“Arabella, no talking,” I say, causing the rest of the class to snicker. Arabella is one of the brightest students I have; she is sixteen and in tenth grade. A dance prodigy by all accounts.
“But Ms. Vitali, I need to speak to you now,” she says, getting up from her desk and coming up to mine.
“What’s going on, Arabella?” I ask. My first thought is she is trying to get out of the test as she is always trying something, but her tears and rapid breathing tell me otherwise.
“I cannot read the test,” she says, panicking.
“What do you mean?” I ask, confused.
“My eye is all blurry, heavy, and scratchy. I am freaking out. Please help me.” I look into her eyes and see the problem immediately. I am not sure I am allowed to help her, but I am going to anyway or at least instruct her. Her breathing is erratic, and I am afraid something more serious will happen.
“Do you wear contacts?” I whisper.
“Yes, but no one knows. I would lose my spot in Swan Lake. I am the principal dancer. Madame Groulx won’t allow someone with compromised vision. No glasses and no contacts. I lied on my application for the school. I have to get out of here,” she whispers, over-dramatically. While Ballet Prep is a public school, meaning free, you still have to apply and audition. It covers grades six through twelve. Once accepted, you are expected to follow two courses of curriculum as well—your dance of choice as well as a junior or high school course load.
“Arabella calm down. Let’s step out into the hallway,” I say. At least in the hallway, there won’t be twenty-nine sets of eyes watching her every move, looking for the motive to take her down and take her spot. These divas are cutthroat and hateful. “No talking. I will be right outside the door,” I tell the class, but no one responds.
“Ms. Vitali,” Arabella cries, leaning against the wall. I remember being sixteen and everything seeming like the end of the world. Hell, it wasn’t long ago, to be honest.
“Calm down. It’s so serious. Your left contact has mascara on it. Take them both out,” I say. She reaches up and does one eye and then the other. “Better?” I ask.
“Oh my God, yes, but I still cannot see.”
“Do you have any emergency contacts with you?”
“No.”
“Alright. Go back to your desk, like everything is fine. I will call your mother and have her bring you some. Just throw those ones away. They’ll be scratched.”
“Oh, my God. Thank you. You could have just sent me to the nurse’s office and washed your hands of me.”
“She would have made a report, Arabella. It is better this way. I listened when you said how bad it would be if Madame Groulx found out.”
“Thank you. I am sorry I have been such a bitch in your class,” she says, looking down at the floor.
“Language,” I say, smiling. “Don’t worry about it. It is going to be fine.”
She hugs me before going back into the classroom, and for the first time, I feel like I have made the right decision by becoming a teacher.
After retrieving my phone and her mother’s contact information, I call Mrs. Mettle. She is a high-powered lawyer who works on Wall Street, but she is very involved in her daughter’s life. Mr. Mettle owns a multimedia communications company. We have a brief conversation that ends with her sending the housekeeper to the school with a small bag for me to give to Arabella. She thanks me profusely for my discretion as well. She knows all too well what will happen if Madame Groulx finds out about Arabella’s eyes.
While I am still in the hallway, my phone rings loudly, and I answer it without looking at who is calling.
“Hello?” I ask. There is nothing but heavy breathing at first, just as I am about to hang up, a voice speaks halting me.
“Brynn. Beautiful, stupid Brynn. You should have listened to me when you had a chance. Now you are mine. When you least expect it, I will be there, and you’ll be mine. That man of yours will die, and you will be mine. Mine to own. Mine to destroy, and oh, how I will enjoy destroying you. One fuck at a time. Eventually, you will be too beaten down to fight back, and that is when the fun begins. I am going to-”
“Ms. Vitali,” Arabella asks from the open door, snapping me out of it. I hang up quickly. I hate that I was too paralyzed to do anything but listen to the vile things the distorted voice was saying. All I can do is hope Bartolo can hear this. “Yo, Ms. Vitali, you okay?” she asks.
“Yeah. I will be right in,” I tell her. She goes back inside, and I call Bartolo and give him all of the details of the most fucked up phone call of my life.