We hung up soon after. I didn’t know what else to say, and Mom was running late to Grandma’s house.
Like Mom predicted, level five is hard work. So hard that I have to focus solely on ballet, which is why I don’t think about Louis for the rest of the week. I don’t picture his smile in the middle of pointe class, or remember the feeling of wrapping my arms around him as I learn to improve my form during anarabesque.I don’t replay our conversation in my head during lunch with Lucy and Anouk. I don’t wonder where he is every time I pass a neat row of scooters parked on a sidewalk. I don’t hope that he’ll be waiting at the front of the school every evening as I head back to the dorm with the girls after a long day.
Seriously. I don’t. I swear. Idocringe at the memory of my silly rant about his dad, of my broken French as I tried to plead my case to the shopkeeper. I was so ashamed afterward that I just muttered a thank-you and ran out of the store, ditching him right then and there. I was terrified that he would tell his dad about all the stupid things I’d said, but thankfully I don’t think he has. Monsieur Dabrowski is a tough instructor, but he doesn’t seem to hate me, at least. When I showed up in my white leotard to my first class—early, of course—he gave me a quick nod, and that was that.
“Kenza, you’re losing focus,” Monsieur Dabrowski now calls out to the girl on my left. She’s from Senegal, subtly toned from head to toe, the body of a true ballerina. “I can see it in your eyes. Your mind is not here. Does it have anywhere better to be?”
Kenza straightens up right away, her entire body coming back into its own, sharp and determined.
He stands in front of her at the barre, placing his hand on it.
“Dégagé devant, deux, trois, quatre.Two to the side, coupé développé,” he says, demonstrating the moves. He’s dressed in his usual all-black and seems to have more grace in his raised pinky than the rest of us put together. “Reverse, plié, soutenu.Other side.”
We all start again, not daring to take our eyes off the bun on the head of the dancer in front of us.
“Rond de jambe, et deux, et trois, et quatre, passé, développé, rond de jambe en l’air, piqué, battement tendu,close to fifth. Reverse. Repeat inrelevé,” he explains, finishing the combination. “Again, Kenza. Everyone, please observe her.”
A flicker of anguish passes across Kenza’s face, but she gets into fifth position with a confident smile and goes through the sequence seamlessly. At least that’s how it looks to me.
“Non!”Monsieur Dabrowski says. “Yourrond de jambeis too wooden. And your leg needs to be one hundred percent straight duringpiqué. Encore une fois!”One more time!
Kenza starts over, but ourmaîtreinterrupts her almost immediately.“Non, non, non. Regarde-moi.” Look at me.
He and Kenza take turns for the next five minutes. Kenza never wavers, never lets her emotions get in the way.
“This isn’t just about the physicality, about the technique,” Monsieur Dabrowski says, interrupting her once again. “Your mindmustbe in one place, and one place only.”
I’m half-convinced he’s talking about me. The girl who spends her time flirting with adorable French boys and can’t stop thinking about them. Well, him.
Now Monsieur Dabrowski turns to face the rest of the class, his eyes meeting mine for a brief second. The fire behind his eyes is so different from his son’s relaxed, friendly gaze. “What are you all thinking about right now? And what will you think about when this class is over?”
No one responds, of course.
“Ballet isn’t something you can do halfway. It has to be inside you, deep in your bones. Or else you will fail.”
I didn’t come this far to fail. I set my shoulders back and push Louis out of my mind.For real.
I’ve been doing ballet for most of my life, but this is the first time I’ve danced all day long, day after day after day. My arms and back feel so sore that I can barely hold my fork at dinner. My leg muscles tremble long after I get into bed. No amount of stretching makes me feel like I’m fully recovered. My feet are raw, a permanent shade of bright red. My first pair of new pointe shoes look like I feel, stained and crushed and as exhausted as I am. One week in, and I’m going to have to break in the next pair already.
Every morning I’m not sure how I will even stand upright at the barre, let alone move. But when I get there, something happens in my mind, in my heart, and I feel brand-new. Ballet is everything to me. Always will be.
The only really tricky thing is that I have to share it with others. And not just any other, a certain someone in particular. Monsieur Dabrowski paired us up to demonstrate a duet version of the “Dance of the Little Swans,” and guess who he assigned as my combination partner?
I thought Audrey was going to faint with rage when she found out. After my adventurous trip to Repetto, I’d gleefully announced at dinner that I was being moved up. Lucy had given me a high five, and many others had congratulated me. Audrey had just shoved more salad in her mouth and looked away as she chewed noisily. Now we’re stuck with each other in every possible way.
“You have to be kidding me!” she fumed on the way out of the studio after Monsieur Dabrowski told us we’d be dancing together.
The “Dance of the Little Swans,” orpas de quatre,is one of the most well-known sequences inSwan Lake,in the middle of Act Two. It’s both technical and ethereal, and these four roles are the next best thing to Odette. Monsieur Dabrowski is having us perform this dance to help make his decision about the roles in the famous ballet.
Finally it’s Friday: audition day. Like every other duo, Audrey and I stayed an extra hour after class, watching and correcting each other’s form. I asked her for tips on how to improve myattitude—the ballet step, not my mood. And in return, I reminded her to widen her collarbone without clenching her jaw.
I won’t go as far as saying I’m glad we’re in this together, but Audrey has great technique, and I’ll take any help I can get. Right before it’s our turn, I check the mirror to make sure no hair has escaped from my bun. I know Monsieur Dabrowski will notice even the tiniest detail.
We take our positions side by side in the center of the room. All eyes are on us as the rest of the class hovers at the edge of the mirrors. Monsieur Dabrowski gives the nod to the pianist and as the music starts, so do we, our arms linked and our steps mirroring each other.
At the end, we stand still right where we started, waiting for him to call up the next group. But that’s not what happens.
Instead, Monsieur Dabrowski asks me one of the worst questions I’ve ever had to answer. “Mademoiselle Jenrow, tell me about Mademoiselle Chapman’s weaknesses. What could make her a better dancer?”
