He's not yelling at me but his voice is so hard right now, and part of me wants to run out of here before this starts—before he hurts me.
“No, Sir,” I say. I can already feel the tears sliding down my face. I don't know what exactly I'm crying about, but he makes me feel like I'm the worst person in the world for being five minutes late to the appointment of being his slave for three hours.
“You will remain five extra minutes to make up for it. Go to the barre and warm up.”
When I get on the stage, I peel off my outer layer of clothing and run my hand over my hair to make sure no stray strands have fallen out. I put on my soft ballet shoes, hip warmers, and leg warmers, and I go to the barre. I see that the blindfold is draped over the edge, and my breath hitches in my throat.
Music begins to play over the sound system. Swan Lake. Does he get a perverse thrill out of reminding me he knows everything about my life, my world, my schedule? He knows when I'm in class. He knows which ballet we're working on. He knows everything. And he doesn't seem to miss an opportunity to remind me of it.
I still don't understand this. I mean sure, if he just wanted to fuck me it would make some kind of sense. If he wanted money, that would make sense, too. But what is he getting out of watching me warm up at the barre? I roll my eyes at myself, realizing I've answered my own question.
Maybe he does get off on it. Maybe he's turned on by watching dancers. That isn't a rare fetish after all. For all I know, he's jerking off right now. Who is this guy?
I spend about fifteen minutes running through my full warm-up routine, surprised when he doesn't interrupt me. Then I do some stretches at the barre and on the floor. When I'm finished, I stand, and wait for more instruction.
During these past few minutes, I've somehow been able to mostly block out why I'm here. Because I'm on a stage in a spotlight. I'm at a barre. This is all comforting and familiar even though I shouldn't feel comforted right now.
“I want to see your grand jetés,” he says
“I... why? Why are we doing this? I don't understand...”
“Because I own you. I own your body for three hours a week, and right now I want to watch you leap across the stage. Can you manage that, Ms. Lane?”
“Y-yes, Sir.”
“Good. Do it then.”
I move to one end of the dance floor, take a few graceful dancer runs, and leap across the stage.
“Again.”
I do it again. And again.
“Stop,” he says. “Take a few minutes and get some water.”
I notice for the first time that there’s a water bottle on the long rectangular table and am grateful for it. I don't know what I thought I'd be doing for three hours in this theater. I guess I thought something dirty and sexual. I didn't actually think I'd be dancing, like... training.
Am I disappointed about this? Did I want his hands on me? I think back to his finger pressing the pink buttercream frosting into my mouth. God help me, but... maybe.
When I return, he says, “Your grand jeté could go higher. You have the proper training and strength, but you're pulling your jump back before you even get in the air. Think of it like a rocket launch. You need a deeper plié going into the jump, and all the proper muscles need to fire at the right time. It's an explosion of movement. If you can remember and apply that, you should get more lift and also move farther across the stage with it. And don't try to use your shoulders to jump. Try again, please.”
He just corrected me. And I can't help this twisted happiness about that. In ballet, you learn to take corrections as compliments because the truth is, most instructors won't waste their time on trying to make you better if they don't think you’re capable. So even though this man is holding threats over my head, and it's not like we mutually agreed to do some outside-of-class practice sessions, I can't shut off years and years of training and the flush of pleasure corrections give me.
I go back to the edge of the stage, think through all the things he just told me, and then implement the correction.
“Good girl,” he says. “I want to see it one more time from the other direction.”
I do it again from the other direction, my mind scurrying like a helpless mouse back and forth over that Good girl. What the fuck? We may hear “Good”, in class, but no ballet teacher says “Good girl” like that.
When I stop and wait for more direction, he says, “Do you know why you aren't a principal?”
I brace myself for some insult about how I just don't have it. Whatever it is. “No, Sir,” I say.
I know from his correction that this man knows dance. He's been in this world a long time, so he probably does know why I'm not a principal. And I desperately do not want to hear it. I don't want to hear that there is no hope for me. I want to believe Melinda and Henry's opinions that I'm the best—that there’s something wrong with the decision makers at the company, not something wrong with me.
“The company was struggling financially until your husband started making very generous donations. At first, they thought he was trying to buy you a principal role. But that wasn't what he was doing. He said: 'Keep her in the corps. She can have the occasional small solo, but nothing more. And if you want the money to keep flowing, she never hears of this.' That’s why you aren't a principal. It's nothing to do with you or your talent or dedication. It's business.”
I grip the barre for support, shaken by this revelation. Conall and I fought over and over about dance, about how much time the company took away from him, about my dance partner, about everything. He was jealous of my relationship with the stage, but it never occurred to me that he'd do something like this. He'd seemed like my savior when I met him, someone who could give me comfort and security and let me follow my dreams to dance without the near-poverty that often goes with this career choice.
