This Much Is True (21 page)

* * * *

Part 2 — FAILING

“
S
o, I love you because the entire universe conspired to help me find you.”~
Paulo Coelho -
The Alchemist

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Tally ~ The war is over

I
managed to keep it together on the plane all the way to LaGuardia and even hours later after we unloaded all our stuff in the rented apartment loft that Marla was able to land for the next six months through the still devoted Devon St. Claire. I managed to keep it together while we chose bedrooms and purchased groceries for our new place and shared a pizza. I managed to keep it together as we anointed our new life on our first late night in Manhattan by opening the bottle of expensive champagne that Devon sent over even as Marla shrugged and told me she’d talk to Devon later about her engagement to Charlie. I managed to keep it together the first time she called and talked to Charlie, letting him know that we had arrived safely, which directly wreaked havoc upon my psyche in reminding me all over again of his first cousin Lincoln Presley. I managed to keep it together long past midnight as the most horrendous day—since Holly’s death—finally ended and became another.

And another.

* * *

Our summer in Manhattan flies by with the swiftness of a Kaleidoscope--constantly shifting with each of life’s subtle turns. Time essentially blurs. My day-to-day existence and the vivid memory of one Lincoln Presley start to fade. I do everything I do all I can not to think of him.
Ever.

Our daily routines consist of dance classes and the follow-on rehearsals. We spend the majority of our waking hours trying to please (
or is it appease?
) SAB’s newly appointed director and our mentor, Allaire Tremblay. We do our best to anticipate her every whimsical need and perform our best in every class, at every rehearsal, and with every performance. We take turns fetching her coffee and getting her lunch from the deli nearby SAB, while, at night, Marla and I openly commiserate about Allaire Tremblay’s discernible disdain and indifference that she’s lavished upon the two of us in front of everyone since we got here.

Even after those first days when we first walked into the school of American Ballet with fresh enthusiasm and naiveté, Marla and I still focus upon setting up our new life together in Manhattan with almost concerted effort. We determine the best places to eat and be and somewhat eagerly drink in the sights and sounds of New York City (both literally as well as figuratively). We want a life here. We do. So we do our best to make it work and put the guys on the West Coast out of our minds.

By mid-August, we manage to find our way around to just about every place that two eighteen-year-old girls on their own need to go and develop a somewhat unforgettable love affair with all things related to New York City—the greatest city in the world.

In all these discernible ways, I manage to stay numb about Lincoln Presley and manage to keep it together mostly. I don’t think of him at all if I can help it. In this way, I manage to stay sane, mostly.

I don’t speak his name.
That helps.

I don’t cry.
That helps.

I focus on breathing.
That helps.

I focus solely on ballet.
That proves to be everything.

* * *

Tremblay moves slowly towards me inspecting and assessing like she always does these days. I cringe inward but try not to move at all while I continue to hold the arabesque the exacting way she expects me to. My leg muscles strain with the effort. I hold my breath trying to inspire my body to hang on to the difficult ballet pose, while Tremblay takes her time observing my form from every angle.

“What’s going on with you, Tally?”

I strain to hear her because she asks this so quietly.

“Not sure,” I respond still holding my breath. I hold the form, even after she tells me to relax. A full minute goes by before I acquiesce and step out of the pose and away from her.

“We have our last summer performance in less than three days, Tally. Three days! We should be working on refinement, and instead we’re rehearsing basic steps because
you
come to class exhausted and unprepared. Don’t argue! I can see it for myself. What’s going on with you?”

I turn away from her, catch my lower lip between my teeth. I bite down so hard that I soon taste blood. I’m afraid I’ll burst into tears or go into fiery rage in response to her open criticism in front of the entire class. Everyone looks at me with veiled sympathy, including Marla. There’s been too much pressure to be perfect and for the past couple of weeks, I’ve been far from perfect.
No.
I teeter upon the breaking point more than half the time now. It’s not like I didn’t know that working with Allaire Tremblay wouldn’t be so demanding; but what I didn’t expect is for my sister to die or that my unexpected break-up with Linc would continue to haunt me all these months later or that all the lies would eventually catch up to me and ultimately reveal a singular truth that I’m still unable to face even on this day.

In defeat, I gather up my things and start toward the door. “I’m sorry. I can’t
do
this today.”

“Talia,” Tremblay calls out to me. “It’s not time to go, yet. Class isn’t over.”

