A Spectacle of My Own Making

The first time I saw the Tule Dance, I was seven. I fell in love with the performance immediately and wanted to participate the very next year.

Mum said I was too young and not yet developed enough, so I waited.

When I turned twelve, I asked again. After a lot of begging and convincing, I was allowed to participate.

I have participated in the dance every year since then, and although Damon has strongly antagonized against it, he was never able to create a situation severe enough to force me to forfeit.

I was careful.

I head toward where the girls agreed we’d meet, the ruined attire draped over my left arm.

I can feel their eyes on me immediately. Curious. Questioning. Probably wondering why I haven’t changed yet.

Rhoda walks up to me, a mix of confusion and irritation in her gaze. As head of the group, it’s her responsibility to make sure we’re ready before we’re called out.

There are eight of us in total. Including me. And I seem to be the last to arrive.

“Why aren’t you dressed yet?” Rhoda asks, stopping in front of me.

I don’t answer.

There’s a ball lodged in my throat.

A mixture of anger, frustration and quiet resignation swirls within me.

I stare at the torn fabric in my hands.

Rhoda follows my gaze and takes it from me to inspect it. The rip runs from the center downward, the torn layers clinging to the part that hit the ground when Darren dropped it.

“What happened to it?”

“It’s ruined,” I say.

Rhoda scoffs.

“So dramatic.” She rolls her eyes, then turns and walks away. Seconds later, she returns with another tulle dress in her arms.

I blink, stunned. I glance around, mentally counting to make sure all eight of us are present.

“I knew somebody would try to ruin this performance by being irresponsible,” she says coolly. “It’s my first time taking lead, and I won’t let anyone ruin this.”

I look up at her. Rhoda, like most werewolves, is tall and striking. Her thick black hair falls in perfect waves over her shoulders. Her hazel-brown eyes— unlike her brother’s — are sharp.

I'd hug her if I wasn't certain she'd rip my face off.

“Take it.”

I do.

“Thank you.”

She nods once, scowls faintly, and walks away.

I run my fingers over the soft fabric, relief blooming in my chest. The girls return their attention to their own preparations, and I hurry off to change.

******

The area is dim and crowded. The scent of perfume, sweat, and anticipation hangs thick in the air. Girls adjust their tulle layers, secure ribbons, flex their ears and claws.

I’d convinced them to let me dance as I am — without the false ears, and claws I used in previous years.

We don’t all have to dance in the same phase of shift. The point of the performance is to display different stages. I call mine the interphase — the phase of turning, before well... actually turning.

When they finally got tired of me pitching the idea, they voted. The majority agreed. As long as I stopped talking.

I did. Grinning.

Rachael brushes past me. Harder than necessary.

“Break a leg,” she says sweetly.

I hold her gaze. “Worry about yourself.”

turn away.

And I don’t notice the quick tug at the ribbon tied at my hips.

The tulle dress is crafted in the shade of the Blue Moon itself, layered in a way that leaves the abdomen and shoulders bare, and hugs at the hips yet flows down to our feet in soft waves. When the moonlight catches it, the fabric shimmers like liquid silver, reflecting the rhythmic flare of torches around the square.

The drums begin to pulse — slow, steady, echoing through the night air.

Rhoda turns to us. “Get into position.”

We do.

The rhythm is low and melodic, filling the night air as we file onto the stage at the center of the square. We begin to move. One body. Swaying. Circling. Stepping into the moonlight in deliberate stages of shift.

The other girls let their ears emerge. Their tails. Their claws.

I lift my chin and step forward into my sequence. That’s when I feel it.

A looseness at my hip. A subtle shift of fabric that shouldn’t be shifting.

My pulse spikes.

The tulle begins to slide.

Memory flashes — Rachael brushing past me. The tug.

I keep my face calm.

A murmur ripples through the crowd. I feel the side glances from the other girls. I don’t look down. I don’t stop. I keep moving.

The ribbon slips further. Fine. If they want a spectacle — I'll give them one.

On the next turn, I reach back, yank the remaining tie free, and catch the falling tulle in my hand before it hits the ground. Gasps echo across the square.

I spin, wrap the fabric back around my waist in one smooth, practiced motion, and step cleanly into the next beat without missing tempo.

The drums never falter. Neither do I.

The crowd shifts. What was probably meant to be shame becomes command. Damon must definitely be furious right now. None of his attempts to ruin my performance this year worked.

First Darren. Then Rachael.

That bastard.

As if conjured by my thoughts, my eyes lock with his on the next turn. He is watching me. Not the dance — me.

And I was right... he is furious.

Good.

My eyes never leave his as I move, losing myself in the rhythm of the drums and the sway of my hips.

His fury seems to waver, caught between something — as though he is fighting two conflicting emotions.

I continue to move, hips swaying, arms tracing fluid lines in the air and on my skin. I twirl in time with the girls, fabric catching the moonlight with every spin, every sway, every deliberate step.

Our faces hold one singular expression — lips slightly parted, eyebrows raised, eyes cast just so.

I catch another glimpse of Damon, sitting rigidly next to his father on the platform. Fingers curled into fist on his armrest.

The expression on his face almost startles me. He is still. Fists clamped, jaw tight.

Focused.

The intensity in his eyes is surprisingly similar to —

— desire?

******

After the final note fades, I slip through the crowd and quickly find a place to change so I can return the dress to Rhoda.

Rhoda surprises me by letting me keep it. I thank her and begin heading toward Bailey’s stall, adrenaline still thrumming through my veins.

“Did you send Rachael after me?” I ask Damon, spotting him overseeing a group of teens moving crates of drinks for the so-called youth gathering.

It’s really just a party where teenagers and younger adults stay up late with music, dancing, and drinks during the Blue Moon Festival. Damon had used the term “youth gathering” to appease parents and park elders.

He looks at me in the way he always does, scrutinizing my face.

An expression crosses his face for a moment, but it's gone before I can place it.

He seems confused for a second, then annoyed.

I'd have concluded that he hadn't a clue about what Rachael did until he said—

“Yes.”

“So you’re not denying your attempt to sabotage one of the festival’s most important performances?” I ask, biting out the words.

“Now you’re exaggerating.”

“I’m not. You actively tried to ruin the Tulle Dance — twice.”

“Twice?” He turns fully to face me.

“Didn’t you send Darren?”

He watches me, thoughtful. “I did.” He leans casually against the stall. “I can’t imagine what you plan to do about it.”

Bailey watches me, worry written on her face.

I’d be surprised if fumes weren’t coming out of my ears. I glare up at Damon.

“I’d at least thought you’d consider respecting the festival.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, brushing past me, following behind are werewolves with crates. “Did you think I’d let you get away with all the things you said yesterday? Be glad I was merciful.”

I clench my fists. I want to punch something.

If not a wall — maybe his smug face.

And I know there's no guarantee I won't do just that the next time I'm in front of him if I don't expend my rage.