The Cursed Ballet by Megan Atwood Page B

tapped her arm and whispered, “My office. After class tonight.”
    Ophelia nodded and noticed a bead of sweat on Madame’s temple. Well. It was hot in the studio.
    Through breakfast and all her classes, Ophelia could feel the stares on her. Not that she minded. She’d never admit it to anyone, but she loved the attention. Still, she started to feel uneasy.
    In French that day, Mr. Beauchamp gave her looks of pity and let her get away with speaking English.
    In history, Ms. Traysor gave her back a paper: She saw a B scratched out and an A written to the side.
    At lunch she dropped a fork, and the girl next to her ran away crying, “It’s already started!”
    Now Ophelia was irritated. The curse was a stupid rumor started by jealous girls who hadn’t been given the part of Giselle. But Ophelia was used to the jealousy. So for the rest of the day and through afternoon ballet class, she kept her chin up high, ignoring the little feeling that made her squirm ever so slightly. It was just a rumor.
    Still, she was glad to go talk to Madame. No matter how intimidating Madame Puant was, she always made Ophelia feel better, just by her presence.
    Ophelia entered Madame’s office, dropped her bag on the floor, and sat in one of the gigantic leather chairs. Madame hadn’t arrived yet, but Ophelia had been at the academy for three years now, so she felt comfortable splaying out and waiting. As she wiggled one foot, impatient to get the meeting going, she scanned the top of Madame’s desk.
    The normally tidy stretch of oak was littered with papers. Ophelia stood up to take a look, checking behind her to make sure Madame wasn’t coming. Many of the papers were stamped with an official-looking stationery; what looked like old newspaper clippings peppered the rest of the desk. She leaned in closer to get a better look.
    Curious, Ophelia leaned even closer and saw the corner of a book sticking out from underneath the papers. The pages of the book were old and yellow; some sort of ribbon stuck out from between two of them. A journal.
    â€œPlease have a seat, Ms. DuBois.”
    Ophelia jumped from hearing Madame’s voice. The ballet mistress walked briskly past Ophelia and began cleaning up the desk. Ophelia stumbled back into the leather chair and stammered, “Hi-hey, Mada—”
    Ophelia’s voice trailed off as she realized how ridiculous she sounded. She cleared her throat and waited for Madame to finish cleaning off the desk.
    Madame opened one of the ornately carved drawers and placed the papers inside, setting the journal on top. Then she produced a key from a necklace around her neck and locked the drawer.
    She sat down and looked Ophelia in the eye, startling her.
    Why did Ophelia feel like she was in trouble?
    â€œYou asked to talk to me, Madame?”
    Madame continued to stare at her, crossing her hands and tapping her index fingers.
    Ophelia squirmed a little in her seat.
    Tap.
    Tap.
    Tap.
    Now Ophelia was getting nervous. She wondered if maybe she’d been spotted during some night out with some stupid townie boy. How could that have happened?
    Madame sat back suddenly and rested her arms on the chair, looking for all the world like a queen in a throne. “I won’t beat around the bush, Ophelia. You’ve heard the rumors about Giselle , I take it?”
    Ophelia relaxed her shoulders and felt relief flow down her spine. She nodded.
    â€œWell, I don’t take to such fancy.” Madame waved her hand dismissively, and Ophelia nodded again.
    Madame’s brown eyes found Ophelia’s once more, and this time, they were burning. “But, my dear Ms. DuBois, many others do take to such fancy. And unfortunately, incidences have, uh … fueled … this nonsense.
    â€œWhat I do believe is that our beliefs have a way of manifesting themselves. Of causing the very thing we wish to avoid. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
    Ophelia