Chapter Text
artwork by jmazzy
i. you were only waiting for this moment to be free
Veronica has told herself the line so many times, it sounds like it ought to be her middle name. Maybe her PIN number, or her home address.
Don’t be nervous.
Okay, she’s never been good at giving herself advice. Settled far against the wall of the nicely-decorated lounge, and staring out at a room full of people whose names and faces she should be memorizing, the hands she should be shaking, the phone numbers she should be exchanging – for a person used to movement, Veronica simply cannot compel herself to move. But then, she’s already moved across country, leaving her dad in their sunny, beachside, southern California apartment to share a tiny dorm room in New York City with a window barely larger than a computer screen, and occupied most of the time with a pigeon she’s still working on a name for. Pooper seems too spot-on.
There’s a moment where Veronica is seized with no small amount of panic. Don’t be nervous, don’t be nervous, don’t be nervous, she tries, but it seems to do nothing against the onslaught of negative thoughts. What did you do, what did you do, what did you do –
“So, just for laughs,” a voice makes her jump, and Veronica looks to the side and finds a tall guy with shaggy brown hair. “What do you think would happen if we put out some donut holes? Would there be…crying? Confusion? Mass hysteria?”
Veronica allows a shaky grin. Her palms, sweating, she grips more tightly behind her back.
“I think we’d have a riot on our hands, totally.”
The tall guy grins back. “No more carbs!” he chants quietly, miming what it would be like to hold a picket sign. He’s got a full plate of snacks in his other hand.
She giggles. It feels odd, mixed in with the nerves, like touching your tongue to metal. Not wholly unpleasant, but – odd. She looks closer at this person who is talking to her, for whatever his personal reason. He has the look of a dancer, surely, skinny like dancing helped him lose a lot of weight, which probably meant he hasn’t been doing it all his life, probably only started when a younger sister started doing it and he was in that prepubescent omg boobies phase. He probably wears a cup for a lot of reasons.
Stop it, Veronica.
“My name’s Piz,” he volunteers, and Veronica has to blink to try to commit the name to memory.
“Pez?”
“Piz,” he enunciates. “Well, okay, Stosh – Stosh Piznarski, but I prefer to go by Piz.”
“I can imagine.”
He blows some air out pinched lips. “Oh trust me, I’ve heard them all.”
She grins again. “I’m going to guess Piss was a favorite circa middle school.”
“You have no idea.”
They sit in silence for a minute, both staring out at the crowd. A collective has started near the middle, growing like a black hole, sucking in stragglers to make the mass grow bigger and bigger. Veronica feels, somehow, inert to their pull, in part because they look so happy without her, in part because the lithe way they move even at an orientation mixer has her insecure.
Because this is it: this is the endgame. She’s looking out at a sea of people she’ll have to best in the coming year if she’ll ever have a chance of achieving her dream: to dance for the New York City Ballet. All these people hanging around the punch bowl are also ballet dancers, also enrolled for their final year at The School of American Ballet, maybe the most prestigious ballet school in the world. Not only does this school literally share an address with the Lincoln Center, not only is every member of staff an alumni of New York City Ballet, but every year, every graduating class is streamlined into an audition process designed to accept the top SAB students into its prestigious ranks.
So yeah. The fact that no one here looks like they have more than 2% body fat is really bumming her out.
“My name’s Veronica,” she finally says, on a heavy sigh. “Veronica from Neptune, California, and totally out of my depth.”
Piz is munching on carrot sticks. He’s quiet for all of two seconds.
“You could almost make a joke about it being like another planet.”
She groans. “Remind me never to tell you that my last name is Mars.”
“Oh. You got it, Spaceman.”
“You’re welcome, Pez.”
And at least one thing goes right, right off the bat, because it’s an easy, instant friendship.
“I don’t think I love my roommate.”
Piz looks up at her from the oatmeal he’s poking at. It’s somewhat slimy, but Veronica was already too anxious to eat. The slimy oatmeal doesn’t change her mind. She’s been trying to forget her select interactions with aforementioned roommate all morning, and she barely slept for a lot of reasons, few of them having to do with the stupidly enthusiastic way Veronica introduced herself after the mixer, when she was unpacking underwear and the door opened to reveal a tall, slender, beautiful girl…with exceedingly cold eyes. Veronica’s attempts to ingratiate herself were at first met with nothing, just, an absolute rejection of existence. She has a feeling that they won’t be best friends, made more obvious when her new not best friend leaves their dorm after a few fraught, silent minutes and doesn’t come back until Veronica is counting her three-thousandth sheep.
