Bunheads (22 page)

But back at home in my apartment, my mood shifts again. The bath has filled—Epsom salts, a little lavender essential oil—and I’ve sunk into it. I lean back and close my eyes so I don’t have to look at the hideous turquoise paint on the walls. In the warm water, I can feel my spine lengthening, my quads releasing some of their tension. I hum to myself, some melody my mother used to sing to me.

The Epsom salts hiss as they dissolve, and I sink deeper into the water.

The phone rings, but I don’t answer it.

I’ve placed one of my oldest pairs of ballet slippers on the bathroom shelf so I can stare at them. The leather is cracked and faded, and what used to be a lovely pink is now the color of Silly Putty. But I don’t throw them away, because they remind me of when I first fell in love with dance. I was nine years old, and I took classes three times a week at the Boston Ballet School.

One day when we were practicing tendus at the barre, I began to imagine that I was a robot, and danced with very sharp, precise movements. I have no idea where this idea came from; I
only know that as I danced, I pictured a robot in my mind and tried to move exactly as it did. I imagined my arms being made out of aluminum, my torso out of steel. When I moved, I pretended I was slicing through the air like a knife.

The teacher stopped the class and pointed to me with her impossibly long finger. I felt my cheeks flush—I was in trouble, for sure. But then she turned back to the rest of the class. “Everyone watch Hannah,” she said to the other little girls. “I want you to move
just like her
.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. After that day, my teacher started paying extra attention to me, and the following year the artistic director of the Boston Ballet offered to give me private lessons. That was unheard of: Imagine, the director of a premier ballet company taking the time to teach a ten-year-old girl variations from
Giselle
and
Raymonda
.

When I took them from their box, the slippers smelled like the cedar sachet I keep in there with them. They seemed tiny.

What happened to that girl who dreamed only of dancing? I wish I could talk to that girl right now. I wonder if she’d tell me not to lose hope. Because a single compliment from Annabelle can’t erase the built-up frustration—not by a long shot.

I sit up in the bath and look down at my breasts. They’re pretty much the same size they always were—which is to say, they’re bigger than Otto would like them to be.

“It’s not your fault,” I say to them, and then sink even deeper into the bath.

“Did you hear?” Zoe asks, trying to sound calm even though she’s obviously upset. “Eliza and Olivia got promoted to soloist.” She slams a new pointe shoe in the door to break it in, which is also a good way to take out frustration. “Soloist!”

“What, are you serious?” I practically yell, forgetting for a moment that I’m supposed to be happy for my peers. These are girls like me—ones who have been toiling in what we all thought was perpetual frustration. It’s a monumentally huge deal and, for Olivia and Eliza, the accomplishment of a lifetime. “Just out of the blue like that?” I ask. “Olivia hasn’t had a solo in months.”

“Actually, she has,” Bea points out, but I ignore her. I’m in shock, as is everyone else. Daisy gathers up a handful of quarters and then vanishes. Zoe brushes her hair furiously for a few moments before going out for a cigarette.

“I mean, that’s great for them, it really is,” I say, trying hard to feel it. I close the lid of my theater case and then open it again agitatedly.

“It is,” Bea insists.

Olivia and Eliza peer in the door to our dressing room. Olivia’s little pixie face is glowing with pleasure, and though Eliza is smiling, she still looks dumfounded. “I can’t believe it,” she keeps saying. Her voice is almost a whisper. “I thought I’d be in the corps forever. I can’t believe it.”

And in a way, neither can I. We were Swans in
Swan Lake
together, and Snowflakes in
The
Nutcracker
, and now they’re getting the recognition each one of us deserves.

“Congratulations, you guys,” I say. “That’s so amazing.” I do my best to sound sincere.

“And no more dancing Snow!” Bea cries. “You guys are so lucky.”

But even Bea sounds like she’s faking it.

Eliza and Olivia smile, thank us, and accept quick hugs. Then they go down the hall to their own dressing room.

I
am
happy for them—but I’m also disappointed for myself. Bea and I sit at our spots, quietly digesting the news, both of us lost in our own thoughts. After a while I feel restless, and I collect all my makeup brushes and take them into the bathroom. One by one, I wash them against my palm with some hand soap.

“Honestly,” I say over the running water, “how did Olivia manage to get noticed?” The water runs pink, then brown, then purplish brown. “She’s not exactly a standout.”

“Yeah, she is kind of dull,” Bea allows.

I lay the brushes delicately on a pile of paper towels and then carry them back to my spot.

“But she’s consistent. And she’s, like, always around,” Bea says as she inspects her fingernails.

“And what about Eliza?” I ask as I squeeze each brush with a paper towel and place it on my counter.

“Well, she’s been getting demi and soloist roles on and off for years,” Bea offers as Zoe comes in, smelling like smoke.

“I’ll bet it’s her new, blonder hair, courtesy of Oscar Blandi. That and the fact that she started dating Sam,” Zoe says confidently.

“God, you’re cynical,” Bea says as she picks at the label on her water bottle.

“I like to think of myself as a realist.” Zoe purses her lips in the mirror and turns her face from side to side.

Leni comes in, smiling, with her yoga mat rolled under her arm. “Hey, ladies!” Then her voice drops. “Oh… I see you’ve heard the news.”

“Is it that obvious?” I say. I look over at Bea, who’s opening and closing her water bottle again and again, as if in a daze. Even Zoe looks defeated.

With a jerk of her wrist, Leni unfurls her yoga mat, and pretty soon she’s balanced on her hands, with one leg sticking straight out behind her and the other resting on the backs of her bent arms.

