"Fifth position. Straighten up. Relevé."

Mirae is fully focused on the music, ignoring the way Madame Rostova's severe voice punctuates each word. The muscles in her leg tense, pulling her weight to the top of her toe. Success, she thinks with pride, her feet numb from the effort.

The intrusive tap of the cane says otherwise. "Full relevé, Mirae. Perhaps taking a few extra pounds from those hips would cause your dear toe to suffer less."

Mirae pulls tighter, higher, oblivious to the poorly hidden giggles. "Better. Lower, plie, demi, and full."

The cane taps again in annoyance. "Caroline, I've seen women in childbirth plie with stronger legs than that. Do you not know what full means?"

There are more suppressed titters of laughter. "Oh, she knows. Everyone's heard she prefers her men to fill more than one orifice at a time."

The snide comment was from Lisette, the prima, and Madame's favourite. Mirae wishes someone would duct tape Lisette's mouth. "If I wanted commentary, Lisette, the music would not be so loud. You are a dancer, a supposedly silent art. "

Madame's sharp reply is met with a waif of no more than thirteen scurrying to turn up the music. "Fourth position, full relevé, Arabesque away from the barre." Mirae cringes a bit. She is twenty already, and not close enough to waiflike.

Madame Rostova bangs her cane. "Away, Delia. That is the direction where your head does not smash the wall. Lord knows you need all the brain cells you can get."

"Arabesque, counterclockwise pirouette, find your centre, and grande jeté."

Mirae recoils at the next sentence. "Eyes on Mirae. She will land in full relevé coming from the jump."

She hears Lisette's voice snicker. "Thick thighs make graceful tree stump landings."

The ballerina is filled with fury as the jump sends her flying, feet perfectly pointed as she performs a flawless split in the air.

If I fall, I can never return, Mirae tells herself. I'd rather be dead than let that bitch Lisette gloat.

The determination etches upon her face as she does the one thing she does well. One hundred and thirty-five pounds come crashing with the force of an anvil on to her big toe. Even with the numbness, she can feel the toenail crack yet again.

It doesn't matter. Mirae's landing is high, arched, pointed. She lowers into pirouette and bows, proud of the combination.

The music stops and Madame taps impatiently. "Good. Ladies, take fifteen. Touch up your makeup before heading to the stage. Our patrons pay to see faeries, not clowns."

Mirae chugs half a bottle of water, the only thing to fill her stomach that day aside from the butterflies. She can feel the food she hasn't eaten kicking in her stomach, punishing her even with its non-existence.

She slouches against the wall. It is easy to want a moment alone before heading to find the other girls.

Mirae's eyes return to Earth only to see her best friend, Ayana. Ayana holds a familiar pair of wings, a tiara, and a pink box. Like a young girl, the dancer lets out a little squeal as she opens the box. 

The shoes inside are not much different from those currently on Mirae's feet, but they are even more solid and immovable. Within the fabric, the sparkle of rhinestones and gold glitter against the maze of mirrors.

"Ayana, these are beautiful!" Mirae hugs the girl tightly, envious of her. Ayana possesses a tall, lithe frame and beautiful caramel skin.

"I can't wear these, Ayana. Can I? Madame will kill me!"

She feels the laughter move through her friend. "Oh, who gives a shit, Mirae? Bloody racist bitch." Ayana's hushed laughter and tart British accent cut through the emptiness of the room.

"She sent me out on a call last week for the corps of 'Aida', dancing the role of a slave girl. It wasn't you or Delia or even Jasmin. No, I'm the one who looks right for a slave."

Mirae breathes in, feeling better already. Misery loves company. There is always plenty of misery to go around. "Did you get the gig?"

The young woman laughs, picturing the look on Madame's face if she saw the bedazzled shoes.

"Damned right I did." Ayana beams proudly. "You need to take your opportunities."

Mirae chuckles, always impressed with Ayana's confidence. "Look what happened with Lisette. People pay two-hundred a bloody ticket to see Lisette Baudin dancing Aurora." The taller girl shakes her head. "Lisette Baudin, my arse. The haughty slut is still Lisa Baker from Queens."

