The work.
Every part of it, I soaked up.
It felt like I lived by a simple truth opposite to everyone else—all that glitters is gold. Under those lights it felt like I was all sparkle, and my value wasn’t a question.
But the reality is that, at 36, I was finding myself replaced by younger dancers and the dream was being darkened by self-doubt while all I wanted to do was dance. All I still want to do is dance. I just couldn’t keep doing it in New York while pretending everything was the same.
Now I’m in Vegas hoping to recapture something I fear will elude me. But at least I did find a job dancing.
When I was spending hours sweating in front of mirrors which transformed effort into effortless, I didn’t think I would wind up here. I’m going to make the best of it and keep dancing as long as I’m able to.
I’ll also keep dreaming about a dance studio all my own, and the chance to pass on the obsession I’ve been feeding most of my life. I’m not sure it’ll ever happen, but I still have a sliver of hope.
The studio has always been one of those dreams which always felt like mist because it wasn’t just a matter of my talent and drive. It’s a matter of capital, which has always been hard to come by, and I never expected a miracle to fall into my lap. I always knew dance was going to be a grind, but it’s the only way I know how to soar.
As I pad through the small one-bedroom apartment I’ve been in for a month, a small concession I allowed myself because it was cheaper than the efficiency I lived in back in New York, I try and temper some of my excitement about today. For so many starting a new job, the day you fill out paperwork and get oriented is boring. Not to me and not today.
Today marks a new beginning.
By the time I’m sitting in an office on the fifth floor of Elysium, I’m a jumble of emotions. Holding my hands steady isn’t easy, but I manage it by leaning into the idea of this all being a performance.
Look at me, pretending to be normal.
The woman sitting on the other side of the desk, where her nameplate declares her as HR, gives me a gentle smile when I hand her my temporary license since I’ve already had it switched from my New York issued one along with my social security card. My completed forms are the next thing I hand over to her while trying to retain the tentative smile on my face.
Can she see how hard it is to hold it all together? Does she know part of me wishes I could run right back to New York?
“I’ll just make a quick copy,” she lets me know before turning slightly and rolling toward the small copy machine behind her. I tuck them away when she hands them back before she nods toward the clipboard in my lap. “The next page is an NDA.”
My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline, and my voice is filled with surprise, “An NDA?”
They aren’t uncommon in the dance world since shows don’t want any details to leak before the curtains rise on opening night. Then there are choreographers who are secretive and distrustful with just enough pull to cause everyone around them to join in their paranoia. Still, I didn’t think it would be an issue I needed to worry about here.
Color me surprised.
“Yes,” she kindly explains, “not only does the Steel Sinners want to make sure their secrets remain secrets, but Elysium is very exclusive. We do whatever we need to do to protect the people who pay for the privilege of being members here.”
I nod slowly, my words measured as the reality of what I’m signing up for comes into focus, “I can understand that.”
“Good,” she offers serenely while nodding toward the clipboard in my hand. “I always encourage people to read whatever they’re signing before they do.”
She types on her computer while I scan the NDA. It looks pretty standard in comparison to other NDAs I’ve signed before. After I look it over, I sign it and hand it back with a small smile.
“Now that all the boring stuff is done,” she shoots me a warm smile, “how about a tour?”
My shoulders drop slightly with relief. “That would be great.”
Hopefully, knowing where everything is will help with the anxiety filling my gut. It’s been a lot between moving here, auditioning, and now accepting this job. It’s a way to keep dancing, sure, but it feels like failure in a lot of ways.
I push the thought away because it’s not going to do me any good. Going back isn’t a possibility.
For some reason, my mind takes me back, but not to New York. I’m suddenly thrust back to twenty years ago when I was just a girl in love with a boy who had always been there. Whiskey-colored eyes float through my memories.
Everton Connors was the boy of my dreams. He never complained about how much time I spent dancing, and would spend hours watching me go over choreography over and over again. I always felt like I moved better with his whiskey-colored eyes tracking me. It was like I was performing just for him every single time.
But then life took us in different directions and time passed. At first, I ached all the time with missing him. There were so many times when I thought about leaving the lights of New York behind me to go back to Seneca Falls. But then I’d tuck my head down and keep grinding and pushing to get closer to my dreams.
At night, when it felt like darkness was creeping in, I would close my eyes and remember. The way it felt when Everton would cup my face in his large hands and look at me like I was the only thing that mattered. The way he would track my movements across the wooden floor of the dance studio which was too small for my dreams. The way it felt like everything was possible, before I realized our love wasn’t going to be enough to tether us together.