“Side crow variation,” she grunts, before anyone can ask her. “Nothing clears the mind like a partial inversion. Except a full inversion, of course.”

Daisy enters the dressing room, her eyes slightly red and swollen, and drops a bag of Cheetos onto the floor. She’s wearing Caleb’s faded Mets T-shirt over her leotard. “I can’t believe it! Olivia? What did she do to deserve a promotion?”

Zoe turns on her, green eyes flashing. “Why, do you think
you
should have gotten it? Because let me remind you that we were all busting our asses here while you were still in diapers. Don’t act so entitled—you’re sixteen years old.”

“It’s obvious that you’re just jealous because Otto pays attention to me. And for your information, I’ll be seventeen in two months, and Mai was promoted when she was seventeen!” Daisy says hotly, stamping her little foot.

Leni falls out of her pose onto her mat. “Honey, can you lower your voice? My chakras are all off kilter.”

“Screw your chakras!” Daisy yells as she waves her fist in the air.

Leni stares up at Daisy with a look of concern, and then she breaks into a wide, beautiful smile. Daisy scowls at Leni, but eventually she begins to chuckle, and pretty soon she throws her head back and makes this weird choking, guffawing sound. I’m not sure if she’s laughing or crying; it’s probably a combination of both.

After a few moments she stops, gasping a little. “I can’t believe I just ate all those Cheetos!” she cries. “I’m going to have to skip dinner for the next four days.”

“Cut off an arm,” Zoe suggests. “That’ll knock off seven pounds, easy.” She snickers, trying to stifle a laugh, and I snort under my breath.

Daisy starts to pace the room. “Or should I try South Beach again?”

Even Bea is laughing now as Daisy goes on and on about cleanses, fasts, and crazy diets. After a while, Daisy looks up, sees that we’re laughing, and starts laughing again herself. “Oh, listen to me!” she cries. “I sound like a crazy person! Tell me to shut up!” By now even Leni is howling with laughter.

I look around the room—at the drying leotards and tights hung on every available hook and bar, at the pictures of celebrities’ fashion mistakes, at the theater cases spilling onto the floor, and at my friends’ faces. There’s something kind of amazing about being able to laugh together like this when we are all so utterly disappointed and frustrated. Finding humor in the situation binds us.

But to be honest, it’s not only that I feel a sudden wave of affection for these people that I’ve grown up with and struggle with daily. I realize that if Olivia and Eliza can be promoted, there is hope for me, too, and for all of us older girls. After all, Annabelle just told me that I was doing better. All I have to do is choose to focus. To give everything to dance again.

The roof of the theater is a sooty, windswept place. My hands shoved deep in my pockets, I walk to the corner overlooking the plaza where the boys come to smoke. There’s a single folding chair next to a bucket filled with sand.
Park your butts here
, the bucket reads, but still the roof is littered with the remains of
Camels and Marlboros. If Otto ever came up here, he’d have a conniption. “This?” he’d yell. “
This
is how you treat the roof above your heads?”

I sit down on the chair and put my feet on the edge of the bucket. The wind picks up, and I notice a few snowflakes falling slowly from the sky. I look up in surprise; snow is rare in March. I pull my hat down tighter over my head and watch as the flakes melt against the asphalt roof.

Back and forth, back and forth, I flex and point my feet. I lift my right leg and turn out my thigh. I lift my left leg, too, and feel my core engage as I balance on my hands on the cold metal seat of the chair. I can feel the tremble in my arms as I support my weight. Then I push myself up to stand and move to the edge of the roof. The snow comes down silently and more steadily.

I pretend I’m waiting in the wing—that I can hear the violins and the cello over the sound of the traffic below. I piqué arabesque with my arms circling into fifth, one at a time, and then tombé and lean backward, looking at the sky. Snowflakes melt against my cheeks. I glissade and balancé turn slowly, then piqué arabesque, chassé, tour jeté. The air loses its chill as I continue to dance. The snowflakes spiral around me as if they, too, are dancing.

I hear a creak, and the door swings open. Jonathan stands at the threshold, an unlit cigarette in his mouth. His light brown hair is flopping into his eyes, and he could use a shave. His blue eyes widen when he sees me.

“What in the world are you doing, darling?” he says, stepping onto the roof.

I stop short, horrified at being caught. My breath comes fast and light. “What does it look like?” I bend over and put my hands on my knees. I realize how strange I must look, dancing in tights, sneakers, and a winter coat, all alone on a rooftop.

“
Metamorphoses.
And it looks pretty good.”

I can’t help but smile. “Thanks.”

“Suicide stick?” he asks, holding the pack out to me.

I shake my head. “No, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.”

I walk past him as he lights his cigarette and takes a deep drag.

“You really got some air on that tour jeté,” he calls, and I wave.

On the other side of the heavy iron door, the staircase is dim and warm. I hurry back down to the dressing room. Rehearsal starts in twenty minutes.

My body hums from its exertions. I think about the adagio in
Metamorphoses
and the string section in
Tschaikovsky Suite No. 1
; I think about how thrilling performing can be. The thought of saying good-bye to it all suddenly feels awful and terrifying.

Knowing this, I feel an enormous sense of relief.

“I’m home, I’m home,” I whisper.

I bump into Leni on the way to rehearsal. She opens the door for me as we enter the studio.

“You know,” I tell her, “I think this is a good thing. The promotions, I mean. Am I crazy? Because I feel kind of hopeful.”