“It is for me.”

The heavy entry door clicks closed and cuts off her angry response and the surprised looks of all the dancers who watch me leave.

* * *

It’s two hours later when I hear Marla judiciously undo the four locks to our apartment located some ten blocks away from the dance school. Within a record three minutes, she slides in next to me on the sofa we fondly call ‘
red velvet
’ that we carted home from the second-hand store around the corner on one of those first days we spent here in New York.

Marla gives me the once-over. “Hey, what happened to you today? Tremblay was pretty pissed.” She gets this vexed look while a little crevice forms in the middle of her forehead.

“I don’t know. I just couldn’t do it today. Tremblay’s right. I’m exhausted. I came home and took a long nap.” Marla looks surprised, probably because I don’t take naps, and I don’t get tired because I never stop. “I feel a hundred percent better.”

“Good.” She nods, looking a little unconvinced. She puts her arm around me. “You push yourself too much. Sometimes, just backing off a bit actually improves everything.”

I nod at her simple assessment of my overly complicated life. “True,” I murmur striving for consolation of some sort for both of us.

We glance sideways at each other and eventually smile. It seems we’re both relieved by the shared camaraderie. Things have been tense between us for the past few weeks. Summer Term is about over. Tremblay has yet to post the coveted list for those students who will be invited back for Winter Term. For me, SAB’s Winter Term is the fall-back plan but Tremblay has become cagey about that, too. The coveted awarding of the NYC Ballet apprenticeships is expected to be announced soon, too.

Tense
. Things have been tense because all of it is highly competitive. I’ve begun to doubt myself. I think Marla has begun to doubt herself, too. There are only two open slots with NYC Ballet and limited ones for SAB’s Winter Term.

She and I want the same things—the apprenticeship with New York City Ballet—or, at the very least, Winter Term with the School of American Ballet.

It’s put a strain on our friendship and the two of us. For the first time, it appears neither one of us will get in. The dream feels too far away and out of reach for both of us.

Tense. Things have been tense.

I still refuse to talk about Linc and what happened. Marla has given up asking me about it. I’ve made a conscientious effort to display a modicum of happiness by doing less moping around the apartment. I smile to myself; maybe I’m moping less because I’m never here. I’ve pushed myself even more in the past few weeks by staying late and working on lifts and routines beyond SAB’s standard repertoire. I’ve been dancing with some of NYC Ballet’s Corps and principal dancers—the ones who sneak into the dance school’s building late at night—clamoring for more space, more solitude, and the never-ending quest for perfection.

Marla doesn’t know about these late-night rendezvouses. She’s been off doing her own thing—whatever that is. Rumors about the upcoming award of the two apprenticeships with New York City Ballet dominate all the dancers’ conversations. Everyone’s talking about it, except Marla.
No.
Instead, my roommate slash best friend does the bare minimum. She attends dance classes at SAB and shows up for rehearsals for our upcoming last performance where she’ll be dancing in the Corps like so many others. Yet it’s clear that her interest in what’s going on at SAB or even with the NYC Ballet’s apprenticeships wanes. I assume her attention centers on what Charlie Masterson has going on at UCLA, but now I wonder if it isn’t something else entirely.

“Sasha Belmont was there late last night…at SAB,” I say in an attempt to fill in the growing silence.

I have a mini crush on Sasha Belmont. She’s NYC Ballet’s artistic director and a former principal ballerina. She’s a star. She’s grounded. She’s encouraging. She’s so different from Tremblay. It would be a dream come true to work with her.

“She follows you around everywhere,” Marla says with a hint of a smile, while she absently picks at the loose thread on her fashionable denim skirt that she scored at some basement sale she went to last week.

“I think it’s just what she does this time of year,” I say diplomatically. “They’ll award the apprenticeships, and things will get back to normal soon enough. I think Tremblay has the Winter Term schedule just about lined up for SAB. I’m sure she’ll post it by the end of the week.”

Marla sighs. I look over in time to catch her rolling her eyes. Her lips part like she has more to say, but she seems to hesitate.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m not going to make it,” she says simply. “No Winter Term. No apprenticeship.” She glances at me sideways with this surprising, completely
at-peace-with-herself
expression and gauges my reaction.

