Page 21 of On Dancer
Eleven
Croisé:a position where the legs appear crossed from the perspective of the audience.
Alexander
“You’re late.” Tavio studied me critically as I entered the studio for our scheduled morning rehearsal.
“Never.” I’d sooner walk in naked than be late for any rehearsal, a habit born from years of working with fussy directors. I had, however, dallied finishing up class, waiting until the hallway was sufficiently clear before making my way to the other studio. “On time, perhaps.”
It was Monday of Thanksgiving week, three days after I’d kissed Rudy. I was rapidly becoming an expert at avoiding him in the halls at the ballet school. If I missed seeing his face, well, that was on my own stupid self for kissing him. I could blame the kiss on the moonlit walk or the high of winning at game night or my long dry spell, but in truth, I’d had an inconvenientattraction to Rudy from the start for reasons that baffled me. He was younger, geekier, and less connected to the professional ballet world than my usual type, yet those dimples and big brown eyes kept drawing me in until I’d been powerless to resist.
And now I was stuck slinking around in a foul mood, best kiss of my life on repeat in my brain, and not nearly focused enough on the upcoming performance.
“We need to discuss your variations.” Tavio pursed his lips as if he could sense my distractibility. He’d blocked out this rehearsal time before Victoria was due to arrive to work on my solo, and my back stiffened in anticipation of his next question, “How is the knee?”
“It’s fine.” We had around two weeks until tech week, and the time had arrived for deciding whether I’d do the standard variation I’d used for years with this choreography or if I’d need to adjust and water down the elements. According to my medical team, my knee was structurally sound with impressive progress in regaining my strength and mobility. Zero reason for any doubts at all, yet sweat gathered at the back of my neck.
“Fine? Or good?” Tavio prodded, expression as serious as my tone. It might be a holiday week with the schedule at the ballet school in disarray, but Tavio was elegant as ever in a crispy ivory shirt and black pants. “I’d prefer splendid or never better, honestly, but I’d take good.”
“It’s good.” I discarded my warm-ups—a sweatshirt and track pants—onto a chair in the corner of the studio. My muscles remained warm and loose from my earlier class, so I easily launched into the choreography. Each movement felt like an old friend, an intimacy born of years of repetition. The morning sun streamed in through the window, nature’s own spotlight for my demonstration. “See?”
“I see.” Tavio nodded slowly, but he didn’t sound entirely convinced. “No pain? Even with landing?”
“No pain.” I went into a series of jumps, more old friends, but there was a new distance between me and the movement, the barest of strain.
“Hmmm.” Tavio’s thoughtful noise revealed he’d noticed the same minute hesitation I’d been fighting against for weeks now. “But I can see you thinking, Alexander. Overthinking.”
“Apologies.” My voice turned formal, but my old mentor was having none of my brush-off.
“Don’t apologize.” He shook a long finger at me. “I rehabbed my share of injuries too. If you’re tight, maybe you need a little more time to get your mobility back?—”
“I’m not tight.” I shook my head. I wished it were as simple as a few more stretches or exercises added to my routine. “All the therapists at PT rave about my range of motion.”
“Ah.” Tavio put a hand on my shoulder, his knowing tone making me tense. “Doubts then. If you let fear take hold, the performance will suffer.”
“I know.” My long groan reflected the weight of my nearly three decades of dancing experience. “I’m not afraid.”
“Of course you are.” Tavio made a clucking noise, his sympathy almost worse than if he’d turned harsh and demanding. “The risk of reinjury isn’t nothing. Your career is on the line. You’re terrified. Who wouldn’t be? But you can’t let the fear stop you.”
“I’m not.” My tone took on a stubborn edge. I would dance the Cavalier. I would return to Seattle and to the stage.
Fear would not win, even if I did lie awake most nights thinking about reinjury, replaying the initial injury, turning over other, increasingly dire ways I could hurt myself. But more than all those doubts, more than fear, was my unquenchable desire to get back on stage. The long layoff had only cemented for me that there was nothing else on earth I’d rather be doing.
Kissing—My brain rudely tried to interrupt, and I shut down that line of thinking with an audible growl that made Tavio frown yet again.
“We would be fine with an easier variation?—”
“I would not.” I gave him my most regal stare, the one that dared him to object.
“All right. Again then.” Tavio motioned with his hand. “Make me believe.”
I attacked the variation again, each arabesque and jump, every take-off and landing, no element too small for my attention to perfection. Distant young laughter sounded from the hallway, and I used the noise as fuel, tapping into my past memory of how easy this choreography could feel, jumps included.
“Closer,” Tavio said as I finished. His praise was scant, but his expression had relaxed considerably, sparkle returning to his eyes and his smile coming more readily. “Take a breather, and we’ll go again.”
I strode to where I’d left my warm-ups, along with my water bottle and phone. I kept my phone on silent for rehearsal lest I catch Tavio’s wrath, so unsurprisingly, a stack of new messages greeted me. My Seattle director wanted to set up a time to talk about my readiness for the Valentine’s weekend performances. A pit of dread opened in my stomach, but I replied nevertheless. Too many others were waiting in the wings if I faltered. My dread only increased as I flipped to a series of messages from my mother about Thanksgiving, culminating in the most dire of warnings.
Just a reminder about the guest list for Thursday, darling. The whole Cole family is joining us because I didn’t want Margie to have to cook this year. I’ll need your help with chairs and setup.