“Who’s your roommate again?”
Veronica doesn’t even want to say the name. “Jackie Cook.”
“Oh,” Piz says, eyes round. “She’s super hot.”
Veronica rolls her eyes and puts her head down on folded hands.
“I mean, she’s a bitch too, but – “
Veronica opens one eye and glares with it.
“I mean, no, she’s just total bitch. No redeeming qualities. I hear her parents have a place on Central Park West. What a bunch of jerks.”
Veronica is glad to have a friend, she really is. It’s helpful when she has to walk into a room full of ballet dancers and that clique is hulking like a hive in the corner, Jackie Cook its queen bee. She doesn’t make eye contact. She pulls at her black leotard instead, hoping she doesn’t look out of place. Piz is indeed wearing a cup. But then of course – all the guys are wearing a cup under their formal practice blacks.
“Okay class!” a voice calls out, and Veronica turns her head so she has a face to go with instructor Mallory Dent. The nerves that have been fluttering in Veronica’s belly since she woke up in a cold sweat that morning start to somersault. “Welcome to Hell Week. I’m Miss Dent, but I’m going to let you call me Mallory for now. We’ll be together for six hours a day, every day, and That Bitch Mallory has a better ring to it, I think.”
Veronica smiles, a little hesitantly.
“This will be the only week you’ll be mixed together all day long. Next week is when your academic classes start, at either Professional Children’s School or PPAS, and then we’ll be splitting you up into boys and girls except for Saturday classes. If anyone’s had any big discoveries about themselves over summer vacation and would like a specific reassignment, please let someone know.” It’s only kind of a joke. “Veronica,”
Her heart stops beating. All of her limbs lock into place. She can’t help feel like she’s already done something wrong, like she was supposed to wear pink instead of black but everyone’s wearing black, so –
“Let’s everyone congratulate Veronica Mars from California. She dominated our summer program and was offered a scholarship here, joining all you seniors in Advanced Division D. Not sure it’s ever happened before.” Mallory holds her hands up to the class like she’s directing an orchestra, and leads them all in a small chorus of “Congratulations, Veronica.”
It is embarrassing as hell.
“And I’m pretty sure she’s the only one who’s actually danced since June, so, lo siento my friends, I’m about to kick your butts.”
That Bitch Mallory wasn’t wrong. By lunch Veronica is hungry enough to actually eat something, but it sits on top of a sour stomach lining, and she regrets it immediately. Piz isn’t much better. She swears he’s going to pass out at any moment he looks so ashen. In the afternoon session, everyone’s sweating by four minutes in, and the room takes on a funky, irritable atmosphere.
“No, no, no, no!” Mallory is shouting, making even the piano player in the corner huff with frustration. “It’s tombé, glissade, pas de bourré, jeté, coupé, balloné, step, jeté.”
Veronica is panting, not even sure where she went wrong, not sure she can even do the steps again let alone remember the order. She’s sure – Mallory is trying to kill them.
“Veronica, come on.”
Oh shit. She wishes she hadn’t eaten lunch. She wishes she hadn’t eaten lunch. She wishes she hadn’t ignored that text from her dad.
Veronica takes a spot on the floor, trying to ignore how pale and sweaty she looks in the mirror, tries to ignore the thirty-odd pairs of eyes all watching her. She is not the best among them. Not by a long shot. That has been obvious all morning and the thoughts won’t leave her head. Oh shit. They must all think that she’s there as a joke – as a fucking joke – just to show them that they have nothing to fear because this girl was the best over the summer but she’s really nothing in the fall so try harder damn it –
Stop it.
The pianist gives her a few notes for intro, and then she’s off, springing through the steps. It maybe takes all of four seconds, really, but it feels like so much longer, and at the very end, her very last jeté, she makes eye contact in the mirror with this tall guy in the back who’s smirking at her. And she trips on the landing.
