As we exit the métro onto Bastille Square, I can’t help but pause and stare in awe. Paris is at my fingertips and it’s real, at last. I may have spent months looking at pictures of the city on Instagram, but it’s so different to actually see it in person. The Opéra Bastille is right in front of us, its ultramodern glass structure standing proud over its namesake roundabout, called Place de la Bastille. From my research, I know this impressive building is one oftwooperas in the city. The original, Opéra Garnier, is a luscious palace on the other side of Paris and has been host to centuries of ballet performances. That’s where Degas practically lived.
Traffic rushes by, cars honk, tourists stop to take photos. Trees line the sidewalk, their leaves the dark green of summer. I resist the urge to spin around with glee at finally being here as Anouk takes us down a quiet little street to our left. A few minutes later, our school comes into view. It’s a classical building made of beige stone with a roof covered in slate tiles, like you see all over Paris. Through the open windows I can hear a piano and the count of a teacher keeping time.“Un, deux, trois, quatre.”
There’s an inscription above the dark blue double door that readsL’Institut de l’Opéra de Paris.
“We’re the luckiest girls in the world,” Lucy says with a happy sigh as we climb the marble steps.
“Especially for those of us in level five,” Audrey adds.
I roll my eyes, but Lucy’s smile drops a bit. She opens her mouth to respond, but Anouk cuts in. “Level four is amazing, too….Pretty much no one gets level five their first year here.” Her voice lowers to a murmur and she adds, “or their second, for that matter,” like she’s speaking from experience.
Audrey doesn’t say anything back, but the corners of her mouth turn up in a satisfied smirk.
Inside, the hall is bustling with students lining up to file into the main auditorium. We’re just in time for orientation—phew.The four of us find seats as close to the front as possible. Glancing around, I’m struck by the wide range of teenagers attending the program: some tall and lean, others short and athletic; mostly girls, but also a few boys here and there. In the space of a few minutes, I think I hear at least three languages outside of French and English. It’s clear the school has brought the best talent from all over the world. A hush falls over the room as Myriam Ayed, the most famousdanseuse étoileof the Paris Ballet, comes onto the stage. She’s known for her out-of-this-world talent, but she also made headlines when she was promoted, because she is the first dancer of African descent to become a principal dancer at the Paris Opera. As a mixed-race woman—she’s half-Moroccan, half-French—she was hailed asthechange French ballet needed: a sign that classical dancing could modernize while staying true to tradition. She looks exactly the same as in all the pictures I’ve seen—muscular, with sharp features but warm eyes—and I feel oddly emotional just being in the same room as her.
“It’s my pleasure to welcome you,” Ms. Ayed says into the microphone, slowly looking around the room with a smile. She speaks in English—the official language of this summer program—but her thick French accent clings to every word.
“You’ve all worked so hard to be here today, and for that, you must congratulate yourselves.”
She claps her hands a few times, and the room fills with applause. “I was in your shoes not so long ago, and I know that just being selected means that you have what it takes to succeed. But your work has only just begun.”
As the applause dies down, Ms. Ayed continues, “I’m happy to announce that you will be dancingSwan Lakeas your final performance. The respectivemaîtres de balletfor each level will be assigning roles at the beginning of next week, and I will be cheering you all from the sidelines.”
My heart flutters.Swan Lakeis my favorite ballet (So dramatic! So heart-wrenching! So technically challenging!), but I’ve only ever performed as a page girl. I would do absolutely anything to dance as Odette, but featured and principal roles will for sure go to dancers in level five. Audrey will probably be one of them.
I look over and see Audrey biting her lower lip, hanging on to Myriam Ayed’s every word. She’s putting on a brave face, but I’m certain she’s praying for the role in her head.
After we meet Monsieur Dabrowski, the school’s artistic director, and a few other instructors, we head to the cafeteria, where we’ll be having lunch every day, starting now.
My race through the airport this morning made me ravenous, and I help myself to extra cheese—a gooey Camembert—to tide me over until dinner. Afterward, we’re divided into small groups for a tour. We’re led through each of the five floors, which are full of glass-walled studios with high ceilings, beautiful antique wooden floors, and Steinway pianos, along with the locker rooms. The corridors feel never-ending, and the rooms are so much bigger and more impressive than the ones I’m used to, but I tell myself that I’ll know my way around here in no time.
At the end of the afternoon, Lucy, Anouk, Audrey, and I meet up outside on the front steps of the school. I edge closer to our group, curious about a tiny littlemajorthing. “Myriam Ayed didn’t say much about the final performance. And no one else spoke about the apprentice program directors. They will come watchSwan Lake,right?”
While this summer intensive isn’t supposed to be competitive—there are no medals at the end, and the students aren’t ranked—it’s no secret that many apprentice program directors for the world’s major ballet companies attend the final performance in the hopes of discovering up-and-coming talent. If you’re lucky enough to be chosen by one, you get to practice with acorps de balletfor a year before hopefully joining the company for good. I’m sure it’s the ultimate goal of pretty much everyone in the program.
The rumor is that our instructors pass along the names of their favorite students beforehand to the program directors, which means we have to give it our best all summer long to make an impression. If yourmaître de balletnotices you, then it’s likely a program director will as well. And if they do…an offer might not be far behind.
“Anouk, is that true?” Lucy asks. “Did anyone get offered an apprenticeship last year?”
The three of us turn to Anouk. If anyone knows something, it’s going to be her. “Don’t look at me,” she says jokingly. “I was only in level three.”
“But you must have heard things,” I insist.
“Okay, fine,” Anouk says, “but don’t blame me if it turns out not to be true.”
“Just spill,” Audrey says sharply. Lucy and I frown at her, and she sighs. “I mean, come on, weneedto know.”
Anouk leans closer. “From what I heard, at the end of the final performance, the program directors make a list of the students they’re interested in. It’s usually the leads, but not always. They might decide someone in thecorps de ballethas potential, too.”
I bite my lip. So there’s a chance for those of us in level four. A small one, but it’s there.
“Then,” Anouk continues, “they invite them to a private audition. Those happen the next day, I think. Last year there was the Australian Ballet, the Bolshoi Ballet, the Royal Danish Ballet, the Royal Ballet in London, and ABT, of course.”
Audrey glances at me at the same time I steal a look at her. ABT. The American Ballet Theatre in New York City.
I close my eyes and see countless weekends of practice, my school breaks filled with competitions in faraway places, my nights spent bandaging my bloody toes—it’s all led me to this. Here is the proof that you always get another chance. ABT may have rejected me once, but I’m only just gettingstarted.
THE GIRLS DECIDEto take the métro back to the dorm, but I don’t feel like joining them. This is my first day in Paris, and I want to enjoy it before school starts for real tomorrow.
