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~CHAPTER ONE: KAIA~
“One, two, three, four,” Melanie, our instructor counts off. She speaks in a high pitched, nasal voice. The piano music starts once again. “Girls! Group one, move forward. And one, two, three… pir-ou-ette. Now pir-ou-ette… good, good.”
Her lilting Irish voice is set to the rhythm. As one, the group ahead of me neatly spins on their tiptoes, executing flawless pirouettes. The whole room is mirrored, floor to ceiling, with a sturdy wooden barre bolted to every inch. With the mirror, it looks like twenty four perfect ballerinas are finishing their pirouettes.
It makes sense, because this class is the best of the best. The most dedicated ballerinas and danseurs, the ones who have given up regular school and any semblance of their social lives to be here. After most would-be dancers are bounced from the program for not following the rules or just plain not being good enough, this is what you have left.
The hardcore dancers. I’ve worked my ass off to be in this final class.
I suck in a breath and stretch my neck, readying myself for my group.
Melanie claps along on a steady, brisk four count. “Next group! And one, two, three… pir-ou-ette. And pir-ou-ette…”
My arms swoop out to the sides as I lift onto my tiptoes and twirl. The motion is automatic, one born of muscle memory more than anything else. I’m directing most of my attention at my feet and the slight curve in my back. I usually get in trouble for my feet not pointing enough or my back not having a slight bow in it if I’m not intensely concentrated.
“Kaia! There should be more arch to your arms!” Melanie admonishes me. I give my arms a little more lift and she bows her head quickly. “There you go.”
I don’t have time to look around at the twelve other ballerinas in my group. I’m focused entirely on my feet and my back and the position of my arms. When I finish though, I realize that I’ve stopped very close to Manon, a little brunette ballerina who shoots me a glare.
I’m quick to move away, straightening my spine. Out of every ballerina in this school, Manon is by far the most caustic. And usually, her barbs are aimed at me.
“Sylvie! Don’t start like that, how can you expect to be graceful if you start in such an ugly position?” Melanie calls, her expression stern. She tucks a strand of her dishwater blonde hair behind her ear, rolling her eyes. “Boys! Group one, forward please… And one, two, three… pir-ou-ette. And pir-ou-ette… Mason, that was perfect.”
I glance to my right, catching myself in the mirror. A thin blonde ballerina stares back at me, wearing a lilac leotard, a filmy white dancer’s skirt, opaque white tights, and ballet pink pointe shoes. I bite my lip and send my image a tiny frown; I immediately see the glaring flaws in my own appearance.
My father’s voice echoes through my head.
Your hair is the wrong shade of blonde. Your nose is too big, your eyes are too far apart. You’re too tall to do ballet, too heavy for most dancers to lift. Your posture is imperfect. Your feet are too large.
I swallow and lift my chin. I have to overcome my obvious shortfalls, be resilient enough to make it as a dancer. My dad put me through ballet academy and he has certain expectations.
If I work hard, if I focus all my energy on each and every move, I should be able to prevail.
But by far the worst thing of all is that I lack mobility in my turnout. The rotation of my hip joints, to turn outward away from the front of my body, is sadly never going to be a perfect one hundred and eighty degrees.
I wrinkle my nose at myself and drag my eyes back up to the rest of the class. I see my group moving forward again and I rush to take my place. We execute another set of pirouettes under Melanie’s eagle-eyed gaze.
“Ella, you are still a step behind everyone else. Always a step behind. Start earlier.”
The incredibly tiny black woman blushes and bows her head, but says nothing. I would kill for Ella’s diminutive height or turnout, but I am incredibly glad not to get that same bit of criticism from our teacher.
“Let’s change it up,” Melanie says. She turns around, signaling to the piano player to stop. “This will be the last combination. Girls, please begin with relevé developé, pas de bourre, arabesque en diagonal, tombé, and demi-plie. Okay? Let’s go.”
The hardest part of my day is right now, when we’ve already had an full day of classes and we only have a few minutes more. The last fifteen minutes always seem to drag terribly.
We go through the combination two more times, with Melanie correcting everything she sees. Don’t get me wrong, I know that she’s one of our most kind hearted teachers. But by the time the class ends, I’m done with her critiques.
Honestly, I could probably use a day off right about now. But between attending my last month of classes here at the New York Academy of Ballet and my much less prestigious night job, there’s a snowball’s chance in hell of that randomly happening.
I walk over to grab my bottle of water, taking a long pull. As I’m guzzling down the water, Eric walks up. I gulp as he casually starts talking to me; with his blonde hair, clear blue eyes, and his muscular danseur’s frame, Eric looks like a freaking Disney prince.
“Hey,” he says, picking up a small black duffel bag from against the wall. “That last round of combinations was killer. I feel like I just got my ass kicked.”
Before I even say a word, my face grows hot. As a ballerina, I’m always sensitive to my body and the story told by my posture. But talking to gorgeous Eric brings a whole new level of embarrassment and self consciousness.
I give him a shy smile. “Yeah, especially the last one. That releve développe sliding into that pas de bourrée was really tricky.”
Eric nods, digging through his duffel bag. “I think that move is featured pretty heavily in The Nutcracker. So if we have any hope of getting picked for any ballet company, I guess that’s a move we really have to nail.” He pulls his water bottle out of his bag and takes a swig.
As he drinks, I look at the way his head is thrown back. His throat arches, his whole body effortlessly shifting to balance. I watch the motion of Eric swallowing, my eyes tracing the path of the water moving down his throat.
Will he ever ask me out? I wonder.
I’ve never been on a date or had a boyfriend, but I have definitely had the hots for Eric for years.
He snaps the lid closed on his water bottle and catches my longing expression. He arches an eyebrow. “What?”
