Page 70 of The Unraveling

“Actually, no. How did you know that?”

“Just had a feeling.” She shrugs again. Then she completely changes. She smiles and puts her arms out. “Come here, cariño, I’m sorry for being so testy. It’s my Spanish blood, you know, I just can’t help it. I’ll help you move the rest of your things over later.”

“How did you—”

“Small town, love.”

I let her embrace me, feeling completely thrown for a loop. I hug her back gingerly and then let go as fast as I can without offending her.

“So,” she asks, “did you fuck him?”

“What? No!”

She asks it loudly, as more dancers go into the studio for the meeting.

She laughs. “I’m surprised. You two looked like you were on a hot first date.”

“Okay, well, it wasn’t. Be quiet,” I say, with a hushing finger at my lips. “You got me into this company, and pushed me to get a donor quick, and now are you trying to get me kicked out?”

She laughs. “Of course not, love. Why would I do that?”

“I have no idea,” I say.

We go back in, just as Sarika claps her hands and says, “Okay, okay, enough chatting, quickly before class, I want to introduce you to someone. As you know, Manon rehearsals are starting this week with casting to go up shortly. Of course, the basic has already been done, so please go to the rehearsals you’re on the basic for, but as always, our minds can be changed.” Between each of the last five words, she claps once. “For better or worse. And as we do have a week of Swan Lake left, please stay focused on that, too.”

Arabella and I take our places.

“She means that,” whispers Arabella conspiratorially. “Be careful.”

My phone buzzes. I look and see that it’s a text from Joel Carson, my mom’s friend.

Hi Jocelyn, your mom’s house sold. Call me later. Joel.

I inhale sharply and shove my phone into my warm-up vest pocket. I was not expecting that. I look up and rejoin the meeting happening in front of me.

“I’m going to give the stage over to Isabella Von Fleet,” says Sarika. “She is here from the MacAvoy Trust and will be staging the ballet.”

A woman steps forward, does prayer hands at Sarika, then walks in front of us all.

“You can relax,” she says, with a breezy American accent. “This is just a quick little introduction. We have lots of rehearsals ahead of us to get to know each other more.”

She says relax in a soothing, long way, stretching out the a.

Some ballerinas sit. Arabella and I do not.

Sarika looks at us both, briefly squinting her eyes and then looking to Isabella.

“L’histoire de Manon. We call it Manon, don’t we? I know you’re all familiar with it. What ballerina hasn’t yearned to play the lead role?” She gives an odd little giggle, then goes on. “When Kevin MacAvoy was choreographing the ballet, he was quite loose with his direction for our Manon. He left it open to the interpretation of the dancers, believing that authenticity was at the core of this character. But what made those in the role shine to MacAvoy was their ability to embody her poverty. He believed that what drove her was her desperation to change her station in life. And it will kill her.”

I think of the text from Joel, and then of my mother. The irony is, the ballet ends in the swamps of Louisiana, which is actually where my story began. And where my mother’s ended. I suck in my breath again sharply.

My ears begin to ring and I feel like I might pass out. I can’t breathe. My knees buckle beneath me. I catch myself.

“Are you all right?” asks Isabella, looking over at me.

I nod. “Sorry,” I say.

But I still feel woozy. I bend down and get my water bottle, drinking a few sips. My mouth has gone so dry that I cough.

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