”

  Her bottom lip slipped between her teeth, and she nibbled on it for a second. “So you know about Nadia, right?”

  I frowned at the mention of her. “Queen Bitch?”

  She rested her hands on her stomach over the pink fabric of her tank, threading her long, white fingers into each other. “The very one. She cut the ribbons on my shoe before the show.”

  Thoughts blew through my mind, fanning my anger with images of her falling, or of that dancer intentionally harming her. My chest was tight. “Are you all right? You’re not hurt, are you?”

  “No, no. The shoe didn’t actually fail until the end of the piece, thank God, but I was so worried. I should have left stage and gotten a new shoe, but we were almost through the end, and I didn’t want to abandon the performance. I knew I could hang on. As much as I can absolutely believe Nadia would do something like that, I still can’t believe it actually happened to me.”

  “How do you know it was her?”

  “My stitches we
re cut, and my bag was right next to her while we were getting ready. It was no accident — there’s almost no chance that I could have done that. She just cut one stitch on each shoe, so it loosened up until it gave completely. Nadia’s the only person who would do something like that to me, and she was watching me with this look on her face. It was her, I’m certain.”

  I was mostly calm, though my grip on her ankle was a little tighter than it had been a moment before. “Did you tell anyone?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t prove that she did it, and I don’t want to take the rivalry to that level, you know? I feel like if I call her out, it’s just going to make it worse. But if she keeps it up, I’ll tell Ward.”

  I searched her face, wishing she weren’t so noble and respecting her for it all at the same time. “Dammit, Lily. I’m so sorry. Why would she do something like that?”

  I didn’t miss the flush in her cheeks. She didn’t want to talk about it, but admitted, “She’s Blane’s ex.”

  Disdain seeped through my thin façade of indifference to Blane. “Does anyone know you’re … rehearsing in your free time?”

  “No. We haven’t told anyone, or at least I haven’t.”

  “Can you really count on him to keep his mouth shut?”

  She shrugged with lips in a slight pout. “He seems intent on keeping things just between us, and I know Nadia doesn’t know. If she did, she wouldn’t even consider covering her ass or pretending not to be involved in harassing me. She’d straight up come after me, openly and with no fear.”

  I shook my head. “She’s crazy. What are you going to do about her?”

  She sighed again. “Part of me wants to do something horrible to pay her back, like put magnesium in her water bottle so she’ll shit her leotard during rehearsal, or at least get a solid shart in. I’d even be happy with uncontrollable gas. My standards aren’t high.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh, and Lily smiled, wide eyes a little brighter.

  “Whatcha working on?” she asked and nodded to the stack of papers.

  It was my turn to sigh. “Grading undergrad papers, also known as everything I hate about being a TA.”

  Lily glanced over at the TV as one bleach-blond contestant cussed the other out. It was just one, long, continual beep, punctuated by aggressive finger pointing.

  “Oooh, Celeste is pissed. Do they get kicked off if they fist-fight?” she asked.

  “Nah, I think it’s encouraged.”

  Lily shook her head. “I mean, with all that booze in the house, who could deny that? They should rename the show Drunk Bitches Catfight over Some Asshole.”

  I chuckled. “A little wordy. And obvious.”

  Her eyes were still on the screen as Celeste yanked her dress strap back onto her shoulder where it belonged. “You know, it’s just so funny that people watch it thinking these asses are actually going to find real love. I mean, they start out with him being unfaithful. I feel like that’s the worst possible way to begin a healthy, loving relationship.”

  “True. He always bangs them on their getaways.”

  Lily snorted. “Oh, my god. Can you imagine? They’re probably like, ‘The sex we have in the hot tub in Arruba will decide my fate and the fate of my children. Better give him my anus.’”

  A laugh shot out of me. “Seal the deal with anal and blow jobs. Smart girls.”

  She giggled. “And yet, I still look forward to this show every week.”

  “It’s vicious. There’s something about seeing people act so base that really makes you feel like you’ve got your shit together.”

  “Amen to that.” A commercial came on, but the DVR remote was out of reach, and neither of us made a move for it. She settled back into the couch, turning her attention on me. “Read me your favorite line from your paper.”

  I knew just the one and skimmed back to find it. “Ah, here it is. ‘Iago was like a chess master. He totally set Othello and everyone up just to be a dick. He’s like a super genius, like Machiavelli or Tupac or something, except in the end, he just ended up getting stabbed.’”

  She busted out laughing, and I laid the paper down next to me. “At Columbia? I mean, Jesus Christ. How is this kid surviving?”

  I shrugged. “It’s a low-level undergrad class, just something engineering kids take to get the English credit. The quality of his paper doesn’t surprise me, since he usually smells like that hippy mixture of weed and patchouli. When he shows up to class, that is.”

  “Classic.”

  “He won’t last long. Kids like that always end up getting weeded out.”

  She snickered. “Ha, ha. Weeded out?”

  I laughed.

