Lovers' Dance (6 page)

FOUR

“YOU’RE OUT OF sync, Madi,” Dante yelled from the back of the room. I stuck my tongue out at him in the mirrored wall and he shook a hand at my reflection. Dante was my best friend and co-owner of our small dance company. I’d secretly been harbouring a crush on him since I was ten years old. He was two years older than me and we’d grown up together back home in New York. Two days after my sixth birthday, my parents had been killed in a horrific car crash that I had miraculously survived.

“Focus, Madi. For crying out loud, I swear your technique’s been slipping ever since we moved to England.”

I tried to focus but my mind was elsewhere, and I knew he was bullshitting me. My technique wasn’t slipping. I was distracted. The reason for my distraction had been the long distance call I received from my aunt last night. Auntie Cleo is my dad’s sister. I’d never met her before my parents’ funeral. I still remember it as clearly as if it were yesterday. She’d turned up at King’s Cross Hospital where I was being cared for. Speaking with her fast accent, she informed me she was my aunt and I would be living with her from now on. I was scared, unable to process that Mommy and Daddy wouldn’t ever be coming back for me. And she talked different. When she told me we would be leaving England, the place I’d been born, well, tantrum wasn’t the word to describe the fit I had given. Aunt Cleo didn’t mess around. She told me to stop being a baby and ‘act right’. Then the doctors discharged me into her care and we went to the funeral. The next day I was on a plane to New York with this energetic, outrageous woman next to me listing everything she expected from me. I still remember her words.

“Now, Madison, New York is very different from London. Your daddy, God rest his soul, may have spoilt you but there’s none of that in my house. You do as you’re told without sass and you better respect me, little lady. Your momma was a feisty one. Because of her, me and your daddy fell out. I tell you, that mother of yours was a troublemaker, and if you don’t act right you’ll be sorry. You’ll be starting school with your cousin next week and I expect you to get good grades. Education is the key. Your daddy sheltered you, but I don’t have the time for that. You’ll have chores to do, and I am not going to be running around after you. My house, my rules, little lady. Aww, now don’t cry, sweetie. It won’t be that bad. New York is much better than London, you’ll see. Come here, let Auntie Cleo give you a cuddle. You still like dancing? Your daddy, God rest his soul, told me three Christmases ago you started ballet. That was the last time I spoke to him, you know. My little brother, gone, just like that. Only God knows. Now stop crying, Madison. You’re disturbing that nice man next to you. If you behave and show me you can be a good little girl, I’ll find ballet classes for you. Would you like that? Wipe your nose and go to sleep, it’s a long way to New York. Lord have mercy, you look like your mother with that wild hair. At least it’s nice and curly. Maybe we’ll get it permed when you get older. Oh, don’t start with that noise again…”

Ah, the memories. One of the worst days of my life that was. Being on a plane for the first time with a stranger who said she was my aunt. But it all turned out okay.

“All right, take a break everyone,” Dante called in frustration. “Madi’s butchering my choreography. For someone who looks so graceful, she moves like an elephant with cement feet.”

Some of the other dancers laughed. I laughed, too. Dante and I were close, everyone knew that. In fact, we were all a close-knit unit, like family. His insults were given with affection. I deliberately sashayed over to where he stood holding out a bottle of water for me. Dante was the perfect specimen of a black Adonis. Smooth dark skin covering an athletic dancer’s body, with a face that gave me a thrill of butterflies whenever I looked at him. Yeah, I was crushing on him bad. You’d have thought after so many years of him not noticing me, I would have gotten over it, but no, I still secretly believed one day we would get together.

“You want to explain what that was on my dance floor?” he asked. Dark brown eyes showed a hint of temper.

“Our dance floor, and I was doing exactly what you showed me, Dante.”

“Uh huh.” He didn’t sound convinced.

“Auntie Cleo called me last night,” I divulged. Dante sighed and shook the bottle of water at me. I took it and drank some.

