Tiny Pretty Things (21 page)

“Showtime,” he says, his voice clear and warm in my ears, even through the din of the crowd backstage. “I’m honored to be your partner.”

Leaning back onto one knee, he does a little bow, and I grin at him. “I’m glad to be your partner,
too,” I say, extending my hand to lift him up. He kisses it as he rises, pulling me back into his arms.

“And I’m hoping,” he says, whispering now, even though we’re so close, even though everyone else has fallen away, “that you might think I can be something more than just, you know, your
pas
partner.”

Is he asking what I think he’s asking? The heat flushes through my cheeks and neck and chest, warming me from head to toe. “I’m hoping,” he says, his mouth hot on my ear, “that you might be my girlfriend.” He’s nervous, which I’ve never seen before.

And I look up into the ocean of his eyes and nod. He pulls a small box from inside his jacket. Red and tiny, with a golden ribbon embracing it. Like the presents under the Christmas tree on the far corner of the stage.

I can’t help but laugh as we both plop down on the floor in our resplendent costumes and I tear into the box. Backstage hands call for the ten-minute curtain warning for the second act. But we don’t stop. Inside, nestled in white tissue paper, is a tiny rose charm, just the size of my pinky nail, made of gold, complete with a little stem and even thorns.

“For you,” he says. “For luck.” And that’s when he finally kisses me again.

Minutes later, like in a dream, the music is playing and I’m waiting in the wings. Backstage is charged with tension. The other dancers tiptoe behind me, coming on and off stage in preparation for my entrance. My palms shake and tiny beads of sweat seep into my costume. I feel their eyes and their worries:
Will I mess up?

My muscles quiver. Thousands of other ballerinas from all over the world have worn this costume and danced this role. I hope I can dance the part as well as them. I fluff out the skirt, just as the costume mistress Madame Matvienko did. Alec’s rose sits in the folds of plum-colored tulle. I sewed it into the lining of my costume. I haven’t stopped twirling it between my thumb and forefinger. I dust my shoes in rosin one last time to make sure I don’t fall.

June passes by, ready to enter with the rest of the corps. I feel her eyes skate over me on her way onstage. She looks beautiful and willowy, and I wish we were closer. I wish we were close enough to hug each other. She gazes over at me. I nod at her, and she nods back. “Break a leg,” I mouth.

“You mean
, merde.
” She flashes me a slight smile.

I give her one back and turn away. I try to focus on nothing else but my performance. We’ve all worked for weeks on these roles, all day long, and just for six minutes onstage. Six minutes to show the ballet masters what you’ve learned. Ballet must be picture perfect, and when you make a mistake, a trained eye can spot it.

Outside ballet school, there are so few professional jobs. Famous companies already have their principals and soloists, and may only have room for you in the corps, where you have to work through the ranks. You have to love it, and dance your way in. For me, dance was just always about the flow, the movement, the passion. But now, I want to zip through the ranks. Being onstage makes it all worth it.

I don’t know what to do with my hands. I smooth the edges of my perfect bun, my curls
blown-out into sleek perfection. The jeweled tiara digs into my scalp. I try not to lick off my lipstick. I hear Morkie in my head: “If you are nervous in the wings, then you will have a great performance.”

The first time I was ever onstage, I was six and dancing a peasant child in
Sleeping Beauty,
with my curls flying free. I remember sleeping in my costume for days leading up to the show and obsessing over each little step. My old ballet teacher had said the difference between a good dancer and a true ballerina is that a ballerina must be perfect—like a doll come to life, made just for the stage.

I will be a doll.

I will be a fairy.

I peek out from behind a curtain, but can’t see anything beyond the stage. The audience is bathed in darkness, but I feel their eyes watching. I’ve never danced for this many people before. It feels strange to be dancing for more than two thousand people. I shake out my arms and legs. The audience’s applause hits me in waves. I hear a girl whisper my name, as if I don’t know that this is it, the moment I finally take center stage.

It’s a party and the Nutcracker Prince is introducing little Clara to all the wonders in the Land of Sweets. And I am one of them. I will present myself to the audience and the other dancers. Large jewel-like lights bathe the stage.

My music starts—little droplets of sound fill the stage. I listen to the chiming melody and feel the musical phrases. I want to dance on top of those notes. I smooth my costume and tiptoe onstage. The lights warm my skin, erasing my nerves. The tension disappears and I’ve stepped onto a different plane—one where I am no longer Gigi but the Sugar Plum Fairy.

I jump onto my toes. My feet sync with the music, and my body glides. As I throw myself into the motions, I don’t see the others anymore. I blend with the music and the movements. My arms are elegant lines of muscle over my head. I keep my head up, only watching my shadow to ensure I look perfect. I smile at the audience even though it’s hard to breathe and sweat drips down my back.

My solo ends. I curtsy and hear the roar of applause. I recognize Mama’s whistle. I hold a grin and move to the side, while Alec comes center stage. My chest heaves and I try to catch my breath without being seen. My heart is flailing, thumping in my chest like a bird caught in a cage, wanting to be wild again. We’re supposed to be ethereal beings onstage, even through the most tiring variations. But now I’m spent. I double over, trying to find more oxygen. The tightness is cutting to my euphoria, the lack of air causes my muscles to twitch and spasm. I will my heart to slow, to calm. I want to enjoy this moment, not fight my own body. I breathe and count, breathe and count, and finally the rhythm finds itself and slows. I’m still overwhelmed with emotion and fatigue and bliss. But I only have a few minutes until Alec presents his hand to me.

