But after a big show like this one, all hell broke loose.
Usually, I joined in, remaining the wallflower given I adored observing people. And I was a tiny bit shy. Not tonight. Tonight, I was more melancholy than usual. Maybe because it was my birthday and even my father had forgotten this year.
Up to this point, he’d always remembered. Cards. Flowers. Lavish gifts. He’d never allowed me to forget I was his princess. Maybe when I returned to the apartment there would be something waiting for me. He did like to surprise me.
I’d sent him a link to the show a few days before with my name on the program. Well, Anna Scavo, the name change he’d required for my protection and certainly not too far removed from my given name.
Feeling sorry for myself wasn’t typical, but I’d spent one too many holidays and celebrations alone. It was my own fault. I’d been the one to purposely distance myself from my family. I tugged my purse from the drawer, pulling out my wallet.
I’d allowed myself a single photograph I’d carried with me since beginning my journey over six years before. I was maybe six years old, sitting on my father’s lap. He was beaming, his smile wider than his face.
While my mother stood behind him, for once she appeared content with her life. I was giggling, maybe because he’d bounced me on his knee as he’d done so many times when I’d been a child.
That was then. This was now. I was never going back to that suffocating life. Furious at the sadness attempting as per usual to strip away the little bit of pure joy, I shoved the photograph back into my wallet and jerked up. Time to shed the ballet clothes and head home.
By the time I’d changed, the noise outside in the corridor had all but been silenced. By now, there were only a limited number of people left inside the building, including a few technicians and janitors. They wouldn’t lock the building until they knew everyone was out.
When I went to grab my jacket, I knocked my phone across the surface and the display popped on. I had a message. Who could have called me during the performance?
Papa?
Excitement tugged at my stomach as I grabbed the phone, hating that my hand was shaking. My own mother hadn’t so much as acknowledged the last email I’d sent her. I’d given up bothering to call. It wasn’t worth the expense or the heartache. She’d been forced to abide by my father’s wishes. She should be happy since she’d never wanted me around.
Still hopeful, I slipped my fingers across the screen, realizing I’d been left a phone message, the call originating from a phone number I didn’t recognize.
A trickle of fear replaced every amazing vibe from before. Still shaking, I continued staring at the screen for an exorbitant amount of time before finding the courage to listen to the message.
“Ms. Scavo, this is Irina Novikov, the artistic director of the New Orleans Ballet Theater. Recently, you sent an email regardingour inquiries for new talent within our company. I’ve finally had the opportunity to review the videos you sent along with your credentials. You are a powerful force on stage. I am happy to inform you that you have a place within the New Orleans Ballet if you’re still considering a change from the ABT. We’d love to have you and as such, are prepared to offer you principal status.”
Was she kidding me?
Irina Novikov? Only the most incredible female ballet dancer of her time. Hell, for eternity. I’d grown up idolizing her. I hadn’t paid any attention that she was with the NOBT.
Holy shit.
This was incredible, only I hadn’t recently applied. That had been months before when I’d been in a mental and emotional slump.
When I’d been certain I was being passed over for the lead for the tenth time, I’d gotten a little drunk. I’d had a little encouragement and I’d applied to several other ballet companies.
Oddly enough, I hadn’t remembered sending anything to the New Orleans Ballet. If I did remember correctly, their website clearly stated they were not accepting resumes.
But the call was proof.
An offer.
They’d reviewed the videos I’d sent them. I couldn’t remember sending any of those either. Ugh. They loved my style. What?What?
I bit my lower lip to keep from squealing. The New Orleans Ballet Theater had made a formal offer. I could learn to like the South. I’d never been to New Orleans.
Oh, I must have been drunk when I sent those emails. Both excitement and additional anxiety swept through me. Another dream potentially coming true. I mean with Marissa and three other younger women holding the prima ballerina positions, the most I could hope to achieve was a few solo performances if I was lucky. I did a little shimmy while still on the stool. It was fabulous to have choices.
Feeling giddier than usual, I hopped up, spinning in circle after circle. I couldn’t take the offer, of course. New York was my home, the American Ballet Theater everything I’d aspired to. I adored it in the Big Apple. The sights. The sounds. The food.
Even as little as I ate.
How could I possibly consider leaving? This was my dream.
Groaning again, I re-listened to the message. I hadn’t caught the part where the director was looking for an answer within twenty-four hours. How could I go from the best night of my life to planning a future that included such a tremendous change in such a short timeframe?
