What was even sadder to reflect on—I had been experiencing a midlife crisis all my life, and I was only eighteen. Grandmother Poésy had called me an old soul in a new body. Translated:boring.
After our time in Evelyn Rose’s Secret Cabin, I admitted to Brando that I had never quit dancing. I’d perform for my teachers, my grandmother; I would do the job expected of me.
After Elliott’s death my mother had said that my focus had been shattered—I refused to pick up the same grueling training regime, I refused to travel to other countries to learn, or to show them what I was capable of (though she still sent me, kicking and screaming), and I refused to be taught school lessons at home, or abroad.
I danced when I wanted to, for however long I wanted to, and still, I had never been better. The sadness inside of me seemed to stir my soul; the talent seemed to take this and turn it into something that moved Maja to tears. A rare sight, if there ever was one.
Maja Resnick had been hardened to her core by a communist Slovenia, where she danced for her freedom, escaping to Italy, where she had fallen hopelessly in love with an Italian painter who didn’t find fame until after his untimely death.
Their amour didn’t last. There were times I sensed more there—I couldn’t decide which had made her tougher, a communist dictator, or the loss of her great love. After Italy, she escaped to America with a famed ballet teacher who made her into the legendary star she still was.
It wasn’t just her dancing that dictated her stardom. It was the woman. Who she was and what made herbecome.
I had always assumed this was why Maja had decided that I was worthy of the prestigious title of ballerina.From her mouth.The dancer lived inside of me, so there was never a stretch to find her and bring her home—she could be awakened with the sound of music, the placement of hands, the rise of feet. A sandstorm that ate flesh and bone, and out from its whirl emerged an entity that made me watch from afar as the muse moved us both.
My mother assumed Elliott’s death had shattered my focus—true. But there was more to it. It had been more than one stone thrown by life. That night in the snow, with Brando, had changed me. I had been acutely aware of him. He was out there, watching, his eyes on me as I moved. In all my years as a dancer, I had never felt what I did from him.
To a certain degree, all dancers hold to Apollo’s standard. They work hard to achieve a state of grace, a harmonious flow, calling on him to ease these through the mind and blood. He is the god of civilization, healing, prophecy, and, of course, poetry, art and music. No, not the kind of music that sets a man’s muscles to seize, but the kind that puts them at great ease.
Apollo’s aristocratic appearance and his perfect proportions could easily be translated into the ballet—and ideal to achieve. But to the dancer Apollo has to become more than an ideal; he has to become a solid presence. He has to manifest and then immortalize from the inside out.
Brando had, to some degree, become immortalized in my life as an Apollo—a presence that had been with me all of my life. I could understand his language on a deeper level. I had always understood. This man, to me, was the measure of all things. And of course, it made sense; he was the leader of the Muses and the son of Zeus.
Brando’s eyes held more power than his hands. A look, that’s all it took, and he could move me in ways that I had never experienced before. A ribbon lost to a controlled wind. The reason I had surrendered without regret.
Regret came when I thought of him never watching me again, never making me feel that same intense passion that allowed music to inspire a dancer to lose herself to the muse.
A longing akin to obsession moved me even deeper—a longing to be his angel.
My dancing pleased him, intrigued him, stirred his soul, and his eyes returned all that he took from me. Even more. So after our weekend had come to an end, the fire to move again ignited inside of me. Every morning before the sun, I woke, put on my pointe shoes, and got to work. My mother was cheered by this display of hard work and dedication, and there was a spark in Maja Resnik’s eyes that hadn’t been present since her dancing days.
True to his word, Brando and I saw even more of each other, despite my training, until he started to pick up more shifts at the refinery. Christmas, he had said, was the reason.
To fill the void, I spent more time at the studio, and I danced until the sensation of it made me dizzy and the days blended in a wonderful blur. No longer was there a void. Somehow, this was the more to life that had been missing. All of the connecting pieces finally showed themselves as an evolving beautiful masterpiece.
During my time at the studio, the younger children would come in, their faces bright, their feet eager. At times, they would watch me before or after their classes.
I found that I rather liked the times they watched me. All of their questions and their excitement were novel, yet familiar. This inspired me to teach a class full of toddlers. Pnina opposed this at first—you teach! she had gasped. But it was either that or I quit. I had learned how to draw a line, and she couldn’t stand that her power had somehow slipped. (My mother and father owned the studio, of course, so there was no problem there.)
Only those who can’t, teachwas an absurd notion to me. If both could be done with ease, why not?
I fell in love with how uninhibited the children were, their smiles and giggles and even tears, and some days I wondered if that’s why Brando had stopped and watched me dance that night in the snow. Perhaps he had seen something in me that no one else had: whateveritis that causes one person to be in awe of another. In Brando’s case it was to fall in love. A few times he had said, in that casual but shocking way of his, that when I danced, I wore my heart, my soul, my spirit on my sleeve. The art of it turned me inside out. Perhaps that’s whatitis, the ability to see someone inside, before the outside became relevant.
I looked forward to my classes with an enthusiasm I had never felt before. And to musing about Brando, but that was a given, not a surprise.
I enjoyed teaching so much that one night, while up late studying for an exam, the thought led me to Maggie Beautiful. How she had asked me to read the writing on the shirt. A curious burn ignited deep inside of me. And after speaking to Mr. Persons, my English teacher, who regaled me with astounding facts about illiteracy, the burn became a mission.
I could help her. More than that, I yearned to teach her, to give her the power to read.
Every book that I could find on the subject became mine. I read and read and read, until certainty became enough assurance to act. The approach had to be sensitive, unique, but that, too, came to me—and I went for it.
I knocked on her door, waiting for her to answer. I held my breath, anticipating how she would be dressed today. When she appeared, I released it in a rush. Plain clothes. I was almost disappointed. Then I made her an offer that I hoped she couldn’t refuse.
She lifted her red nail to her pouty mouth, deliberating. My offer had shocked her. I might not have known Maggie Beautiful all that well, but it didn’t seem like much shook the woman. Brando didn’t bring me over often, but when he did, Maggie Beautiful’s personality never wavered in the slightest from our first meeting—eccentric to the extreme.
Her crimson lips parted. She tapped the nail against her teeth for a moment, before she scrunched up her nose. “Did I hear you correctly, Doll? You want to teach me how to use a superpower? Or to have one?”
I looked longingly inside the house, tempted to stretch my arms out so the warm air could touch my chilled hands, before I nodded. “That’s right. I have a superpower. And I want to share it with you.”
