T E M P E R E N C E – R E V E R S E D
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The Ugly Duckling, they would call him later on. The boy with hair the colour of spun wheat, with eyes a gleaming green that had not yet hardened into moss-coloured shards, meadows covered in frost. Skin that would eventually be smooth and near-flawless was covered in angry red spots; the voice, barely heard, often cracked. The family he came from was upper middle class and suburban; he lived in one of those houses with a white picket fence and a dog, though the dog belonged to his sister and not to him.
His parents didn’t know where their son had come from. Sure, he arrived in the traditional sense. They had sex, his mother got pregnant, and nine months later they were gifted a perfectly healthy baby boy. They often told the story of how he used to be, before he could even crawl or walk his legs would be kicking a million miles an hour. Destined to be a dancer! As if they were proud. They were only proud when friends were around, or neighbours whom they wanted to impress. If Blaize didn’t have the medallions and the trophies they wouldn’t have mentioned his dancing at all.
Of course, his mother was more supportive than his father, who’d have preferred his son to play hockey. Blaize had tried hockey. For a while, he played hockey and danced. But one eventually took precedence, and the garish boorishness of hockey did not appeal. The boy preferred the grace of the dance, and no matter how often he tried to explain to his father that ballet was far more gruelling than any other ‘manly’ sport, his father refused to believe him.
So the boy retreated and focused on his art, taking the support from his parents because he had no other choice. The support they gave him only because he was a success, and which they would have yanked away at the first sign of failure. The sister, Bunyip (his parents had a strange taste in names) couldn’t be more different. She was a tomboy who threw herself into technology, a master hacker and gamer and take-no-******** emo-goth who might eventually become someone great. She had the brain for it. That was what they had in common, Blaize and Bunyip. Their dedication and focus. And their hatred of their parents’ lifestyle, the fake niceties with neighbours they didn’t even like.
Blaize quickly outgrew the studio he’d started in as a six-year-old, and at sixteen he relocated to a more sophisticated studio. Elite, it was called. And the brazen young man thought that Elite would be the stepping stone to his future in the bright lights, on the major stages. He was both right, and so very wrong.
Roger de Lawrence was reed-thin and had sharp angles. As soon as Blaize entered the studio, Ugly Duckling aside, the instructor’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. New talent, Blaize’s subconscious mind soothed. He’s just excited for new talent. The boy’s shoulders were squared and his step sure, exuding a confidence that belied his appearance. Not many boys suffering puberty walked with quite the same confidence; here was a boy who didn’t give a **** what he looked like. All he cared about was what he could do.
(Of course, image was also important when aiming for roles in the bright lights of the ballet operas; severe treatment of Roacutane was under way, forced on him by his mother who cared far too much about appearances, and the angry red spots, he was assured, would soon disperse).
The warning signs were ignored, and for the first few weeks Blaize paid no mind to the continuing toll of the gong at the back of his mind. His dedication was fierce, and the training regime was unlike anything he had experienced before. Every night he fell into bed, a bag of bones and exhaustion, only to wake up the next morning to do it all over again. The boy, at sixteen, watching everything he ate and making sure never to put on more fat than required; only fat that he could burn off, that would maintain the muscle, the strength needed to lift his partners. He soon excelled, and became the best in the class. The best of the Elite.
A few months, and the angry red spots were nearly memories. His skin was smoothing out, and the months were kind to him. It was suggested, eventually, that Blaize live on campus rather than commute every day. Some of the students had come from far out, and there were rooms available for boarding. One boy quit, a place opened up, and Blaize took it. Any chance not to have to go back to his parents’ place was a good one. He’d never admit it, that he missed Bunyip. Her rebelliousness endeared her to him; strangely enough, she never did tease him for his sport. She didn’t understand it, but she didn’t tease him. They were a united front against the middle-class commercialism their parents were trying to induct them into.
There were other people around, Blaize told himself. Now seventeen and feeling like a man (literally, he’d lost his boyhood in the locker room one night. Sammie was not supposed to be there, but she came just for him. A relationship that didn’t last. Sammie dropped out, too). And then he scolded himself for thinking that it mattered. Roger’s touch felt inappropriate but that was just because Blaize was in an awkward stage of his life, and had never much liked anyone in his personal space. Roger was just showing the student how best to position himself against the bar. The wiry fingers were like barbs clutching at his flesh, but they were guiding hands – and Roger wasn’t aware how invasive it felt.
The boy should have known that the invitation to stay behind to work on a faulty step was a ruse. Ever since he’d stepped foot in that studio and met Roger de Laurence for the first time, he knew that he should turn around and find some other academy. But this was the best academy, there were no others. His parents might have had money, but they didn’t have that much – they couldn’t send him to New York, as he’d once asked them to.
At first, Roger did as he promised. He schooled Blaize on where he thought the student was going wrong – Blaize getting more frustrated as the minutes passed because he knew he wasn’t doing anything wrong. The step was perfect, the transition flawless. Again, Roger would bark. Again, again, again. Afterwards, Blaize understood why. It was a tactic. The seventeen year-old was not small anymore. He had muscles, he had strength. Roger was the older predator, weakening his younger, stronger prey. At some point, Roger had dimmed the lights. The hallway lights had gone out on a timer; they had stayed later than the cleaning crew. Everyone had gone home, or back to the boarding house.
By the time Roger had slipped his wiry fingers between Blaize’s flesh and the leotard that clung to his waist, the young swan was far too exhausted to fight, his protests soon hushed. The muscles in his thighs burned, an ache shooting up his spine that needed to be stretched out, and he could barely stand. The predator had his prey pinned; the boy so determined to be the best, that even sexual molestation would not keep him from his goal.
It was not Blaize who eventually blew the whistle. It was at the end of Blaize’s second year at the academy that Roger slipped up. He chased the wrong victim. He misjudged Tommy’s dedication. Tommy told his parents. His parents filed a law suit. Roger was charged, fired, and imprisoned. Blaize was questioned, but he just shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. By then, his angry red spots had disappeared. The swan was born, in earnest – stone cold, with frost in his hard eyes. The warnings were heard. They were ignored. Dragons were not vanquished.
