Page 28 of Facing Off
After leaving Hughes,it takes me a while to find my dance mistress. But when I do, Madame Kozlova’s fuming in the stairwell beside her office.
“I can explain,” I start.
I can’t.I have no idea what happened to me on stage.
She shakes her head. “Don’t bother. Just be glad there’s one more chance left. I’ll figure out how to convince Bob Pepita to see you one more time at his general auditions, but you can’t embarrass me again.”
I nod and pretend not to be fazed, even though it takes everything inside me not to clutch the wall with relief. Because my dream isn’t over yet.
“Go practice,” says my dance mistress. “You have a month.”
I head back to the studio. I know she expects me to stay late, so what happened earlier today won’t happen ever again.
I agree with her. It’s the right plan.
For the rest of the day, I book out one of our smallest studios, so nobody can watch me. Before I get started, Iturn the temperature up high, so my muscles can warm up quickly. I’m already sweating.
It’s not nerves, I tell myself.It can’t be.
I’ve done this routine a thousand times already. The steps are carved into my memory. Arms up. Leg lifted. I smile politely and falsely at myself in the mirror.
Suddenly, I’m moving across the floor, spinning, and stepping on the balls of my feet. Getting ready to prepare for my grand allegro combination. The one I messed up on stage in front of Bob Pepita. The choreographer who holds my fate in his hands.
I should build up to it for longer, but I can’t wait.
Three, two, one…
I fall again.
My knee thumps against the floor.
Snapping my head up, I look at myself in the mirror. My eyes have turned into saucers. Scrambling back to my feet, I get up and go again. And again.
I don’t understand.
I’m blanking and losing control in the middle of my steps as if my mind and body are running in opposite directions and have stopped listening to each other. Lifting my hand up to my mouth, I muffle a scream.
Then I go again.
Instead of landing like I should, I stagger to the ground, lost and confused. It’s reflexive disorientation, lasting maybe one second—which doesn’t sound like a lot, but in a methodical profession like ballet, that’s all it takes to derail the whole move.
The heels of my palms grind against my eyes as I sink to the floor. My throat is closing. I want to crumble and cry because what is going on? It makes no sense.
“You know how to do it,” I mutter through clenched teeth. “Whyare you doing this?”
I channel whatever I’m feeling into more dancing.
That doesn’t work. I keep falling, and after a few more hours I forced myself to leave, scared that if I don’t stop, I might actually injure myself.
On my way home, I stop to grab my usual Mexican takeout for dinner again. Gabriela, the owner, doesn’t sense anything is off.
Later, Farim, the doorman of my apartment building, happily waves me inside.
“Are your kids driving you up the wall?” I ask, passing him the extra burrito I picked up.
“The answer to that isalways,Miss Sonya.”
We chat for a minute, then I wave him goodbye.