We perform our
pas
, his hands holding me at every turn, supporting me during every lift. I feel the heat in his hands on my waist when he lifts me, experiencing his touch everywhere—my legs, my arms, my fingers, my toes—like the way the warmth of a shower hits you all at once. When he lifts me, his long fingers move beneath my tutu. I try not to shiver. I bat my eyelashes at him and throw
coy looks his way as we nail each gesture, making it look like we’ve been dancing together our whole lives. His clever hands anticipate my every move and I fold easily into his arms without hesitation.

And then it’s over. The ballet ends and the curtain goes up for bows, each group of dancers taking their turn before the audience. Alec and I wait in the wings holding hands. My fingers knit into his. Shaky from fatigue and excitement. “You ready for this?” he whispers.

“Yes,” I say. I place my other hand on my chest, willing my heart to slow. My head feels light, and I try to hold on to everything going on around me.

“You were perfect,” he says, before pulling me back on the stage for our final bows.

We shuffle across and everyone makes room for us. We are last to go to the front and present ourselves to the audience. We curtsy, then turn to our ballet masters and do the same. They nod and clap and shout bravo.

A tiny
petit rat
tiptoes out with a bouquet of flowers for me. I hug her and she squeezes my waist tight. The crowd thunders, their roars vibrating the stage. Everything blurs around me like I’m caught up in the currents of a tornado. Suddenly, Alec twirls me, making the audience clap even louder. I blush and smile with embarrassment. Then he pulls me into a kiss. The crowd erupts.

I lose my grasp on the flowers, letting them tumble to the stage. His mouth is soft and wet, his tongue tastes like a chocolate mint. It’s like the kiss we shared before, except this one isn’t private. This is for the world to see, and I no longer have the spasm of worry about whether he might still be in love with Bette instead of me. I don’t hear the crowd anymore. I don’t hear the dancers around us. I hear my heart and his and I feel that pulse race between my legs again. I fold into him, and lose myself in that one perfect moment, knowing how very, very rare this kind of joy is.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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SPRING PERFORMANCE:
GISELLE

      
Cast

      
Major Soloist Parts

      
Giselle
: Giselle Stewart

      
Giselle Understudy
: E-Jun Kim

      
Bathilde
: Bette Abney

      
Count Albrecht
: Alec Lucas

      
Queen Myrta
: Eleanor Alexander

      
Willis
:
Sophmore corps de ballet

      
Willis Soloists:
E-Jun Kim, Sei-Jin Kwon

      
Hilarion
: Henri Dubois

      
Prince of Courland
: William O’Reilly

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

THE SPRING CAST LIST WENT
up twenty-four hours ago and I have taken exactly five pills since then, blowing through the last of the new ones I just got. I ignore the pills’ side effects: my pounding heartbeat, the shakes in my hands, the dry mouth. I can deal, because I need them, their odd mix of peace and razor-sharp focus. Mr. K put the cast up superearly this year—the last week of January instead of mid-February, like usual. He says it’s so we have more time, but the whole thing is a mistake. And now, there’s nothing to think about but the slow ruination of my life.

But the pills did make me dance like the floor was fire and I was the flame. Not that anyone is watching, of course. The Russians have stopped paying particular attention to me.
Poof!
Just like that after all these years. And Alec rubbed Gigi’s shoulders the entire time, which I guess means they’re officially together.

Eleanor’s no help. She just stretched and watched her body in the mirror, as if she’d never seen it before. Which maybe she hasn’t, in its new glory. She must have lost five pounds over winter break, and muscles have popped up in her legs that I don’t think were there before. Winter break was a blur of disappointment for me, filled with endless hours of TV stupor and avoiding the calorie-laden crap my mother always fills the kitchen with. I worked out with Adele during the break at the gym with
her trainer. And my mother paid one of my former ballet madams, pushed out of teaching at the conservatory by Mr. K, to come over every day.

I’m shaking by the time ballet class is over, from the pills or anger or exhaustion, I can’t tell which. I wave to Morkie on the way out the door, but before she has a chance to acknowledge me or comment on my precision or the two pounds I managed to drop during break, Gigi stops her and starts blathering away and waving her hands around, like she’s the one hopped up on some superspeed elixir. Alec dashes out before I can talk to him. He doesn’t wait like he used to.

No one waits for me. Eleanor is off to a practice room probably, but I can’t stand the sight of myself in the mirror for one more second. I get paralyzed somewhere between studio A and the elevators, and I lean against a wall to gather myself. I used to go to Alec’s room after a long rehearsal. Or watch movies with Eleanor. Or research dance competitions and summer intensives. Or imagine myself dancing the roles that I thought had been promised to me years ago.

Now, none of that is an option. I unwind the ribbons on my pointe shoes, and slide my feet out. I unwrap the tape and give each toe a little rub. They all ache from the pressure, the hours of work I’ve been putting in.