“What did she want? Wait, let me guess,” he mocked. “She wants to know why you’re wasting your money on a pipe dream and why, you can’t accept if you couldn’t make it on the New York circuit, things will be different here. She probably mentioned the only reason why you sunk all your money in this place was because no dance company over here thought you were good enough to employ, and you still can’t get it through that thick skull of yours that no one wants a black principal ballerina. Of course, she would’ve mentioned that your lack of talent has spoilt my chances of becoming a big name dancer back home because you convinced me to come over here with you, and my mother won’t stop blaming her for that. You know, Madi, I think your aunt has got a thing for me.”

“Shut up,” I muttered and shoved his arm. “That was not the reason she called me.”

Dante scoffed, and I amended my statement. “Well, it wasn’t the only reason she called.”

He rested his hands on my shoulders and began to expertly knead the knots away. We had been dancing the past six hours straight. “Why did she call?”

“She needs money—”

“No,” Dante immediately ground out.

“She’s my aunt.”

“Like I give a fuck. Madi, you don’t owe her anything anymore.”

“Uncle David had some issues with the construction company, again, and she’s sick, Dante. You know what her blood pressure is like.”

“And her own damn kids?” Dante was getting pissed. “What exactly are your cousins doing to help their own mother?”

I shrugged, not wanting to get into that discussion. “It’s not as much as the last time. I shouldn’t have told you.”

Dante squeezed my shoulder blades. “You told me because you know I would’ve found out anyway. Why are you letting her guilt you? She’s a grown-ass woman with two grown-ass kids. She is not your responsibility.”

“If I can help—”

“Have you seen the last light bill for this place, Madi? We’re haemorrhaging cash. I told you last month we’re going to have to increase the fees for the weekend dance classes—”

“We can’t do that, Dante. Some of the kids who take those classes can barely afford it.”

“Madi,” he cajoled.

“No.”

“We don’t have a choice unless you can miraculously reduce our overhead, find us rich folks to back our latest production, and pay off the remaining mortgage on this place. We’re bleeding money, sweet cheeks. I’m starting to get worried.” He looked it, a furrow between his eyebrows forming. At his mention of rich folks, I thought of Matt. It had been two months since that night I was attacked. Alexi was no longer my friend, she had ditched me that night and deserved some of the blame. Two months since I had stupidly offered myself to him. Two long months since I’d experienced the most exquisite pleasure; my own manual manipulations weren’t the same. Sometimes I thought about him, like when I was in the shower, or snuggled in my small bed clutching my oversized stuffed animals. Most of the times he was a distant memory, the one nice thing of a horrible night which I had almost blocked out.

“We’ll manage,” I murmured, staring at the far corner of the main dance room. The flooring was a bit uneven there. I prayed we wouldn’t have to redo the whole floor.

Right before my eighteenth birthday, my aunt had gotten a call from a lawyer based in London, notifying her of a trust fund that had been set up in my name on behalf of my long- deceased parents. The man was Geoffrey Kincaid. He’d been a friend of my dad. Upon my birth, my parents overwhelmed and scared about my future wellbeing, like any new parents, had taken out two substantial life policies in case anything happened to them before I was old enough to look after myself. It was a security blanket. They probably never thought it would be necessary. I mean, who expects to be ploughed into by a drunk truck driver with your six- year-old kid in the backseat? Anyway, they had died and, Mr Kincaid, who was named on the policy to act in my interests, had taken half of those funds and placed them in a trust fund for me. The other half he’d shrewdly invested on my behalf, increasing the overall amount that I had inherited. I think he did it because he missed my dad. Maybe it was his way of honouring their friendship. I don’t know. I did know that my aunt hit the roof on learning she’d been taking care of me out of her own pocket, when there was a nice little nest egg she could have used over those years to maintain me. Hence, the guilt I felt whenever she asked for money.