  She yawned and stretched, settling a little deeper into the cushions. “Anyway, not every slacker gets cut out. Cooper lasted, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah, but he was smart enough to at least put in the bare minimum needed to pass. A degree is a degree. Doesn’t matter what your grades are as long as you get that piece of paper, if you’re not going to grad school. Plus, his IQ allowed him to coast through Columbia with almost no effort.”

  Lily shook her head. “Smart bastard. Maybe someday he’ll apply himself.”

  “We can hope.” I set the paper back down on the stack. “How’s Swan Lake going?”

  “Well, I rehearse it at least once every day, six days a week, and I honestly don’t know that it’ll be enough. It’s so difficult, so taxing. I could get hurt … I mean, I have to take care of myself. I’ve been going to the physio room more than ever, spending extra time stretching, even getting more massages than usual, though I guess I can’t really complain about that.”

  I smirked. “Not really.”

  Her eyes were on her feet in my lap. “It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I don’t know if I’ll ever be good enough to really pull it off. I almost wish I hadn’t been picked.” Her eyes snapped up to mine. “Don’t you dare repeat that either. God, I sound so ungrateful.”

  “I’d never tell anyone, Lil. And you’re not ungrateful. It’s an enormous amount of pressure.”

  “It really is. I know I’ll get through it, but it’s sort of looming over me. I’m sure I’ll feel better once I survive a dress rehearsal.”

  “You’ll do more than survive.”

  Her lips stretched into a smile. “Well, if you say so, then it will be.”

  I chuckled. “I’m not sure my words have the power to devise anyone’s destiny, but I believe in you. This is the fire you’re forged in. As scary as it is, you’ll make it through, and you’ll be stronger for it.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I know so.” My hand moved down her foot where the balls and edges were red and angry. Two toes were taped together, and she was missing a toenail on one foot. I pressed my thumbs into the arch to knead the thick muscle with my fingers splayed across the delicate bones along the top.

  She sighed, but I felt her tense. “Ugh, you don’t have to touch my ugly feet.”

  “They’re not ugly.”

  “Don’t patronize me,” she said flatly, lips pursed.

  But I didn’t stop what I was doing, only gave my head a shake as my eyes followed the line of her toes up to her ankle. “Your feet are the only visible sign of your love for ballet. Every mark, every callus and wound is a symbol of your pain, of thousands of hours of sweat and blood and work. You call them ugly. I call them art.”

  She didn’t say anything, just watched me, but I kept my eyes on her feet as I worked on her arch and into the ball of her foot. After a minute, she relaxed under my touch.

  “Thank you, West,” the words were sleepy and slow.

  “Any time, Twinkle Toes.”

  But she didn’t respond, and by the time I looked up, she was asleep, her small face turned ever so slightly toward the television, all the lines of worry gone, swept away to leave only soft curves.

  I smiled and grabbed a throw from the arm of the couch, laid it over her and shifted to lay a little lower on the couch. Her
feet were a comforting weight in my lap, and I sighed at the simplicity of the moment before picking up the Idiot CliffsNotes on Othello once more.

  5

  OGLING 101

  West

  I SAT BEHIND DR. BLACKWELL as he conducted his lecture on Hamlet, discussing Polonius’ speech to Ophelia as I organized my spreadsheet full of grades and notes. The lecture hall was packed, as all Blackwell’s classes were, and full of rapt faces. The man knew how to command a crowd, that was for sure.

  He strolled up and down the stage with his hands in his chino pockets, gray hair combed back, thick framed glasses resting on his nose. “You see, this moment is pivotal in Hamlet’s story because, although Ophelia knows in her heart that she loves and trusts Hamlet, she feels compelled to listen to her father and brother — the patriarchy — as they forbid her from seeing him. Her mistake is in the assumption that their experience is her naiveté, and it’s Polonius’ mistake as well. The rift between the lot of them — created by this speech — is never repaired, and Hamlet and Ophelia won’t know a happy moment again. And Polonius’ own bumbling interference ultimately leads to his demise. The moral to take from this is: Mind your own business.”

  A soft chuckle rolled through the class as Blackwell glanced at his watch. “All right, that’s it for today.” The room immediately filled with the sound of shuffling papers, murmurs, and zipping, or unzipping as it were. “Next time we’ll discuss Hamlet’s downfall in detail, and don’t forget to prep for your quiz on Polonius’ speech. Here’s a hint — take a close look at the metaphors and their hidden meanings.”

  Blackwell sat on his desk facing the class as he did after every lecture while most of the students streamed out, though a handful of girls and one guy waited in line at the platform to speak to the professor. I shook my head as I closed my laptop and slipped it into my leather messenger bag.

  A dark-haired girl was speaking to the professor, books clutched to her chest, eyes darting to me every few seconds as she stumbled through a weak excuse to talk to him. The blond behind her wasn’t even pretending to be interested in Blackwell, just stood there nearly gaping at me. The guy who walked up with her — also staring — elbowed her, and they looked away, for a second at least.