Title: GLASS HAND
Genre: YA Contemporary Retelling
Word Count: WIP
Cyra Berque wants two things in life: a date with Rochan and a chance to show the world that a girl with one hand can fence in the Olympics. To make enough money to train at that level, Cyra teaches classes and tutors whenever she can. When her coach informs her that he has taught her everything he can, he sets her up with another coach, but the new coach costs more money. Feeling her dreams slipping out of reach, Cyra agrees to tutor a ballerina with a rich father and a D minus in English. He’ll pay Cyra three times her usual rate if she can get his precious daughter to a passing grade. The ballerina only has eyes for Rochan, and she has promised Cyra to turn her D into an F if Cyra doesn’t help her win the heart of the boy.
Cyra has no intention of giving up either dream.
GLASS HAND, a work in progress, is a YA contemporary retelling of Cyrano de Bergerac with the gender roles reversed. I fenced in college, giving me insight into the sport of sword play. The first page is pasted below.
I pushed into the hallway traffic and wished classes could just be over. They took up too much time, and I wanted to get back to practice. The racquet ball flexed between my fingers, cracks opening across the blue material. I’d need another in a month or so.
“Louis Vuitton is where it’s at,” Sara Davies told one of her toadies as she passed. Her eye caught mine, and she stopped.
“Oh, hi Sara.” I pretended to be pleasant and put the ball behind my back. She liked to tease me about my training tecniques.
Sara looked down her perfect nose at me. “Cyra,” she said, raising an eyebrow as if she’d just found a slug in her point shoes. Her toadies twittered. Half of them would be gone by Winter Ball. The Freshman year was tough on ballerinas.
I fenced in the salle just beneath the ballet studio. Their teacher yelled in a Russian accent about how they had to lose weight to keep from having breasts. In ballet, everything had to be perfect: exquisite body, dripping with talent, stage presence, hard work, form, everything. One thing out of place could ruin it all—too much curve of the hip or a lazy extension and someone was relegated to the wings.
“My, that’s a low cut shirt.” It wasn’t, but her eyes snapped to mine. For a ballerina, there was nothing worse than being well endowed.
Her eyes narrowed. “I can wear what I like, when I like, but some of us should think of spandex as a privilege, not a right.”