Mr Kincaid had flown to New York four months after I’d turned eighteen and made me sign legal documents. Then he gave me a slick business card and said, if I ever visited England, to come see him. I had tucked away his card, numb from the papers I had signed that put me in a seven digit net worth bracket. I had trained at SAB, School of American Ballet, the best freaking ballet institution in my eyes. Dante had too, and we’d both been accepted to a prestigious ballet company, along with a few other SAB graduates. At first, it was a dream come true. I was an accomplished ballerina, an honest-to-God ballerina. It didn’t take long for Dante and me to move out of the corp and start having bigger parts in productions. But I began to realize that Dante was moving at a much faster pace than I was, that girls who weren’t as talented as me were getting the parts I should have gotten. I worked harder for a couple more years. Then, one opening night before another major production, our ballerina principal took me aside. She had a soft spot for me, and she saw how upset I was over not getting a bigger part. She pulled me backstage and said, “Madi, honey, I’m saying this because you’re a sweet kid and you’ve got talent. But look around you; there have only ever been eleven
prima ballerina assoluta
, and none of them were black. How many black prima ballerinas have you seen? Ballet is still very much a white person’s world, honey. It’s wrong, but it is the way it is. Don’t set yourself up for heartbreak, honey. Besides, the black body type isn’t best suited for ballet.”

My heart had been broken; at first, I didn’t want to believe her. But after another failure to land a starring role, I began to see the truth. Few ballet companies wanted a black prima ballerina. The patrons might not like it. Even though I worked twice as hard, even though I gave everything and more wanting to prove her wrong, in the end, I realized she was right. That had been a low point for me and giving up seemed like the only option.

Dante, my sweet Dante, wouldn’t let me. We’d been friends forever, used to talk about how we would take the world by storm, how we would be classed as two of the top ballet dancers and people would line up to see us perform. Dante could’ve done it; he was exceptional, literally embodies beauty when he performed. He was becoming extremely well known beyond the New York circuits, held so much promise, but he gave it all up for me. I remember that night we were going to the movies, and he suddenly hugged me tightly and said, if they wouldn’t take me, then they couldn’t have him, that we would go somewhere else where I could achieve my dream. And the decision had been made to move here because of my ties to England. Turned out things here were exactly the same as the States. That was a little over three years ago.

We decided to start our own ballet company. Fuck the haters. We wanted people, any colour but especially black, to have the opportunity to learn ballet, to not be excluded because you weren’t white or you’re expected to stick with sports because that’s what black people are good at. We integrated all different types of dance into our choreography, to show our dancers it doesn’t have to be just one, but that all dance is beautiful. And everyone with the ability, no matter your race, can live their dream of dancing. At least that’s what we’re working towards. Geoffrey Kincaid had helped us buy this place, had sorted out the legalities to help us realize our goals. He never charged us a penny, saying my dad would’ve done the same if their roles had been reversed.

I broke out of my trip down memory lane and focused on now. If we had to raise the fees, many of the poorer kids who took dance lessons would have to give up. I didn’t want that to happen.

“I’ll tell her no this time. You’re right. I can’t afford to send her more money,” I finally said.

Dante didn’t respond. He gave me a resigned look and rubbed my shoulders. It was more than apparent he had no faith in me turning down my aunt Cleo. Most of the money I inherited had been sunk into this place. I owned my small terrace, but the unhealthy status of my bank account had me toying with the idea of selling the place. I could convert one of our storage rooms into a living space. Nothing wrong with sleeping standing up. I didn’t really need a kitchen, did I?

“I’m working on something new,” Dante said. I welcomed his change of topic. Thinking of Aunt Cleo was depressing.

“Are you? Do you want my help?”

Dante pulled me into a quick friendly hug and my heart went pitter-patter. When would he fall in love with me? I was getting tired of waiting.

“You know I’m always better when we dance together.” He grinned at me and tugged on my ponytail. “I hate when your hair is straight. You rock your curls so well.”

I screwed my face up at him. “It’s called a Brazilian blow dry and it’s not permanent. I’ll be back to rocking a ’fro in a couple of months. It’s summer. My head gets hot.”