Bunheads (11 page)

When we huddle together in the back corner, I hear all the girls panting around me. Though we might look like snowflakes, we are flesh-and-blood humans struggling to get enough oxygen. I smile at Bea, and she smiles back. Even though we’ve performed this part over a hundred times, there’s always something magical about the snow and the music, and about dancing with your friends.

It’s Christmas Eve, and instead of being home in Weston and eating take-out Chinese with my parents, I’m waiting for Bea to get out of the shower so we can go to Zoe’s apartment, where her mother will either be fashionably tipsy or be absent because she’s at some A-list party.

We only have tomorrow off, so most of us are staying in the city. At first I thought it would make me feel grown up and independent, but the more I think about it, the worse it makes me feel. I’d rather be eating wonton soup with my parents and then driving around the neighborhood to see all the crazy Christmas light displays. (There’s a guy up the block who puts a life-size Santa and all nine reindeer on his roof.) I want to eat the red-and-green pancakes my dad makes on Christmas morning, which are, he is always careful to point out, made in the spirit of irony.

To make myself feel a little less lonely, I send Jacob a text:

Merry almost-Xmas from a hardworking Snowflake.

A minute later he replies:
Bah! Humbug. I’m Jewish, remember?

I laugh. The fact that he wrote me back so quickly has to be a good sign.
Me too. Well, half. And I love Xmas.

So do I. I have Santas on my boxers.

Really?

Want to come check?

Ha-ha.

Figured out when we can hang out yet?

I think about this for a while. Maybe a date (and
not
more Pilates) is exactly what I need after the drudgery of
The Nutcracker.
I type:
Next week?

Ha! I get to turn YOU down. I’ll be in PR.

PR?

Puerto Rico, baby!

JEALOUS.

Then Bea comes out of the shower, wrapped in a towel that says
Acapulco
in big, bright letters. Her red hair drips, forming little pools of water on the floor.

“Nice towel,” I say. “Is that one of those ‘My nana went to Mexico and all I got was this lousy beach towel’ kind of things?”

She grins ruefully. “How’d you guess?”

My iPhone beeps.
You *should* be jealous
, Jacob writes.

I am
, I type.
But I gotta go. Have a good trip.

Bea pulls a sweater out of her theater case. “How’d you get ready so fast?” she asks.

I shrug. I’m wearing tight jeans, a mohair sweater, and a pair
of high-heeled boots I found at a West Village thrift shop. “I’m just efficient. Now hurry up, it’s late.”

“Sheesh! I’m coming, I’m coming,” she says, bending over to towel dry her hair.

“Sometimes I feel like we spend most of our time getting either dressed or undressed,” I observe. “I wish there were more hours in the day. Like, maybe twenty-eight of them.”

Bea makes an upside-down face at me. “Are you kidding me?” she asks. “I’m so pooped by the end of the day, I can’t
wait
to fall into bed.”

“I know. But I’d still like to have a little more time—to be a normal person, you know? To explore other things…”

Bea stands up straight, tosses her towel onto the floor, and then quickly buttons her blouse and pulls on a skirt. “Yeah, well, if you shatter your ankle, you could be a normal person by tomorrow.”

“Fair enough,” I say. I touch my ankle protectively.

It’s snowing when we leave the theater, and Bea and I have to maneuver over a gray snowbank to hail a cab.

“Are you kidding me?” I hear Bea wail, and I look over to see her knee-high boot partially submerged in an icy puddle. The wind snaps against our cheeks.

“Come on,” I say, and I grab her hand and pull her into the waiting cab, which feels as hot and steamy as an oven. We head east to Fifth Avenue as Christmas music plays on the cabbie’s radio.

Zoe lives in the kind of building where the doorman wears matching gloves and cap and stands outside even though the
temperature is below freezing. He greets us politely and wishes us happy holidays.

“I don’t blame Zoe for not getting her own place,” Bea says, marveling again at the grand, sparkling foyer.

“Me either,” I say. Her mother is never around, and the apartment has about a million rooms.

