Page 120 of Facing Off
“Waris, I know you can squat lower, dude.”
“Look at O’Brian. He’s killing it!”
“Jung, those extensions are way better. You’ve obviously been doing your homework.”
We’ve only been apart for a few measly days, but my heart does a slow-motion acrobatic flip. This is another instance where I look at him and thinkCaptain.
He’s commanding the room.
But I’m also wrinkling my brow, and my muscles have gone stiff. That’s because I see the cracks. Invisible ones, fracturing him. It’s so obvious in the way his shoulders are tighter than usual, the slight tremor in his hands on the skipping rope, how every thirty seconds he’s blinking and shaking himself to more alertness.
Has he slept?
Annoyance flares inside me. Why isn’t anyone mentioning anything? They should do something. Tell him to rest. Take a break. If they don’t, I’ll have to—I don’t know—find him, confront him, and proclaim something ridiculous like,give me some of your stress.
I groan and curse and muffle a scream. My eyes close—just for a second. I’m forcing them open just as quickly,because every time I shut them, I can’t stop thinking about the club.
It’s a distraction that keeps plaguing me.
Ask me when the last time I had sex was, Sonya.
Ask me who I think about, the only person I think about when I touch myself.
Did you like me on my knees?
I get up and pace around the studio.
Now is not the time for this! I can’t afford to lose focus, to be wondering about Adrian nonstop since we separated. I go back to the center of the studio and dance.
It works…for twenty minutes. Then suddenly I’m stopping, chewing my bottom lip, and sighing? What a disturbing little sound.
What’s even more disturbing is how I want to watch that video of him again.
I grab my bag from the ground, ready to stuff my phone into an inner pocket where I can’t easily access it, when it starts vibrating. I almost drop it. It’s a call from an unknown number.
“Hello?”
“This is Bob Pepita’s assistant. Is Sonya available?”
Idodrop the phone, then scramble to pick it up.
“Speaking,” I choke out. “This is Sonya.”
“Hey, I wanted to reach out because the audition has been moved up. It’s going to be in two weeks instead of three. Will you be ready?”
My shoulders hitch. I’m sweating again. The solo I’m putting together is very technical, designed to meet the highest standards of classical ballet. As long as I pull it off, I have a shot…as long as these yips stop…
My performance has gotten marginally better. But the yips haven’t gone away.
There’s a brutally tense pause. I realize I haven’tanswered his question. Before I can, Mr. Pepita’s assistant tells me. “Your competition is flying in from Paris Opera Ballet, The Royal Ballet in London, and Estonian National Ballet. They have no problem with the change and are excited to be filmed.”
My gut clenches. I’m confused. “Filmed? I didn’t realize…”
“Oh, yes. This is the last ballet Mr. Pepita will ever choreograph, so there will be a film crew recording everything. The footage will be turned into a documentary. To kick-off interest and get more funding, your auditions will be live-streamed on the internet.”
Alarm races through me. Whatever happens to me on that stage, everyone will know about it. If I publicly fall in the middle of a routine, my credibility will tank. No one else will want me.
“The filming is non-negotiable,” he reiterates, likely interpreting my silence for what it is. Sheer panic. “Can the team still expect you to audition?”