“Nice, Veronica,” Mallory starts. “Well, until the obvious.” Veronica is totally humiliated, and she throws a harsh glance at the smirker. His smirk deepens, and he turns away, seemingly satisfied. She wants to shout at him, but she doesn’t, because it would be inappropriate in front of their teacher, so Veronica breathes hard through her nose, walking off the floor.
“Logan,” Mallory says, and Veronica looks up, seeing the smirker come to place she started. Oh shit. “Come on. Don’t show off.”
“Mallory,” he – it sounds like he hums her name, and that is insane, maybe he always says names like that – more insane is that he’s barely out of breath even when everyone else still seems to be reclaiming theirs, little puffs of air littering the room like so much pollution. “It’s like you don’t even know me.”
The piano player gets ready while Logan assumes the position on the floor. He’s – she’s noticed him, this guy (Logan), mostly because he seems to be the king to Jackie’s queen of that group she tries so hard not to focus on. He’s handsome and tall and built like he’s been dancing all his life, like his body is one hundred percent muscle, but he’s usually got this dismissive little grin on his face, like none of it matters, and it’s so amusing to him that they’re all trying so hard.
And he smirks.
The music starts, and the humor drops from his body. Veronica’s eyes go wide as Logan flits through the routine with ease. Unconsciously they’d all been trying to decide who was best in class all day, maybe too consumed by their own work to really take stock. But now Logan’s social status makes total sense. So what if he smirks; apparently he’s earned the right.
She’s seriously about to clap after the last jeté when he keeps going, the pianist startled into trying to catch up to Logan, and Veronica realizes that they’re only in the beginning of a much larger piece, and that Logan knows all the steps by heart. It’s so damn impressive, really, until – he pivots, trying to find purchase with a demi-pointe for a second, and he stumbles.
There’s a nervous release of laughter, the only indication that everyone has been holding their breath.
And here’s the thing: he should be happy, but Logan looks…he looks furious. And the scariest thing to Veronica is that he looks pissed mostly at himself.
“That’s what you get for being a slacker all summer,” Mallory starts, clearly enjoying being able to rib him. Veronica doesn’t miss the way his eyes light up a little bit.
“Okay, guys!” Mallory starts up again, clapping for emphasis. “It should be easy now! Formations!”
“That’s it. I’m dropping out.”
Veronica understands his pain. Literally. Parked on a couch in one of the common areas outside the dance studio, thick layer of sweat now a wet blanket to her flushed skin, Veronica’s not sure her muscles are capable of function anymore. Everyone else was able to make it out of the building but Veronica had barely made it a hundred feet away. She has to pee. It would be too much effort to get up and actually do it.
But – day one, she’s finally exposed to the competition she’s working with, and it’s…terrifying.
“We should probably go over that routine again.”
Piz’s head snaps up. “Veronica. Are you crazy? Have you gone insane? My feet will literally fall off if I take one more step.”
She lets the comment go, knowing that they’ll be back in the studio because Piz has proven to be a benevolent pushover so far. A thought flits through her mind, bunching her forehead just a little as it goes, because she’s insufferably curious by nature and has a hard time letting things go. She’s remembering the exchange between Mallory and that guy – Logan.
“Hey, what’s that guy Logan’s deal?”
“Logan Echolls? Uh, naturally embodying the human asshole?” Piz frowns into the space between them, his mood immediately sour. “Not sure. Maybe he’s born with it, maybe it’s Maybelline.”
His animosity surprises her. “Oh, jealous maybe?”
Piz leans up on an elbow to look at her. “The day I’m jealous of Logan Echolls is the day I do drop out of school.”
She frowns with some consternation, and Piz sighs.
“He’s a career.”
She tries not to laugh. She couldn’t have, even if she’d wanted to. The muscles of her abdomen are shredded beyond repair. “What, like, The Hunger Games?”
“Exactly like The Hunger Games. Him and his friends have been going here since puberty. This is their whole life.”
She lets that information sit in her head, trying to imagine Logan, Sean, hell, even Dick as kids who willingly signed up for ballet, and who have…committed to it.
