Page 17 of Pas de Don't
“Not everyone, but anyone who wants to. Peter thinks dancers should be ready for a life after they can’t perform anymore.”
Heather nodded, thinking about what Marcus had told her about his injury yesterday. Dance careers were all-consuming, but they could end in a split second. Then you were left adrift with no other skills or work experience. But then her thoughts slipped sideways, and she found herself wondering what Marcus was like when he taught the company on his assigned Thursdays. Was he quiet and serious like he’d been under the bridge? Or was he mischievous and lighthearted like when they’d raced up the stairs? She pushed her thoughts of him away—again—and focused on Alice, who had climbed to her feet and mirrored her calf stretch.
“Would you want to run a company one day?”
Alice shrugged again. “Maybe. It’s a lot of work, and none of it looks that fun. But I do like to teach.”
“Are you going to go easy on us?”
“Never,” Alice grinned. “I hope you’ve had your Weet-Bix, Miss America, because I make Peter’s class look easy.”
Alice was true to her word. Heather had never done frappés so fast, or ronds de jambe en l’air so slow. By the time barre was over, she was drenched in sweat, and could only imagine what Alice had in store once they started dancing in the center. But as hard as Alice’s combinations were, and as fast as she had the accompanist play as they all flitted frantically across the floor in petit allegro, the mood in the studio was more relaxed than in any ballet class Heather could remember taking.
Dancers were chatting and laughing between exercises, smiling as they took their turn sweeping across the floor in groups of three and four. Alice cracked jokes from the front of the room, correcting her colleagues’ small mistakes and yelling out praise when one of them did particularly well.
“Yes, Nikki!” she called exuberantly, clapping as one of the younger-looking dancers finished an especially clean series of pirouettes.
“That’s what I’m talking about, Matty!” she cried as a stocky guy stretched his arabesque longer than Heather would have thought possible and floated his leg down weightlessly behind him.
The studio had been chilly when Heather arrived, but after ninety minutes of dancing for Alice, the air was warm and pungent with sweat, the mirrors starting to fog. Alice dismissed them with a round of applause, and Heather stood a few feet from the open door, panting and enjoying the relief of the cool air on her skin.
Alice approached, grinning.
“How often do you teach?” Heather panted.
“Lucky for you, not that often,” Alice said.
“No, I loved it,” Heather said, truthfully. She wondered why NYB didn’t let more of its dancers teach. She’d never thought about it before, but at home, almost every class was taught by Mr.K, or a ballet mistress, and the atmosphere was entirely different. Dancers barely spoke in class, and they definitely didn’t laugh out loud. They had been trained since they were tiny children to quietly obey a teacher’s orders, and it had never occurred to her that they were still doing it, even though they were adults and professionals now. There was something joyful about being taught by a peer, about learning from an equal.
“Did you really love it?” Alice said, looking skeptical, and a little bashful.
“Truly,” Heather said firmly. “You’re a natural. An absolutely ruthless natural.”
Alice let out a joyful cackle, and Heather was reminded of Carly. She felt a sudden pang of homesickness, or rather, Carlysickness.
“I should get going,” Alice said. “I want to grab a coffee before my rehearsal starts. When do you start rehearsing?”
“Next week, I think,” Heather replied as they both made for the door. “In the meantime, I’m trying to get the hang of the city. Did you grow up here?”
“Nah,” Alice said, retrieving her bag from under the piano, “I’m from Bendigo.” Heather must have looked confused, because Aliceadded, “middle of Victoria, about two hours from Melbourne?” Heather made a mental note as they walked out:Mel-ben, not Mel-born.
“Ah, okay,” she nodded. “And how long have you been with the company?”
“This is my sixth year. I joined right out of the school.”
“And she’s been killing us with her classes ever since,” came a voice from behind them. Heather turned to see Marcus sitting on a bench, sipping a coffee and watching them with a fond smile.
“It’s not my fault you can’t hack it, old man,” Alice called playfully over Heather’s shoulder. She walked over to Marcus and looked him up and down. “Speaking of old men, is that a cane?”
Heather tore her eyes from Marcus’s face to a metal cane with a curved rubber handle propped against the bench.
“It’s only for now,” Marcus grumbled, “and only if I need it. Shaz just cleared me for walking. Look ma, no crutches.” He gave them sarcastic jazz hands.
“It’s very stylish, but you should probably add a top hat and tails and get the full Fred Astaire look,” Alice said with a smirk. Heather glanced from Alice to Marcus, her stomach squirming unpleasantly. Were they flirting? Or was this a big brother–little sister dynamic? It shouldn’t matter to her, obviously. But still, she was curious.
Marcus rolled his eyes at Alice, and then stood, leaning gently on the cane. How did he manage to make leaning look that good? Even with his foot in his bulky boot, he looked Astaire-esque: graceful and at ease, as if he’d already integrated the cane into his body. She let her eyes linger on his broad shoulders and his strong, slender fingers wrapped around his coffee cup, and wondered for the first time what kind of a dancer he was, when he was well. Was he long lines and fast feet? Big bravura pirouettes and explosive jumps? She realized with disappointment that it would be months until he’d be back on stage, so she’d never know.
“You ready for the beach?” he asked Heather, and she nodded. Her muscles ached from Alice’s merciless adagio combination, butat the thought of spending another afternoon with Marcus, her skin began to buzz again.
