My eyes pop wide open. For a split second I wonder if I’m imagining it, if I only heard my name because I wanted to. But a couple of the girls smile at me, while a few others can’t even look me in the eyes.
Of course, the White Swan is the role I’ve been pining for all along. She’s the star of the show, the one everyone came to see. But the Black Swan? She’s the underdog. She comes out of nowhere to disrupt the peace and immediately commands everyone’s attention. She brings darkness to the stage and steals the spotlight. No one wants her to win, and no one expects her to. Yet, she’s the only swan left standing at the end.
This is a chance to step out of my comfort zone, to show off my skills, a real opportunity to shine in front of ABT. I didn’t get what I wanted. I got something even better.
I CAN’T COMEdown from my beautiful black cloud. I’m going to be performing one of the most technically challenging roles in front of the apprentice program directors of the best ballet companies in the world. They will come to watch my performance, and then possibly change my life forever. Max, the student teacher, spent a few hours with Audrey, Fernando, and me yesterday afternoon to set the pieces, meaning that he taught us the choreography so we can begin practicing on our own before rehearsals with Monsieur Dabrowski. I kept looking for a sign in Max’s behavior that he knew about my escapade with his best friend, but I didn’t see any.
Now that I’m back at school, I can’t stop thinking about what would happen if anyone here found out about our little trip. Maybe that’s why Louis pulled away from the group at the museum; he understood before I did how bad it would make me look if people knew that I’m sort of seeing my teacher’s son. At least the pressure of dancing Odile hasn’t fully hit me yet. I’m too deliriously happy to think about the many hurdles that lie ahead.
Lucy and Anouk both snagged roles in thecorps de ballet,so the mood at breakfast two days later is still higher than high. That is until Audrey Chapman comes storming into the dining room.
“We should go,” she tells me, like there’s no one else in the room. She’s carrying her dance bag on her shoulder, looking annoyed.
I check my watch, which confirms that class doesn’t start for another hour and a half, as evidenced by the fact that everyone here is still pouring themselves orange juice, butteringtartines, and deciding between apricot and strawberry jam to spread on top of saidtartines(I’m Team Apricot, by the way).
I tell Audrey just that, and she shakes her head in disapproval. “You’re not seriously thinking about getting to schoolon time,are you?”
I pause before answering what is obviously a trick question. On the one hand, I don’t want to go anywhere yet. Yesterday was a bit of a post-announcement blur, so Lucy and Anouk were just now filling me in on their weekend adventures. It turns out that while I was off chasing family legends with a cute French guy, my friends were off chasing…other cute French guys. Anouk invited Lucy to join her and her French friends for a picnic on Champ de Mars, the park in front of the Tour Eiffel. The girls had spent hours devouring delicious cheese and that incredible view, chatting and sunbathing. Lucy spent most of the afternoon ogling a boy named Charles, who is in Paris for the summer for an internship at an advertising agency.
“Aww,” I said, bummed that I missed it. I pictured the sun warming up my face as I admired the iron structure glistening in front of me, my head resting on Louis’s bent legs while he read poems aloud from a book. We would have stayed until sunset, lying on a gingham blanket and sipping rosé. Louis would have taught me French phrases, and I would have stared, mesmerized, at his beautiful lips making shapes and sounds and looking extremely kissable. The world around us would have ceased to exist. No one but Louis and me. Louis and me. Louis and me.
But there was no Louis and me at the Champ de Mars.
I was just about to ask how Lucy and Charles had left things—was there a date coming up? Did he kiss her? Did somebodyat leastget her dream French kiss?—when Audrey came in.
On the other hand, if Audrey thinks we both need to get there early, I don’t want to look like a slacker.
Audrey lets out a loud sigh. “I didn’t want to say this in front of everyone, but…” She sighs again. Then she adds, at a normal level, so that in fact everyonewillhear her, “Yourfouettésare just not good enough.”
Her tone is definitive. It’s more statement than criticism, something that can’t be argued. So I don’t. Even though I feel my cheeks grow hot and would prefer to hear the rest of Lucy’s story and lazily stroll to school, deep down, I know she’s right. I get up, wipe the bread crumbs off the sides of my mouth, mutter a “see you later” to the girls, and follow Audrey, ready to whip my legs into oblivion.
Once we arrive at the still-empty school, Audrey chooses a studio on the top floor, “to get the best natural light.” We immediately put on our pointe shoes and start to work. As we warm up—stretching calves, circling arms, rolling necks—I’m struck all over again by the beauty of the space. The soft, early morning glow shines through the long panes of glass that open like shutters to the cool summer air. Looking out onto a cluster of grayish-blue roofs lined with dormers fills me with glee. Paris is so full of heart and history; it’s no wonder artists thrive here. Even the air smells sweeter.
Here’s a fun fact about the Black Swan: she might only be onstage for a short amount of time, but hers is also the most technical part in the whole ballet. When, encouraged by her father, Von Rothbart, Odile tries to seduce Prince Siegfried in Act Three, she executes an elaborate and sensuous sequence that includes thirty-twofouettés,one of the most famous, and famously hard, turns of all time.
Fouettéis French for “whipped,” a circular movement done with one leg in the air while turning on the other, popping onto the tip of your pointe shoe in the exact same spot every time. It’s a struggle even for very experienced ballerinas, as it’s almost physically impossible to accomplish the turn flawlessly thirty-two times in a row. I’ve donefouettésbefore, obviously. But until now, I’ve felt really nervous about attempting the Black Swan sequence. I’m scared I won’t be able to do it perfectly, but time is ticking. I better get started.
Audrey and I agree that we’ll each practice by ourselves for half an hour first, before watching each other’s variations—aka solos—for feedback. She takes up the farthest corner of the room while I stand at the barre near the entrance, starting with a few stretches to prepare my calves for what’s about to hit them. And off we go: two little swans, two gigantic dreams.
We’ve been dancing for twenty minutes when I hear a muffled beeping sound. I ignore it, focusing instead on my arm work: up and down in a sweeping, seamless motion, just like a swan taking flight. The beeping sound continues once, twice, three times, before I realize it’s coming from my bag, which I left on the bench by the door. I stop and glance at Audrey, who appears to be about halfway through her Act Two solo.Phew.She didn’t hear it. I decide it’s best to pretend that I didn’t, either.
But as soon as she finishes her sequence, she glares at me, hands clenched on her hips, and says, “Are you going to turn that thing off?”
“Sorry!” I say, skipping to my bag. “I thought I had it on mute.”
“Well, you didn’t,” she quips, shooting daggers at me as I fish out my phone.
Here’s what I should do: turn my phone off, zip up my bag, and get back to business. But curiosity gets the better of me, and I can’t resist a quick glance at the screen. I know Audrey is watching, but when I see that Louis has sent me not one butfivetext messages on WhatsApp, I grin.
I glance up to see that Audrey’s arms are crossed against her chest. I’ve seen her look annoyed before, but now she’s mad. Really mad.
“Is there some kind of emergency?” Audrey asks.
“Um, no. Sorry. I’m turning it off!” I say, doing just that and jumping back into position. But that’s not enough to keep the peace.
“This isn’t a game to me!” she snaps, taking quick strides toward the bench. “We have less than five weeks to rehearse our roles, and I’m not going to do it while you’re texting your friends.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right.”