Because people go to SAB for one reason, and one reason only: to sign a contract with the New York City Ballet. If you don’t get accepted there, you try for other companies: San Francisco, maybe Paris, maybe freaking Bismarck North Dakota – it doesn’t matter, because everyone is there to get into New York City Ballet. At least in a normal high school there are hundreds if not thousands of different colleges to apply to, and senior year is fraught with desperation to get into something, get accepted to some school. But at SAB…there are maybe forty students every year, competing for anywhere between two and twelve spots in the one place you all want to be. And you don’t even get to pretend that you’re not all there for the same thing; that your classmate isn’t your direct competition.
It’s really not unlike The Hunger Games at all.
“Alright,” Veronica grunts, moving to get onto her feet. They’re aching with rebellion already, and she knows the blister on her heel has reopened. “Let’s just go for half an hour.”
Piz groans, and follows her.
It’s a small miracle that they survive the first week.
“Hey, what school are you going to?”
She and Piz are at CVS getting snacks so they can put off as many trips to the cafeteria as possible. She’s stumbled into the school supply aisle, and it’s reminding her that she’ll be starting at a new school in just a few days. She’d almost forgotten.
“PPAS,” he calls from the next aisle. “You?”
At least there’s that. “Same,” she echoes.
Piz pokes his head into her aisle, a full basket of junk food at his side. He’s got a candy bar already open and has already eaten half. “Sweet. Poor kids unite.”
She wants to correct him – poor kids is a relative term, considering the fact that they live in New York City and go to a freaking ballet school, scholarship or not. Even though, with ballet…well, it might be prestigious, but it’s not like you become a dancer for the money, necessarily. You go into it because you can’t help but dance, because you literally can’t survive without it.
Case in point: they dance all the way back to their dorm. It’s stupid, it’s so cliché, jumping over fire hydrants and twirling around pedestrians, whose curses and shouts are swallowed up by their laughter and racing hearts. It’s one of those ridiculous moments where she realizes that she is young, and trying to be brave, and it is the dog days of summer in New York City. Being with Piz, it’s like, she’s not so alone. He’s safe, when so little in her life feels like that.
“So, tell me,” Veronica starts, working through her can of the champagne of beers which Piz has secured with his (arguably terrible) fake ID. Piz shoves a handful of potato chips into his mouth and speaks around them.
“Tell you what, how I manage to keep my hair so beautiful?”
“No, goof, the whole – danseur thing.” They’ve started saying danseur and ballerinaaa in these theatrical ways that help relieve the tension, just in case they never make it as either. Piz swallows somewhat painfully.
“Oh, pretty standard. Little sister, lords a leaping, boobies. You?”
She wishes his story was a little more dramatic. She takes another slug of the watery beer.
“My mom was really into it.” She tries not to make eye contact with Piz, but Piz is watching a Hulu commercial for feminine razors so she’s not really sure he’s listening.
“Yeah?” Maybe he was. He grins at her. “Bet you were a cute little six year old.”
“You know it.”
“Little Veronica Mars, ballerinaaa in the making.”
She rolls her eyes. “More like wee waddling Veronica Mars, not doing so great at team sports when me and my dad were moving around a lot, because deadbeat mom has run away again and teamwork doesn’t come easy when you know you’re going to bounce in a few months.”
“Shit, Veronica, way to get dark.”
She sighs into the mouth of her can. “What can I say, I was made to be the Black Swan.”
Piz points with a free finger, still chewing on chips. “You do know that the Black Swan dies like, tragically, right.”
“Yeah but she looks awesome doing it.”
They clink beers.
In a totally weird way, Piz reminds her of her dad. He’s a good guy and it’s easy to be around him, and he’s not super demanding of her attention or affection. Which reminds her, really – Veronica picks up her phone, looks down at the keypad, fingers the buttons.
Her dad’s always had this cute, stoic, “this is my daughter and she does fucking ballet” vibe when it comes to support, always the reliable fixture in the fifth row engaging the other dance moms on a weird, superficial level. It probably wouldn’t matter to him what she chooses to do with her life, but she always loves it, it’s her favorite thing, when she comes home with good news (I got the part. I’m advancing to the next corps. I nailed my solo) and that he always calls her a fighter.
That girl’s a fighter, that Veronica Mars.