Mirae snorts and laughs at the same time. She slides to the ground to unlace her shoes and replace them with the more unforgiving yet far more beautiful pair.

This is the way of our world, Mirae thinks to herself. Beauty is unforgiving.

"At least Lisa Baker could do something about her name, and Sasha could have her nose done. Every rehearsal, Madame is on me about my weight. Does she think I don't try? The fact I feel like Miss Piggy in pointe shoes is humiliating."

Ayana shakes her head. "Girl, we all have what someone calls imperfections. We go to the club, every man in the room is checking out that ass when you shake it. You can't break your hips to make them smaller. I'm always going to be first in line to dance the bloody Egyptian slave girl. It's what we signed on for."

Mirae unlaces her pointe shoe, wincing as she slides it off. The blood-soaked cotton around her toe should be repulsive, but both are used to it.

"The price of being royalty is not pretty,"  Ayana quips, watching the shorter girl change the bandages and cotton around her toes. "On the other hand, Queen Titania is a badass bitch. She lands every jump in perfect relevé."

Mirae laces up one shoe, looking at the beauty of the gold and rhinestones. The straps wrap around her delicate ankles, making her battered, bloody feet look like works of art.

The illusion is everything.

Turning herself slowly into the imperious Queen Titania, she hears the click of a camera. "Ayana, no one needs pictures of my fat thighs and grotesque feet, thank you."

Mirae laughs as her friend torments her, documenting the transition from insecure caterpillar to glittering butterfly. "It is your night, your Highness. One day, you'll be old and grey and wish your thighs looked like that."

Ayana puts the heavy tiara on top of Mirae's tight chestnut bun, pinning it so firmly her scalp winces. "Sorry, love. Can't have that moving all about. It adds five pounds, you know."

The British girl ducks. "There. Go show Madame Vodka and Lisa-Fucking-Baker there's a new prima on the scene. "

Shoulders pulled tight, Mirae inhales, feeling like a shimmering work of art. She is careful not to move her head.  Ayana was right, the headpiece did add five pounds.

"Mirae!"

Ayana's voice calls her, causing a graceful turn of Mirae's head. "I'm proud of you. There's not a single imperfection."

The future prima beams. It is the highest compliment. She is regal now, impeccably confident.

The illusion is everything.

***

"Did you hear me?"  Mirae looks up with a start.

She is lost in the box of old photographs. The picture of Mirae hiding her bloody and mangled toes beneath the exquisite golden shoes takes her back a lifetime

"Sorry, dear. I haven't seen these pictures in decades. What did you say?" Mirae picks up her teacup, sipping the hot liquid that constitutes her lunch. Habits do not break as easily as toenails.

"Mia has her ballet recital on Friday night. She's dancing Giselle and is too nervous to even talk straight." 

Mirae's eyes smile as she looks at the well-groomed woman with hair and small diamonds that sparkle like Titania's shoes. "I'll be there. Don't worry too much over her. She reminds me of me at that age."

The other woman's shapely pink nails pick up the photograph. "It's sad to think that's what ballet is, pain hidden under beauty. I don't want that for Mia. It's no wonder you quit."

Mirae looks pensive. " I never quit. You cannot quit your soul. I walked out and never turned back because every day, I was berated for an imperfection that wasn't."

Her impeccable hands set down the teacup, showing signs of age but painted with beauty. "The day I learned my imperfection was my greatest gift, the illusion shattered."

The younger woman's curious eyes stare at the picture. "What was wrong? Was it those toes?"

Mirae lets out a peal of laughter. "Yes. I kept splitting my toenail with every jump because I couldn't ever lose an ounce."

Both women stare at the photo a moment, eyes are drawn toward the lovely and unforgiving shoe of Titania. "That's a silly thing to end a career over, a toenail. Why didn't you fix your imperfection?"

Mirae's hand reaches out with love, the once-immaculate skin toughened by time. "It was no imperfection at all. It was you, my beautiful Lisa."

Word Count: 1492

Author's Note: This story was my first StarAuthor (first place story) win, and dedicated to someone who knows the struggle with perfectionism and art is real--and has helped me through the good and bad times.

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