Page 81 of Forbidden Dance
Betsy greets me with a smile. “Can you stay after class to be assessed forpointe?” she asks.
I nod. This is it!
My stomach is a ball of knots as we go through class with the other students. Most of them are younger than me, some of them waiting to be old enough for toe shoes even though they qualify in years.
When the lights finally blink and class is over, Betsy says good-bye to the other girls, and I stay behind.
I’m filled with doubt. What if Danika was wrong and I’m not ready? What if I snap a tendon the very first time I trypointe? It can happen if you’re not strong enough.
My belly flutters with nerves as Betsy closes the door and comes back to me. “Ready?” she asks.
I nod.
“All right,” she says. “Come to the barre.”
Even though I’ve taken dance with her for over two years, I’m nervous as I approach the barre.
She notices my anxiety. “Don’t worry, Livia. I’m sure you’ll do fine. We just have to make sure you won’t injure yourself when you trypointe.”
I place my hand on the barre.
She comes up beside me. “All right. Show me yourdemi-plié.”
I drop into the position. I know she is looking for proper turnout in my feet and hips.
“Good,” she says. “Now sixteenrelevés.”
This is not as easy as it would have been before doing an hour of ballet rehearsal, but I manage them okay.
“Nice,” she says. “I know you’re probably tired.” She steps a little farther away. “Show me yourpassébalance athalf-pointe.”
I move into place and hold. She squats down, checking my form, my calves, my feet. “Arch your foot a little more,” she says.
I feel her hands on my feet.
“Roll your feet for me,” she says.
This is what Danika had me do earlier this week, and I move from flat feet todemi-pointeover and over.
“Fix your turnout,” she says.
I adjust my knees.
“Did you bring the shoes?” she asks.
My heart hammers. Does she mean I can put them on? “Yes,” I say.
“Let’s see how they fit.”
I hurry to my string bag in the corner and pull out the pristine shoes. I haven’t cut or sewn them yet, as I didn’t want to damage them in case we had to exchange the size.
Betsy heads to the shelves and rummages through a bag, returning with two small toe socks. “Put these on first. You want extra protection and support until you are secureen pointe.”
I roll the socks over my toes. Then I pull out the shoes. I haven’t put them on, even to check for fit. I was afraid I would jinx my chances.
The shoe goes on perfectly. It makes me think of Cinderella trying on her slipper.
“Looks good,” Betsy says. She squeezes along my toes, arch, and heel. “You’ll want to sew this.” She sticks her finger in a small gap.
