Page 8 of Barre Fight
The darkness threatened again, but Ivy wasn’t a girl anymore. She was an adult with responsibilities, with people she couldn’t bear to disappoint. Including herself. And if that meant facing reality and trading in a dream for a little stability, well, that was life. She’d done her best, but she knew better than to keep throwing her heart and soul at a long-shot when the world was telling herno.
She stared at Peter’s email for another long moment. Em would be furious with her in the morning, but Ivy wanted to do this before she lost her nerve. Hastily, she tapped out a response, hoping that the short paragraph didn’t reveal either her desperation or her ambivalence. She would find a new dream. It wasn’t like she was going to work at a brick factory; she would be well-paid to sit behind a desk in an air-conditioned office. If it was grimy work, the grime was only figurative.
Ivy closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, steeling herself. Shewouldfind a new dream, but in the meantime, she needed this job. She let out a slow, steadying exhale, opened her eyes and, before she could change her mind, hitsend.
There should be more babies in ballet classes, Justin thought, as the accompanist played a piano cover of “Bohemian Rhapsody” for one of Peter’s fondu combinations. It was typically complex,and hell on the quads. Almost no one was paying attention to the music or the steps, though, because there was a baby in this ballet class. Strapped to the chest of former principal dancer Marcus Campbell, tiny and adorable baby Caroline was the center of attention in studio B this morning. Marcus sat at the front of the room next to the company’s chief physiotherapist Sharon Murphy, their attention fixed on one dancer: principal Heather Hays, who was back in company class for the first time since taking parental leave.
For her part, Heather looked exhausted but happy to be back after six months away. Justin was glad she was back, too, in part because he’d missed performing with her, but mostly because her timing was excellent. With all eyes on Caroline, no one was talking about the video. Even Peter seemed to have decided that the return of the company’s most beloved dancer, and the presence of her tiny daughter, trumped whatever trouble Justin was in.
But he could only hide behind a baby for so long. On Friday morning, theMorning Sunhad run an article about the video, completely dashing Justin’s hopes that it would all just blow over. At the thought of the story he gripped the barre a little tighter, then winced—his hand was still feeling the effects of that punch. That punch, which had found its way onto the internet and somehow crossed the path of Ivy Page, senior arts reporter and senior pain in the ass. She came around the ballet company at least once a season, sometimes more, and he always tried to steer clear of her. He’d thought she was attractive and charming the first time he’d met her, with her friendly green eyes and full, expressive mouth, but it was all a front. Poison Ivy, as he now thought of her, wielded her pen without pity. She’d reviewed his first performance after he was promoted to principal, five years ago, and turned the review into a meditation on ballet’s supposed tendency to prize a dancer’s arches over hisartistry.Good feet, a nice head of hair, and adequate partnering do not a principal dancer make, she’d opined in print, to the newspaper’s eight million readers.Winters, while sparkly, wholly lacked substance.
Justin looked down at those feet now, trying to banish Ivy’s long-ago words. As usual, it didn’t work. Freakish, she’d called them. The word stung even more than usual today. These feet that had caught the eye of Missy’s ballet teacher twenty years ago, when he’d snuck into the ballet studio behind her and jumped around at the back of the room. Miss Mary had made him sit down at the front of the room and watch that day, but she’d pulled his aunt Justine aside at the end of class and offered her discounted ballet lessons for Missy if Justin tagged along. He was naturally gifted, Miss Mary had said, and wasn’t it worth discovering if he could do something with that gift? These feet had carried him out of Hillstone, out of the bush and into a career most people only dreamed about. They weren’t freakish, they were a fucking miracle.
Justin worked his toes against the floor, finding comfort in the familiar combination of movements Peter had set them. Front, side, back, side, a deep and delicious bend in his calves and Achilles, then ronds de jambe, and then the whole thing reversed itself. He tried to enjoy this time, when he could dance unobserved, because once Heather and Caroline left at the end of barre, Peter would remember that Justin was there, and that thanks to Ivy’s latest article, Justin was on his shit list.
And that was exactly what happened. Justin and everyone around him were panting and sweating from a particularly grueling grand battement combination, and the accompanist launched into a soothing, languorous rendition of “Stairway to Heaven”—wow, she was really on a classic rock kick today—when Peter interrupted her, and the dancers fell quiet. Justin’s stomach dropped, and Ricky and Matty cast him worriedglances from across the studio. For a moment, the only sound in the whole room was Caroline’s quiet gurgling.
Peter, wearing his usual teaching outfit of snug black jeans and a black T-shirt with the ANB logo on the chest, looked around the studio at them all. His eyes landed on Justin, who forced himself to hold his boss’s gaze. He tried to remember what he’d told Missy yesterday: Even if he hadn’t exactly meant to punch that guy… Some people deserved to get punched.