My face goes red and I turn away from him, heading toward my own duffel bag. I fib a little. “Did you know that I can get extra life out of my pointe shoes by using floor wax? I dab a little inside the box, put the shoes in a preheated oven that’s been turned off. When I take them out and let them cool overnight, they feel better and last longer.”
He squints at me. “You are really thrifty, Kaia.”
I am. I have to be.
There is no magical force out there, guiding me toward making money. Just me, trying to scrimp and save and cut corners to get by.
I flush, looking down at my hands.
Eric continues on, as if I had never started off on a weird money saving tangent. “I’m just wondering about what company I’ll end up in. Imagine if we both got accepted to the New York Ballet.”
Manon is standing by the wall where my bag is. As I approach, she turns around, her lip curling into a delicate sneer.
“There is no way that Kaia will be chosen by the NYB. They only recruit five graduates from every ballet academy in the world each year. You just…” Her eyes scan my body, a smirk appearing on her lips. “Don’t measure up. You should apply for Cincinnati or Birmingham or somewhere that they need second rate ballerinas, honestly.”
My heart drops toward my feet. I open my mouth to return her snarky comment, but Ella walks over, inserting herself in the situation. Ella refuses to let anybody talk to her or her friends with disrespect… and I’m lucky enough that she has adopted me as one of her besties.
Whatever that means for ballerinas, anyway.
“Shut the fuck up, Manon. Don’t you have a broomstick somewhere to polish up before the next full moon?” she says, making shooing motions with her hands. Her Southern accent is thick as molasses and twice as syrupy-sweet.
Manon’s lips twist. “Go back to whatever hillbilly town you’re from. Leave the rest of the world alone.”
“First of all, I’m from Marietta, which is a suburb of Atlanta. And second, you’d better watch your mouth before I clean it out with a fucking bar of soap.” Ella says.
“Ugh, bitch.” Manon storms off, disappearing through the studio door. I look at Ella, beyond grateful.
“Thanks,” I say, shaking my head. “You always have the best retorts. I wish I was more like that.”
Ella squeezes my upper arm. “Everybody does, boo.”
She slides her gaze to Eric, her gaze tightening just a little. She doesn’t completely approve of Eric for some reason and makes that pretty clear.
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” she asks.
Eric gives her an odd look. “It’s late Saturday afternoon. We’re done with practice for the day. Where is it exactly that you think I should go?”
Ella puts her hand on her hip and rolls her eyes. She turns her attention back to me. “I’m going to see a play tonight. Any interest in attending?”
I wrinkle my nose and pull off my point shoes. “I can’t. I have to work. Raincheck?”
“Sure,” she says with a shrug.
Ella pulls a pair of dark sweatpants out of her duffel bag, quickly swapping her white skirt for the pants. I unwrap my laces and pull off my shoes. Eric is pulling on a pair of pants and a tight ivory sweater.
For a minute, the studio is quiet, the sound of everyone changing and moving out of the room dominating the space.
Ella pulls her pink fleece jacket on over her white leotard and then pulls her duffel bag strap onto her shoulder. I zip my jeans, shove my feet into my pink Converse, and pull a dark oversized fleece jacket on my body.
As soon as I shoulder my bag, Ella starts gently ushering me towards the door. “Hey, speaking of the auditions for the New York Ballet. Did you guys get a casting call in the mail?”
Eric nods, following us. “Yeah. The audition dates for people from our academy are the first through the fourth of next month.”
My hands tighten on the strap of my duffel bag. I look down the long hallway lined with rehearsal rooms and instructor’s offices, toward the white metal door at the very end. “I can’t believe that we are less than a month away from auditions,” I confess.
Eric snorts. “I auditioned for San Francisco last week. We are firmly within audition season, I think.”
“I did Atlanta two weeks ago,” Ella adds. “It was nice to get to see my folks. I didn’t want them to realize that I will choose Atlanta as a last resort, though. I’ve got my eyes on someplace here in New York.”
“Yeah, I really want to stay here,” I say, nodding. “I’m actually only applying to a few places.”
Eric shakes his head and hikes his duffel bag up on his arm. “I applied to ten companies. I want options.”
I reach the doorway at the end of the hall first. Shouldering it open, I shiver against the cool New York City fall. As I hold the door for Ella and Eric, I glance at the soon to be setting sun where it peeks out from a gap between two towering skyscrapers.
The three of us walk toward the busy sidewalk. At this hour, the streets of Manhattan are packed with people of every description. Every color, every gender, every sexual orientation. It makes me breathe a little easier.
In New York City, I have a lot more anonymity and autonomy than I could ever have found if I’d just stayed in buttoned up, privileged Hartford. That’s where my family is from and probably one of my least favorite places on the planet.
I heave a sigh as we all begin to head our separate ways.
“I’ll catch you guys later,” I say, shooting Eric and Ella both a little smile.
“Have fun working at the laundromat,” Eric says, lifting a hand in a wave.
My cheeks stain red again. I definitely don’t work at a laundromat. That’s just the first thing that came to mind when Eric first asked me about my job. “Thanks,” I manage.
“Bye,” Ella says, already moving away.
I turn and start walking quickly toward the closest subway station. Pulling my cell phone out to check the time, I see that I’ve missed three calls from home. Sucking in a deep breath, I realize that I don’t have time to call my father back. That causes a ripple of unease to slide down my spine.
My father doesn’t have the best temperament when I am at his beck and call; when I miss his phone calls, he morphs into a sinister, dark character with a serious anger problem.
But I absolutely cannot be late for work. I need this job too much to screw around and get fired. Maybe if I am very lucky, I’ll be able to call my dad back while I make the quick trip from the station to the club…
Chewing on my lower lip, I shove my phone into my duffel bag and hurry down the steps to the subway.
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