My insides twist in fear. “It was just one step. Haven’t you ever missed one?”
He sighs. “I have. More than once. One time, I was performingSleeping Beautyin Moscow, and I almost dropped my partner in the middle of ourpas de deux.” He walks slowly toward the window before he speaks again. “But this isn’t just about that one mistake. It’s about you throwing your future away for a summer fling. And that is all on you, Mademoiselle Jenrow.”
I freeze. My mind goes blank as I try to process what he just said.
“Your life is not my business outside these halls. But if you are my Black Swan, and I find out that you’re wasting your energy every night, flirting around the city when you have just a few weeks to learn one of the most difficult roles in ballet, well…thatis my business.”
I gulp, unable to speak. There’s no way Louis told him about us. Why would he? He knows that impressing his dad is incredibly important, not just to my success here, but to my future as a dancer. If Monsieur Dabrowski doesn’t believe that I’m fully dedicated to ballet, then he’s not going to recommend me to the apprentice program directors. Or worse, he’s going to tell them to steer clear of me, and my career will be over before it even begins.
“It’s not what you think,” I say. “What’s happening between Louis and me—”
“Happened with other girls before,” themaître de balletcuts in sharply.
“Excuse me?” My voice is so weak, it’s almost a whisper. The tears I’ve been holding back run down my face, and I don’t bother wiping them off. This cannot be happening.
He lets out a deep, irritated sigh. “I told Louis to stop hanging around school. He just…well, he doesn’t have his own dreams. He doesn’t get it. But these girls, they have a purpose, a future. And then they ruin it all for a bit of fun.”
“What girls?” I demand, realizing too late that I’ve crossed a line. Am I seriously discussing my love life with the artistic director of the Institute of the Paris Opera? I must have lost my mind, and, judging by the bitter look on Monsieur Dabrowski’s face, it’s too late to get it back.
More tears follow. I have to wipe my face now, because I can’t see through them anymore.
He grimaces, then looks away, giving me the tiniest bit of privacy. “I didn’t mean to make you cry…but, Mademoiselle J—Mia,” he continues, his voice softer, “you need to decide what is more important to you. And you need to do that now. I am not taking you off the role for that one mistake, but I will not tell you this twice: you have an opportunity to shape your career as a dancer. Are you going to waste it?” I don’t move as he makes his way to the door. “Take some time to compose yourself,” he says. “We’ll see you in class in a little while.”
And then I’m alone. I slide onto the floor, letting out loud, messy sobs, not caring that anyone might walk by. Louis was so understanding when I told him that I didn’t want people at school to know about us. I was charmed by how kind and respectful he was. But maybe he wanted to keep us a secret, too.
How many other girls has he done this with? And then it dawns on me.
Maybe he’s even seeing other ballerinas right now.
How can I have been so stupid?
I look around the empty studio, at the black glossy piano, and the light streaming from the windows. The sound of a honking car reaches me. Outside, it’s just another day. My well-worn pointe shoes peek out of my bag on the bench along with my spare white leotard—my badge of honor. But I’m not worthy of it. I’ve wanted to attend a program like this for years; I’ve dreamed of a role as important as Odile’s for as long as I can remember. I promised myself I would never let anything get in the way of my dream. But that’s exactly what I did.
A LONG TIMEpasses before I move again. My muscles ache as I rise from the floor, my knees creaking as I unfold them beneath me. I stop by the bathroom, splash some water on my face, and smooth my hair. I don’t know how I find the strength to show up to class, but when I walk in halfway through, Monsieur Dabrowski gives me a subtle nod, letting me know that it’s okay for me to take my place at the barre. This is the only time he’s allowed a student to come in late, and several of my classmates sneak confused glances at me.
I’ve danced with the flu before. I’ve danced with sore legs and swollen toes. But I’ve never danced with a broken heart. I wish I could run back to the dorm, crawl inside my bed, and stay there all day. But that would mean losing valuable practice time, and letting Odile down. I think I’ve done enough of that already. I’m so mad at Louis for making me believe that I was special, but mostly I’m angry with myself: I let a boy distract me from my biggest dream.
For years I’ve been telling my parents that I would do anything to become a professional ballerina. I’ve asked for dance gear for every single birthday since I can remember. I’ve given up all my weekends. I’ve been diligent, motivated, focused. I’ve read the biographies of famous principal dancers, and they all write the same thing: the only way to make it in this world is to want it more than anyone else.
It’s not just about talent or time spent in the studio. It’s about that hunger, the limitless ambition that will obliterate everything else in its way. That’s exactly what I thought I was doing, right until the moment I arrived in Paris. And when my dream needed my attention the most, I just let it drop to the ground, where it shattered to pieces.
That stops now. For the rest of the day, my steps get sharper, my legs move with more precision, and my gaze does not drop, even for one second. And I’m not the only one who notices.
“Wow, Mia,” Fernando says to me after ourpas de deuxrehearsal. “You were amazing. Whatever happened to you…you should keep doing that.”
I nod. “I will,” I say. “I’m going to make Odile proud.”
“I believe you,” he replies as he sits on the floor, his legs spread apart, stretching out his inner thighs and rolling his ankles. Then he gets up, slips on thick knitted socks, and zips up his bag.
He walks away, leaving Audrey and me alone in the studio. I’m massaging my feet as she removes the pins from her tight bun. She stares at me for a moment too long.
“What?” I ask, getting back up and making my way to the center of the room.
Our rehearsal is finished for the day, but I’m not.
“Nothing,” she replies after a moment.
I stay long after she’s gone. I stare at myself in the mirror, lifting my chin with my index and middle finger, checking myport de tête.I lift one leg onto the barre and fold myself over it, releasing my hamstrings and my lower back, and repeat with the other leg. And then I get back to dancing. At some point, the school janitor wheels his vacuum into the studio, and I plead with him to give me a little more time. I play the music for my solo on my phone, and, with no one else to watch me, I’m free to fail, to curse, and to let tears fall down my face midway through the sequence. I performfouettésuntil I feel like I might fall over.