Peter looked around, confirming that he had everyone’s attention. A former ANB dancer himself, he’d taken the role of artistic director about seven years ago and set about reforming the company to make it more equitable and more forward-looking. He’d brought in mental health professionals to practice alongside the physios, eliminated the company’s height requirements for auditions, ended the practice of weekly weigh-ins, and allowed dancers to wear tights and shoes that matched their skin tone. (In an effort to curb sexual harassment, he’d also instituted a well-intentioned but wildly unpopular no-dating policy among the dancers, but Heather and Marcus had blown that up.)
Peter had made some real changes at ANB. But ballet was still ballet, and he was still the AD of a ballet company, and a four-hundred-year-old institution like ballet didn’t change overnight. Peter wasn’t a dictator, but ANB was hardly a democracy. So he spoke quietly, knowing that the dancers would listen closely to every word he said.
“I’m sure you’ve all seen the video that’s circulating of one of our dancers in a bar last week,” he said. A few more of his colleagues shot furtive looks over at Justin, who suddenly felt like all three of the Opera House’s spotlights had swung onto him, hot and unforgiving.
“I want to remind you that when you are out in public, whether you are wearing ANB gear or not, you are alwaysrepresenting this company. I expect you to comport yourselves in a manner that reflects well on all of us. This is especially important as we prepare for our tour to New York City.”
Ah yes, the tour. They’d been rehearsing for months. Their entire summer season had been one long dress rehearsal for their one-week engagement at Lincoln Center, the company’s first appearance in New York since Peter took over. The company would perform a mixed bill that showed off its range, from abstract contemporary ballets to a short but sparkling tutu piece. Justin was dancing one of his favorite pieces ever, a long and dreamy pas de deux with simple costumes and terrifically complex lifts. And he was dancing with one of the company’s emerging stars, newly promoted principal Alice Ho. Or at least, he hoped he still was. Peter’s expression was stern as he looked around the studio, delivering the dancers a warning that was truly only meant for one person.
“This is not a good time for ANB to be in the headlines for anything other than our world-class dancing,” Peter went on, “and I will be extremely displeased if any of you does anything offstage that overshadows our much-anticipated return to New York next month.”
Translation: I will be absolutely livid if your fuck-up is in the first sentence of every review we get over there.Justin had worked for Peter McGregor long enough to be fluent in the man’s subtext.
Justin fidgeted with the waistband of his shorts, antsy and anxious to move. He didn’t particularly enjoy adagio, but suddenly he was eager for everyone to clear the barres from the center of the studio and get back to work. But Peter wasn’t done yet.
“This is an important moment in our company’s history, and we all have to do our bit to make sure it goes as we deserve. You’ve worked hard to prepare for this tour, and I don’t wantany distractions from all the effort you’ve put in and the recognition you deserve. So I want to assure you that the administrators and I have a plan for controlling this story and ensuring that our dancing is the sole focus going into this tour.”
He looked stonily at Justin, who understood perfectly what his boss wasn’t saying. This plan was going to involve him in some way. Peter was furious with him, and he was going to make him prove he still belonged on that tour.
ChapterTwo
Justin woke up on Tuesday morning to three missed calls from his mother, two from his aunt, and one from Marcus. He pulled himself out of bed and called Marcus first, knowing that while his mum and Steen were worried about him, they didn’t have much experience of going viral.
Marcus, on the other hand, had had his life turned upside down by a viral video—he and Heather had been caught on camera violating the company’s old no-dating rule, and Peter had fired Marcus on the spot. And while Heather had ultimately convinced Peter that the policy did more harm than good, and dancers were now allowed to date whoever they wanted, Marcus knew what it was like to have a compromising image of yourself plastered all over the internet for anyone to see.
The phone rang a few times, and when Marcus picked up, his voice was hushed and scratchy.
“Hey, mate, give me a second.” Justin heard muffled sounds, and the sound of a door sliding open and shut. “Sorry, Caroline was up all night and Heather’s trying to get a quick nap in before company class. Sleep regression is a nightmare.”
“No worries,” Justin replied. “What the hell is sleep regression?”
“Oh, you sweet summer child,” Marcus chuckled, speaking at a normal volume now. Justin could hear the twitter of birds in the background and pictured his friend out on his back verandah. “It’s better I don’t tell you. If people knew how hard having a baby is before they did it, the entire human race would die out in a few generations. Anyway, I just called to check on you. I know it’s been a shit couple of days. How are you holding up?”
Justin blew out a breath as he tried to formulate an answer. He’d had trouble falling asleep the last few nights, and work had been a struggle as a result. Peter was still clearly displeased with him, and that had made it difficult to concentrate in class. His colleagues, apart from Ricky and Matty, were still giving him a wide berth, which made him feel isolated and guilty. The company really had busted their asses to get ready for New York, and his fellow dancers were so excited about the tour. Every time he thought about how he’d jeopardized everything they’d worked for, the guilt crawled up the back of his neck and made him want to pace whatever room he was in.
He paced now, walking the length of the kitchen as the kettle started to steam on the counter. “I’m alright, just a bit out of sorts, you know? Feels like one moment of weakness just changed everything, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“I know that feeling, and it’s bloody awful. Like there’s this two-dimensional version of yourself out there and no one can see the rest of you. The real you.”
