Page 22 of Pas de Don't
Carly, 2:25AM:THAT’S your tour guide??
Carly, 2:25AM: Is he into women?
Carly, 2:26AM: If yes, you should tie his kangaroo down, sport
Heather scoffed and shook her head. She had been right: Carly liked the photo she’d taken of Marcus at the beach yesterday, and overnight she’d filled up Heather’s inbox with emoji proof of her appreciation, as well as photos of her ZZ plant, whose leaves were perky and glossy green. Heather pulled her phone from the nightstand and rolled back to the middle of her bed, yawning widely. For the first time since arriving in Sydney, she’d managed to sleep through the night.
Heather, 7:47AM: Yes, pretty sure he’s into women.
Heather, 7:48AM: But ANB has a firm “no dating” rule. And they’re serious about it. Apparently two guys got fired last year.
She looked up at the molded ceiling, tracing the floral pattern absentmindedly while she waited for Carly’s reply. She ached all over, but it was a pleasant kind of pain, a reminder that she’d worked her muscles hard in Alice’s class yesterday. She had just pulled one knee up to her chest to stretch out her hips and hamstrings when her phone vibrated.
Carly, 7:50AM: Booooo. Maybe you should try breaking the rules for once, then
Heather shook her head and rolled herself out of bed. Of course Carly would say that, she thought with a smile. The easiest way to get her best friend to do something was to tell her that someone, somewhere, had made a rule saying she couldn’t.
Heather, on the other hand, had always been a rule-follower. She didn’t always want to be, but it was hard to make it in ballet if you weren’t. And there were so many rules: rules for how to do your hair, for what color leotard to wear, for how to stand and walk and place your feet and bow to the teacher at the end of class. Some of them existed for good reason. Some of them were there because they’d always been there. Heather always tried to obey both kinds, even when it irked her, because she knew that’s what her mother expected from her.
Her mom could never have sent Heather to the company school if she hadn’t been offered a full ride, and Heather had learned early on that the best thing she could do—the best way to make her mother’s life easier—was to keep her head down, do as she was told, and work her ass off. Linda had enough on her plate working, taking night classes, and raising a daughter on her own, a daughter who happened to have a talent for a very expensive after-school activity. She didn’t need the added worry about whether that daughter was getting kicked out of ballet class for doing cartwheels, which Carly had definitely done.
Twice.
Heather loved Carly to pieces, but Carly had rich parents who could buy, bargain, or donate her out of basically any problem. While Heather had spent her teen years collecting quarters for the subway, Carly’s parents gave her a fat wad of cash to pay for cabs. She’d always invited Heather along for the ride. Even now Heather was always welcome in the Montgomerys’ huge apartment on the Upper West Side, where the rooms were furnished with priceless antique furniture and the walls were crowded with modern art. The Montgomerys even had enough room on the second floor to build Carly her own small ballet studio so she could practice any time she wanted.
Once Heather and Carly had gotten their company contracts and moved out of the dorms, Carly had returned her father’s credit card and made a point of not accepting any more money from her parents. Heather knew perfectly well that with their help, Carly could have spent her first few years in the company living in a much nicer apartment than the one they’d shared, but she’d insisted on only looking at places in Heather’s budget. Still, Carly had grown up safe in the knowledge that her parents’ money would always be there if she needed it.
Yes, it might be fun to try breaking the rules for once,but we can’t all cartwheel through life. She decided not to reply.
An hour later, Heather had completed her morning routine. She’d eaten a bowl of cereal and a banana. She’d twisted her hair up into a braided bun and applied her usual daytime makeup. Sure, she had deviated a little from her usual makeup sequence and spent a little more time on it than she would have for a regular company class. As she’d applied a second coat of mascara, she’d told herself it was simply because she wanted to conceal the lingering jet lag and look presentable for her new colleagues; after all, she was still making first impressions. For the same reason, she’d dabbed lavender oil on her wrists and pressed them against the sides of her neck, something she usually reserved for going out to dinner.
But there was no point lying to herself, she realized as she locked the front door. As she glanced up at the hulking bridge, her stomach fluttered with nerves that had nothing to do with company class, and she strode toward the bus stop, buzzing with anticipation that had nothing to do with seeing a koala bear for the first time.
Just a few leotards. That’s what Heather had said. She was down to her last clean one, and hadn’t packed enough for a month, she’d explained, even though she was usually so careful and organized about packing. So, she’d asked, could they stop by a dancewear shop on the way to the zoo and pick up just a few leotards?
Marcus perched awkwardly on a plastic display platform, next to a headless mannequin dressed in a hot pink leotard and arranged in first position. Techno music throbbed overhead, threatening to give him a headache.
When they’d walked in almost an hour ago, the woman behind the counter took one look at Heather and was totally starstruck.
“Oh my God,” she’d gasped, “aren’t you Heather Hays?”
“Um, yes,” Heather had started, “and I need a few leot—”
“I can’t believe Heather Hays is in my shop right now,” the woman blurted, raising her perfectly manicured hands to her impeccably made-up face. “This is absolutely mental.”
She’d rushed around the counter to shake Heather’s hand, and Marcus watched as Heather quickly masked her surprise and greeted the woman politely, asking her name and inquiring about her background in dance. He could tell she’d done it before, and watching her, he remembered that in a dance-mad city like New York, she must get recognized on the street fairly often.
The woman, whose name was Izzy and who had been a dancer her whole life until she quit because of a back injury but who still loved to go see ANB and couldn’t wait to see Heather perform with them—she told Heather all this in one long, breathless sentence—had showed them some of her new stock, then took Heather’s bag and jacket to a fitting room.
“I wish I could offer you a sparkling water or something,” Izzy said, like she was running a couture boutique, and Marcus had suppressed a laugh. He’d been to Dancewear Central dozens of times and no one had ever offered him a beverage of any kind. He watched, amused, as Heather wandered around the shop, Izzy at her heels, peppering her with information about each leotard brand.
Soon, Heather had disappeared into the dressing room to try on what, to Marcus’s dismay, looked like several dozen leotards.
“I’ll be as quick as I can,” she’d said to him apologetically on her way in.
“Take your time. You’re making Izzy’s day. I think she’s going to propose soon.”
“Shut up,” she replied, with a grin and a roll of her eyes, and closed the dressing room door behind her.
