“More turnout, Lucy. And by more, I meana lot more.Yourmaître de balletis going to be asking for more out of all of you, every day. More, more,more!”
I hear Lucy’s deep inhale as she complies, her legs quivering as she fights with her thighs to increase the turnout of her fourth position. She winces for a split second only, but that’s enough for Monsieur Dabrowski to catch it.
“Is there a problem?” he asks, stopping right in front of us, his posture perfect and his face stern.
Lucy doesn’t respond, doesn’t bat an eye. She knows he doesn’t expect an answer, only the correct execution of his orders.
“Anouk, where did you learn thatgrand jeté? You look like you’re mopping the floor. Show a little grace! This is a ballet class, not a discotheque.”
“Mellie, where is your pointe work? Did you leave it at home?”
He knows all of our names and studies us from top to bottom, but he doesn’t say anything to me, which makes me nervous—is there something even more wrong with me than everyone else? I keep waiting for him to say, “Straight gaze, Mia, straight gaze!”
I swear he’s still watching my every move, though. I wonder if he can see my muscles shake, and how tight my core is. Sweat prickles my forehead and drips down between my shoulder blades. Maybe Audrey was right to be surprised that I got into this program; maybe I’m not good enough for this.
When the class ends, I’m so disappointed in myself that I don’t even feel the cramps in my legs. Tears sting at the corners of my eyes as Lucy, Anouk, and I sit on the bench to take off our shoes. I focus on the pink silk ribbons, wrapping them neatly before unbinding my toes.
“Mademoiselle Jenrow.” My heads jerks up to Monsieur Dabrowski, waving me over from the other side of the studio. Another rumor about him turns out to be true: he only calls us by our first names during class. Otherwise heprefers the formality ofMademoiselleandMonsieur.“A moment, please,” he adds.
My heart sinks. It’s worse than I thought.
He waits until all the students have left. Some of them gave me looks of pity as they walked out, confirming my instinct that this is not normal.
“I’ve been observing you,” Monsieur Dabrowski starts.
I hold my breath. Should I beg? Plead my case? I try to think of the right words, but my mind goes blank.
“And I’ve decided that level four is not right for you.”
He takes a seat and points to a chair beside him, but I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. Do not cry, I repeat to myself. Do not cry.
“You’re a talented dancer,” Monsieur Dabrowski continues, clearly oblivious to the tornado going on inside my heart.
I nod. I know I’m a good dancer. I work hard. I never give up. I practice for hours until my body molds itself to my will. I strive to move through the air in a way that makes me feel something. But I know that Monsieur Dabrowski doesn’t mean to praise me. He’s just trying to soften the blow. Somehow that makes it worse.
“This summer is going to be challenging. But what I saw today made me think that your skills do not match this level. It might be too hard on you, I’m not sure.”
My chin begins to quiver. I need to sit down after all. My legs are about to give out as I take the seat next to him.Tothink that just last night I felt like I owned the world. He’s going to tell me I’m being bumped down to level three, isn’t he? Or that there was a mistake, and that I should have never been accepted into the program. Maybe Mom was right all along.
“I’ve decided to move you up to level five.” Monsieur Dabrowski eyes me, waiting for my reaction.
“You…What?” is all I can say. I can’t have heard him correctly.
“You will be in level five starting tomorrow. Make sure you go to the office to get your new schedule and be ready to work harder than ever before.”
Level five! Oh. My. God. This isn’t really happening. My face breaks into a huge smile. “Merciso much! Thank you.Beaucoup, beaucoup.”
“I’m not doing you a favor,” Monsieur Dabrowski says, one eyebrow raised at my excited rambling. “And I reserve the right to change my mind if it turns out that you are dragging the class down.”
I nod, willing myself to stop beaming. He needs to see that I’m taking this seriously.
He’s silent for a moment, and I wonder if this is my cue to leave. I perch on the edge of my chair.
Monsieur Dabrowski gets up, shuffles the papers resting on top of the piano, and then turns around to face me again.
“You may go now, but make sure you have the correct attire for tomorrow,” he adds, pointing his chin in my direction. I look down at my outfit. I’m wearing the knitted leg warmers I usually slip over my pink tights at the end of class, and my gray leotard, of course. I was so proud to put it on this morning. I wanted to FaceTime Grandma when I was dressed, but then I remembered it was the middle of the night at home.
“I’m sorry?” I have no idea what he’s talking about. My pointe shoes are brand-new; I bought four more pairs just for my trip.
