Page 6 of On Dancer
“That would be the whole point.” I gave her a stern look. Her treatment was over, and the latest scans were promising, putting her squarely in the recovery portion of her journey, but my protectiveness remained.
“Thank you, darling.” She reached up to pat my cheek right as one of the instructors poked her head in the doorway.
“Miss Margie, there’s a light out in the Baryshnikov Studio.” Angela, the teacher, had a high-pitched voice that went even higher when agitated. All of our studios were named after famous dancers and figures in the ballet world, and fittingly, Baryshnikov was the largest studio that housed some of the bigger classes. “My next class is due to arrive any minute.”
“I’m on it,” I said quickly before my mother could volunteer. I set my laptop back on my desk before shaking a finger at her. “And you head on home. I’ve got things here.”
“Don’t you dare say my least favorite four-letter word.” Mom narrowed her eyes.
“You still need rest.” I had no issues telling her to rest, and we’d worked out a schedule where I locked up most nights, allowing her to head home and hopefully relax or at least put her feet up. “Go on. I’ve got a light bulb to change.”
I kissed her cheek on my way to retrieve a new bulb and the long stick gadget we used to change the recessed lights in the ceilings of the various studios. The building’s age meant generously tall ceilings, especially in the ballet studios, which required twelve-foot ceilings for all the jumps. Unfortunately, the spacious feeling also meant high heating bills and difficult maintenance.
The gadget we used to change bulbs was fiddly, and it took me a few tries to get the old one out. I was in the middle of attempt three at screwing in the new one when the door opened, and I jumped, nearly dropping the whole apparatus as Alexander Dasher strode into the room.
“Oh sorry.” He looked genuinely contrite, hands up and blue eyes wide. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought the room was empty.”
“Not quite.” I sounded snappy, so I took a breath before trying again. “I’m trying to change this light bulb before the next class.”
“Here, let me help.” Alexander reached for the stick, but I dodged his attempt to take it.
“I’ve got it.” I couldn’t dance on Alexander’s level and lacked his innate charm, poise, and direction, but I could change a darn light bulb.
“All right.” Alexander left me to my work, walking over to the ledge that housed the sound system. “I accidentally left my headphones here this morning.” He pocketed a high-end brand of wireless earbuds before turning back to me. “I supposeI should apologize for the misunderstanding the night of my father’s party.”
“You were hardly the only one to think I was part of the catering staff.” I finally got the new light bulb screwed in and stepped back to admire my work.
“Even so. Apologies.” There was something just this side of flippant to Alexander’s tone that gave me pause. Was he seriously irked that I hadn’t been able to correct him at the time?
“Thank you.” Good manners prevented me from matching his tone. Instead, I stole my mother’s favorite trick of smiling serenely and ignoring potential negativity in favor of relentless positivity and praise. “And we’re lucky to have you for this show. My mom just told me your rehab is going well.”
“I’ll be ready.” Alexander’s voice turned terse, but I refused to let my smile dip.
“I’m sure.” If he could be flip, I could be brightly patronizing. “And as you prepare, I’ve got some additional opportunities for you.”
“Why do I have a feeling it’s more like obligations?” Alexander sighed heavily. “I’m rather busy with my PT regimen, classes, and gearing up for rehearsals with both Cheryl and Victoria.”
“It’s nothing too time-consuming.” I discreetly crossed my fingers around the bulb-changing gadget. “A few lecture demonstrations for area schools to talk about ballet andThe Nutcracker. Some promo. A couple of extras the weekend of the performance, like a director’s talk with Tavio.”
“That doesn’t sound like nothing.” Alexander narrowed his eyes, but he wasn’t flat-out refusing.
“I’ll make it as painless as possible.” I widened my smile. I might lack his charm, but I could be my own brand of convincing when needed. “And all the extras benefit the school. It’s been a lean few years. It was a stretch just to sell the board on hiring meto help my mother. This school is part of her legacy. I—we all—need this show to be a success.”
The mention of my mother landed as intended. Alexander lost some of his prickliness and nodded curtly. “Send me a text with details.”
“Thank you.” I beamed like he was far more enthusiastic as the door opened to admit Angela and a stream of ten-year-olds. “You won’t regret helping.”
“Here’s hoping.” Alexander stepped closer to the door.
Deciding to take my win, I let him exit. I was indeed hoping for both Alexander’s help and that we could get past whatever weird tension continued to linger between us.
Four
Merde:literally, French for shit. Used in the ballet world instead of “break a leg” or “good luck.”
Alexander
The morning light in the studio was disconcerting. The studio itself was as familiar as the stretches I performed. I’d taken my earliest leaps and spins inside these walls, learned discipline and form in front of these mirrors, found my inner drive, and conquered many a doubt demon here. However, as a kid, class had always been after school or in the evening, which, this time of year, meant dark skies and artificial lighting. The November sunshine filtering in through a large window at the rear of the room exposed the worn edges of the studio—paint needing a touch-up from suffering years of peeling posters and announcement flyers, mirrors slightly hazy in a way polish alone couldn’t fix, and flooring showing its age.