“What are you talking about? That’s not true. You’ve had a couple of off days, but it’s nothing to worry about. Look at
me
today.” I groan at the memory of not doing it right and walking out of Tremblay’s last class in frustration “I didn’t have it together at all today, not even in pointe class early this morning. I was a mess. Everyone has an off day. It happens.” I reach for something encouraging to say, while Marla looks even more determined. “We’ll be doing
Midsummer Night’s Dream
this fall, and you love that one—”

“Tally,” she says softly. “I’m not going to make it. Tremblay told me that four days ago.”

“What? Why would she tell you that?”

“I asked her what she thought my chances were for the apprenticeship and even Winter Term at SAB. Tuition is due by the first of September. I needed to know so I asked.” She shrugs like this doesn’t matter to her in the least.

“Why wouldn’t she ask you back for Winter Term? That’s the plan. She knows that. She invited us here. She promised.”

Nothing is going as planned. How can this be?

“Tuition is almost six grand. I have better ways to spend the money. I gave it my best shot, but I can’t keep throwing it at more ballet classes,” Marla says. “Truthfully? I appreciated Tremblay’s honesty. It’s made my life and the decisions I’ve started to make a whole lot easier. Of course, she said she’d still try to work something out for Winter Term if a slot opened up. You know how things go. No slot is going to open up.” She sighs. “I’ve spent enough money on ballet and after being here and realizing all the sacrifices I would have to make, I can’t do it. I won’t do it. I don’t want to. I’m not like you, Tally. I’m not as gifted nor as incredibly talented as you are when it comes to ballet. I have to work ten times as hard as you do just to be in the Corps.”

She gets this resigned look and cocks her head to one side and studies my face. “Look, I ran into Rob Thorn a few weeks ago. He’s here in Manhattan. He’s tending bar at Dahlia’s on 5th at night. He told me the tips there are great for cocktail waitresses and…drum roll please…I got the job! I start this weekend.” She laughs like she’s just told me she’s won the lottery.

“Why would Tremblay tell you that you’re not going to make it? Why would you give up on ballet after all this time? And when did you become so chummy with Rob Thorn?”

“The apprenticeship is yours. It’s just a formality.” She waves her hand through the air dismissively. “They’ll be sending you a letter in the next couple of days or Sasha will hand deliver it herself. Everyone knows that. As for Rob? We’re just
friends.
” She gets this defiant look.

“What does Charlie think about all this?”

She shrugs and turns away. “We broke up four days ago. Let’s just say that he wasn’t too keen about the idea of me working with Rob or going to NYU. He thought I would go to UCLA and be with him. We’d been fighting.
Again
.” She frowns. “Because, let’s face it, trying to conduct a long-distance relationship over the phone is such a hopeless endeavor.” She tries to laugh. “Who would have known Lincoln Presley would be so right about that? Sorry,” she says when I glare at her.

We have a pact. We don’t talk about Linc. Ever.

“He said he needed an answer right then and there as to where he fit into my life and with everything going to shit for me with ballet, I didn’t have one.” Tears form on her lashes. She’s not completely pulling off the
it’s-all-for-the-best
act. “Well, it pissed him off enough that he hung up on me, and I haven’t heard from him since.”

She slowly nods when she sees me frown. “Yeah.” She sighs. “So right before pointe class this morning, I get a text from Cynthia Paulsen. She’s at UCLA now. She asked me if I’d broken up with Charlie because he asked her out for this weekend.”

“Oh, God. What did you tell her?” I ask, grabbing her hand. It trembles in mine even though her voice remains steady.

“I sent her a text back and told her she could have him.” Marla shakes her head and actually tries to laugh, but it sounds forced. “If he can throw away our relationship so easily, it must not mean that much to him.”

“You know he’s just doing this to get a rise out of you. He knows seeing another girl, who was at Paly with us, will get back to you somehow. He
knows
that. Like I said, he’s just trying to get a reaction from you.”

“Maybe.” She gets this wicked glint. “I sent his ring back to his mother this afternoon via FedEx.” Her smile fades a little and her eyes glint with tears again. “It just makes me more determined to pursue my dreams while I still can. Because marrying Charlie Masterson doesn’t hold as much appeal to me right now as going for what I really want. I’m going to be nineteen in a few months. I have my whole life ahead of me. I want to
live
it.” She moves her head side-to-side. “I don’t know what I was thinking getting engaged and thinking I’d marry Charlie next year. Crazy talk.”