Wait, that’s it? I almost want to ask if he forgot something. I was prepared for a sermon on how I’m nowhere near Black Swan material or, at the very least, a laundry list of criticism on mygrand jetéor mypirouettes.But our instructor has moved on. He’s now focused on Audrey as she takes center stage. Fernando and I sit on the bench, both still panting, as we watch her.
She is flawless. Every one of her steps is so carefully executed. And herport de brasis definitely on point, pun intended. Her face relaxes as soon as the music stops. She doesn’t quite smile, but I can tell she’s pleased with herself.
Monsieur Dabrowski paces around the room for a minute, like he’s considering what to say. Finally, he stops and purses his lips. “How did you feel, when you were dancing?”
Audrey frowns. “Uh, good…”
He nods. “What were you thinking about?”
“During my routine?” Audrey plays with her fingers, looking confused. I would be, too. “About the steps…whichever one was coming next.” She doesn’t sound so sure.
Ourmaîtrenods again, his face impassive. This man is a puzzle. A very hard one to solve. “Can you tell me the story ofSwan Lake? What is Odette’s story?”
Audrey perks up a little. That answer we all know. “She’s cursed. A swan by day and a young woman by night. She can only be free if a man promises to love her, and her alone.”
“And how do you think she feels about that?”
Audrey’s chest rises and falls slowly. She’s still catching her breath, and probably praying that she’ll get off the hook very soon. “She’s sad…and confused. Angry?”
“You don’t know,” Monsieur Dabrowski says sharply. It’s not a question. “You have memorized the steps; you perform them extremely well. But you don’t understand how Odette feels. You’re not in her skin, in her heart, or her mind. You’re not the White Swan. You’re just Audrey Chapman, pretending to be.”
Audrey’s eyes grow wider as he speaks. Mine do, too. I can’t believe he just said that. She’s the best dancer I know.
We rehearse for a while longer, but I can tell Audrey is elsewhere. The minute Monsieur Dabrowski leaves the room,she rushes to the bench; jams her arms through thesleeves of her cardigan; and wipes her sweaty forehead, along with the corners of her eyes (which are filling with tears), with the back of her hand. Then she snags her bag before running out. I call out after her, but she’s determined to get away as fast as possible. I don’t blame her.
On my way home, I almost fall asleep on the shoulder of the businesswoman sitting next to me on the métro. In the subway car, a young man croons a song in French a cappella, looking for tips, and the music begins to lull me to sleep. I’m not just tired. I’m drained, wiped, completely done in. In fact, I don’t think I understood the true meaning of exhaustion until this week. Sure, I’ve taken my fair share of Epsom baths, I’ve used ice packs on every part of my body, and I’ve spent hours stretching while watching videos of the greatest ballerinas performing in the classics. But I have never felt like the shoulder of a total stranger would be an appropriate place to rest my head. Until now.
I get to the dorm, take a long hot shower, slip into tracksuit pants and a T-shirt, and lie on my bed. I have an hour before dinner, and though my pillow is whispering my name, there’s something even more urgent than sleep rightnow.
Mom is the first to pick up the family landline.
“Hi!” I say, trying to sound chipper, but it comes out a little coarse.
“Mia, finally!”
“Hi, sweetie,” my dad says, joining the call. “Don’t worry about us. If I’d been in Paris for the summer at your age, I probably wouldn’t have even called my parents once.”
“Well, we’re happy to hear from you, whenever you do call, Mia,” Mom adds. I can practically see her shaking her head at him. We’ve exchanged a few texts over the last two weeks, but this is only the second time that we’ve managed to speak on the phone. Between school, their work schedule, and the time difference, keeping in touch is harder than I thought.
“I had my first official rehearsal today, and it went well,” I say.
“Just well?” Dad asks.
I shuffle a bit, readjusting the pillow behind my back. “Well is good, Dad. Well is excellent, in fact. I got a few notes, but it could have been much worse than that.” I could have been running out of there crying like Audrey, I think. I glance at her bed. Her dance bag is on it, but I haven’t seen her since I got back.
“You sound tired,” Mom says flatly.
Not a word about my rehearsal, not a question about how things are going. I want to grunt, but I don’t want her to hear it. “I am.”
“Are you sleeping well over there?” Dad asks.
“Yes, it’s just—”
“It’s just that she’s working too hard,” Mom finishes for me. There’s irritation in her voice; she’s not even trying to hide it.
“I’m only working as hard as I need to.”
I don’t add that I’m feeling a little homesick. Being in Paris is exciting, but it’s also very different. I miss Dad’s pancakes; waking up in my own bed, wrapped in soft sheets that haven’t been used by hundreds of students before me; and hearing nothing but silence from my room, instead of the continuous honking of cars and ambulance sirens. Their melody, if you can call it that, is completely different over here, with two tones alternating. The first few times I woke up in panic, wondering what was going on.
