Page 174 of Facing Off
Five minutes later, the hair on the back of my neck rises.
Their pas de deux is gorgeous, somber, and traps allfocus on them. It’s breathtaking, their depiction of loneliness that takes shelter in love.
Around me, other dancers are inhaling sharply.
All of us are floored.
The final move is a simple pirouette from Nina, her body flowing into the fluid turn, as if the story is one swing of a pendulum, finished but not over.
It seems impossible to beat. If she gets cast in this ballet as a principal dancer, she’ll have earned it.
Six dancers later, it’s my turn.
Have I done enough? Are my yips fully gone?
I don’t know.
My heart is racing a million-mile marathon as I walk onto the stage, and my palms are sweaty. So is my back, and my knees. Ballet has consumed my life—my entire being. Now that I’m here, it strikes me that I might not get a chance like this again.
I close my eyes and try to center myself.
You’re okay.You can do this, Sonya.
At first, it’s my own voice I hear in my head, but quickly, another voice chimes in. One that’s always inside me now.
You’re the best ballerina in this world!
Watching you is like watching magic, darling!
Give it everything you’ve got, and you’ll be unstoppable, baby!
His husky voice layers on top of mine, pouring confidence into my body. It doesn’t matter what’s strictly true or not, my chest expands and I find myself able to move again. I round my arms and hold them low in front of my body. My back is straight and feet are turned away from my hips.
Perfectly aligned, I should be casting my eyes downward. I don’t have a lot of time before the music starts, but something tugs at me. It pulls my gazeforward, past the judges. Past their intimidating blank stares.
I don’t know what I expect to see.
It’s a closed audition.
It doesn’t matter what I want, there’s no way he can be here. It’s impossible for him to be in one of those empty chairs, and yet I’m scanning and scanning, compelled as if pulled by an invisible thread.
The absolute corner of the audience to the right. My eyes go wide and I inhale soundlessly. I don’t think he expected me to notice him. That’s how small and unobtrusive he’s made himself to avoid getting caught.
Across a great distance, he notices me looking. Our eyes connect. A flash of his shocked grin. Then I watch him subtly, yet no less frantically make a series of gestures: an exuberant wave, insistent double thumbs-up, and this small, energetic fist pump.
My muscles unknot.
A deep drag of air expands my lungs.
Only Adrian could make me want to laugh and remind me that whatever happens next won’t define me. Yes, I’m going to give this performance everything I’ve got and see what happens. But then, once the dust settles, I’ll keep going. I’ll find a way to keep pursuing my dream, whatever it evolves into afterwards.
This isn’t my last chance.
It’s a doorway.
Raw notes of music trill out of speakers signaling my start. My arms raise and I move. There is no warm-up or soft crescendo of rhythm. Uninhibited by rules, of only following the ballet I was taught for so many years, I strike out with my limbs. This ismeon the stage,who I want to be, a fusion of tradition with feral. Long arabesques, aggressive fouetté turns, grand jetés starting from the ground up.
It’s messy but also powerful. I’m twisting my classical technique into a rougher organic movement, the ligaments of my back and thighs burning as I crouch and throw myself around. I’m making a statement that if this is the last performance I’ll ever do at this level—this is what they get.