Bea is cursing her wet sock when the elevator door opens. Her freckled cheeks are pink from the cold.

“Hey, guys, come on in.” Zoe smiles sweetly. She’s wearing a simple red wool dress with tights, and her hair is still up in a bun from the show.

“You have snow in your hair,” Bea says as she removes a piece of paper snow from Zoe’s head.

Zoe sighs. “I found some in the silverware drawer yesterday. That stuff gets
everywhere
.”

Bea kicks off her boots and damp socks while I hand my parka to Gladys, the housekeeper. By the fireplace is an enormous Christmas tree dripping with iridescent crystals and white Christmas lights.

“You like our tree?” Zoe asks, following my gaze. “It got featured in
New York
magazine. Mom hired, like, an entire team of people to design and decorate it.” She plucks another piece of paper snow from her tights. “Seriously,” she says, sighing, “am I going to be picking this stuff off me for the rest of my life?”

“Or until you get promoted,” Bea says. The Pekingese—Dolly’s third in four years—nips at Bea’s feet.

“Down, Gucci!” a voice cries out, and Dolly appears in a black column dress with a large flute of champagne in her hand.
“Girls! Don’t you look cute! Bea, I don’t know why the boys aren’t throwing themselves at you. And Hannah, I had a pair of boots exactly like that once! I gave them to charity a few years ago. But really, welcome, all of you. Eggnog and cookies are by the tree.” She shoos us along with her thin, graceful fingers, which are dripping with diamond rings. I wonder idly if that’s how many proposals she’s received, or if she’s bought all those jewels for herself.

Gucci the Pekingese is now trying to lick Bea’s bare feet. The entire apartment is covered in cotton snow and dripping with crystals.

“It’s like they robbed the North Pole,” I whisper.

Bea giggles. “Or a window at Macy’s,” she agrees. “Zero sense of irony.”

Leni comes in from the dining room, scoops up Gucci, and waves the little dog’s paw. “Merry Christmas, girls!” she says in a German doggy voice. Her gold hair falls in waves well past her shoulders.

Daisy comes out of the kitchen holding a tray of cookies and a wonky gingerbread house that looks as if it might collapse at any minute. “Look what Leni and I made with Gladys!” she says with mock pride.

They both had the night off thanks to their alternates, and it seems that they’ve already gotten a little tipsy. Because of Emma’s pulled calf, I’ve been dancing every performance. And I’ve found paper snow in pretty much every item of clothing I own.

I ooh and aah over the gingerbread house as if it were some
rare artifact. “That’s very Frank Gehry,” I say, fingering the lopsided roof. “My dad would love it. He’s an architect.”

“I think it has Whitney Biennial potential,” Leni says, laughing.

“Totally,” I agree.

As we wander into the palatial living room, I notice Dolly tiptoeing past us and slipping out the front door in a pink chinchilla coat. She doesn’t even wave good-bye to her daughter. I don’t know why she still disappoints me after all these years—you’d think I’d be used to it. Zoe certainly is.

Zoe, Daisy, Leni, Bea, and I all huddle around the fireplace and sip eggnog. Gladys brings out silver platters with peanut brittle and sugar cookies shaped like the baby Jesus.

“Are
these
ironic?” Bea whispers as she bites into one of his feet.

We sink into the huge, plush sofas and watch
Miracle on 34th Street
on the wall-mounted flat-screen TV, which, when it’s not on, hides behind a screen that looks like a Jackson Pollock painting.

Before the movie is over, though, Zoe becomes impatient. “Let’s do presents!” she says, and so we all scoot down and sit on pillows in a circle on the floor.

The gift exchange was Leni’s idea; since she’s older, every once in a while she likes to get maternal on us. Bea gives everyone little bottles of bath salts, which are perfect for our aching bodies, especially during
Nutcracker
season. Leni gives us tins with German toffees, Daisy hands out mini lip gloss kits from Sephora, and Zoe—who could afford to go over the ten-dollar
limit—passes out Marc Jacobs key chains. I had made everyone an animal ornament out of Styrofoam balls and pipe cleaners and placed them inside little wooden boxes that I bought at the Columbus Circle crafts fair.

