Swallow Your Sorries (BLUE BLOODED BOYS #1) by Rosi Rust EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Rosi Rust
- Language: English
- Genre: contemporary romance
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2.5 MB
- Price: Free
Elle
Two years earlier
Bones. They do their own thing, don’t they?
To some extent, I can control the meatiness of my flesh, and the
flexibility and strength of my muscles.
Arabesques? I can stretch, train, and torture my hamstrings, forcing
them to lift my leg from a forty-five to a ninety-degree angle. And I did.
Grand jeté? I can make my split flatter, my leap higher. I’d done that too.
But high insteps? Beautifully, aesthetically pleasing foot arches? There’s
nothing I can do to achieve it.
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My height? I can’t shrink two inches to be the perfect stature en
pointe for the male dancers in my year. All I can do is pray I don’t get any
taller, and keep curving those vitamins mum gives me every morning.
No, bones are immovable, and if you force them, they’ll snap. But
sound logic doesn’t impress my ballet instructor, Madame Pelletier. Her
emerald green eyes, which are nearly identical to my own, narrow to slits as
she watches me perform and her lips pucker, ready to purge more useless
feedback.
“You have childbearing hips,” she says as the music ends and I land
in an arabesque.
I struggle from the effort and try to stop myself from heaving like
the water buffalo I’m sure Madame is silently comparing me to.
Giggles erupt around the classroom, but Madame, as always, is
oblivious to them.
“Even beneath your tutu, they’re distracting. That aside, I’ve spoken
to you before about wearing a better-fitting brasserie. You’re jiggling too
much. Did you visit the undergarment store I strongly recommended?”
I had, but I couldn’t afford the three-figure price tag. I can’t ask
Mum for the money, not when our water is still off. Instead, I’ve been
scouring the internet for the closest dupe.
“Yes Madame, I got fitted. I just have to go back for payment.”
More giggles.
I daren’t look any of my classmates in the eye. No one ever said that
I didn’t belong here to my face, but it’s obvious just by looking at us. I wear
cheap leotards with permanent pit stains and lint balls, no matter how many
times I soak and shave the fabric. The other girls are all decked in designer
labels, most of which I can’t pronounce.
I’m only at such an elite dance school because I won a semesterlong scholarship from my ballet studio on the other side of town. It’s free
for minors, with a class every second Saturday of the month. Not enough
time for me to make serious progress. So, when I won the scholarship, I
decided to make every lesson count.
Why didn’t Madame ever give me tips on how to steady my
breathing? Why didn’t she correct my feet’s positioning and turnouts, rather
than lamenting about their flatness? What about my jumps? Or how I could
gain more power to get higher without compromising my grace?
Madame looks at me and sighs.
I try not to hunch my shoulders under her scrutiny in a feeble
attempt to minimise my chest. Because I couldn’t afford the undergarment,
I’d dropped three pounds since the last class, hoping to deflate my breasts.
They weren’t big by any means, but in ballet, any indication of body fat was
unacceptable.
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