“What is mine?” Bea asks, holding it up.

I eye it. Honestly, it’s not easy to tell. “It’s a reindeer,” I say brightly.

“Oh,” she says. “Awesome.”

We’re busy examining our presents—Bea is trying on lip gloss while Daisy dangles her new key chain in front of Gucci’s nose—when Gladys comes in with a platter of chow mein and moo shu chicken. Suddenly I remember that I haven’t eaten any dinner, and I am so delighted I leap up and give her a big hug.

She pats me on the cheek. “I would have preferred a nice glazed ham, but Zoe insisted because this is your favorite,” she says.

I’m so touched that I dash back over to Zoe’s pillow, plop down on it, and give her a kiss on the cheek.

“Merry Christmas,” she says, laughing and shoving me away playfully.

And she’s right—it is.

“Here we go again,” Bea says as she throws her clean laundry into her theater case.

“Back to the salt mines,” I say cheerfully, which is something my dad used to say when he went to his office at the architecture firm on Monday mornings.

Today is the first day of winter season. On New Year’s Eve, we had our last performance of
The Nutcracker
, thank God. Then we had two days’ break—not nearly long enough to recuperate.

But at least it was long enough for the dressing room to get a thorough cleaning. Now it smells clean and piney, and our mirrors are no longer marred by fingerprints and smudges of makeup. The room looks as nice as it’s ever looked, and I wonder how long it’ll take us to destroy it again. Considering Bea’s leotards and tights are already spewing out of her theater case and piling up on the floor, I’m guessing about fifteen more
minutes. She might be the politest of us, but she’s also the sloppiest.

Daisy holds up her water bottle in a toast. “Finally some real repertory!” she cries.

“Amen,” says Bea as she wads a pair of leg warmers into a ball.

I hear my phone vibrate with a text, and I dig for it in my bag. I’m hoping it’s Jacob, but it’s not—it’s Matt.

Merde
on your first day of winter season!

Merde
, which is French for “shit,” is the dancer’s equivalent of “break a leg.” I smile to myself and toss my phone onto the countertop.

“So what are your New Year’s resolutions?” Daisy wants to know. “I want to wear my size twenty-four jeans by March.”

Bea says, in all seriousness, “I’m going to read
War and Peace
.”

“Good luck with that.” I laugh.

She shoots me a look. “Why, just because you can’t finish
Frankenstein
, which I’m pretty sure you’ve been trying to read since last summer?” she teases. “Anyway, I’m also going to get a boyfriend, or at least go on a date.”

“Now,
that
I can get behind,” I tell her. “And for your information, I’m three-quarters of the way through the book.”

“Zoe?” Daisy asks. “What about you?”

Zoe is busy lining up all the new makeup she bought at Bergdorf’s. She looks up. “I don’t believe in New Year’s resolutions,” she says, grinning slyly. “Because, really, what could I possibly change? I’m perfect as I am.”

“You could drink more water and less Diet Coke,” Daisy
says, “as I’m always telling you. That would be a good resolution. And you could also quit smoking.”

Zoe scoffs as she experimentally swipes blue eye shadow over her lids. “Whatever,” she says, sounding bored.

Daisy turns to me. “Han?”

“Um,” I say, stalling for time. My sole New Year’s resolution is to get promoted, but I’m not going to announce
that
to the room. “Eat more kale?” I offer.

Daisy rolls her eyes. “Clearly only Bea and I take this sort of new beginning seriously,” she says. “Dr. Shapiro says that voicing your intentions is an important part of manifesting your dreams.”

Dr. Shapiro is Daisy’s therapist, whom she’s been seeing since she started at the MBA. I don’t know many sixteen-year-olds with a personal shrink on call, but if I had a crazy stage mother like Daisy’s, I’d want a therapist, too.