“You moved here with your husband. I assumed he had a job here or something,” I reply with a shrug.
“He did. But that’s not all.” She waves me over to sit on her chair. I hesitate, but at the end of the day, I’m too intimidated by this woman not to listen to her. “I retired because I couldn’t dance any longer. About five years into my career, I injured my ankle. Back then, injuries were seen as a weakness—an easy way to be replaced. I didn’t tell anyone, worked my ass off, and that ultimately ended my career.”
“I’m sorry.” My heart breaks for her. The idea of my career ending has been an all-too-close reality. One I’m doing everything to avoid. At least I thought I was…
“Don’t be sorry. Take the lesson.” She bends down and inspects my right hip. “I know about your injury.” She continues to assess me, scrutinizing my leg as if drawing a line of my pain down the back of it. Like she canseeit. “When you dance, I notice every wince. I asked around about you before you arrived, about why you weren’t invited back to the Institute. Therealreason.”
My body stills, pinned under her attention. “And what did you learn?”
“They also knew of your injury. The one you were trying to hide before the accident.”
“I—”
“Let me finish.”
Shit.
I’m not sure where this is going but if I stay in this room much longer, I won’t be able to hold the tears at bay. They prick at the backs of my eyes, making me blink rapidly.
“Being injured isn’t a weakness, but being careless with your wellbeing is. I expect you to be in PT tomorrow with Heather after class and follow whatever course of action she prescribes. I will be keeping personal tabs on your progress. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.” It’s all I can get out as I sit in shock. I’m bare. Exposed. Seeing my scars when I’m in just my leotard is one thing, something I mentally prepared for knowing I could only hide beneath makeup and ballet shrugs for so long… Spotting the pain underneath that, an injury that’s only worsened from my lack of care, it’s too much.
Now I’ll have PTandtherapy appointments. Being prodded from every direction with everyone’s attention on what I lack. Viewed as broken on the outside as I am on the inside.
“You miss one appointment and I will go to the director with what I know and get you pulled from performing.”
“I understand.” My fists ball at my sides.
“Good.”
“Thank you, Mistress Maral,” I manage to toss out before I stand up.
“Don’t thank me… And don’t mistake this for generosity—you will find none of that in my class.” She walks over to my dance bag and brings it to the door, silently dismissing me. “Your lack of self-preservation is a liability to this company. Get yourself together or you’ll find yourself starting over again somewhere else.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She opens the door and taps my shoulder as I move to exit the studio. “Don’t forget that Heather will be giving me regular reports.”
“Of course.” I keep my gaze trained to the Marley floor, following each gray streak along its grain. “See you tomorrow, Mistress Maral.”
When I get to the dressing room, I take my time, mulling over the conversation. I need to get out of my own head before I have to be social with the others in the recovery room. There’s no doubt in my mind that they’ll be curious as to why I had to stay after to talk to Mistress Maral. If she’s been able to spot my injury, have they?
People underestimate how cutthroat the ballet world can be. They see graceful, delicate, poised dancers. In reality, there is always someone waiting in the wings, calculating if your failure is their next opportunity. There are girls in the company who are understudying for ensemble positions inGiselle, the ballet we will be performing. They could easily see my injury as their chance to swoop in and snag a spot in the corps.
My pulse eventually slows, and I exit the back of the dressing area that’s connected to the recovery room. There are three ice baths set in a line across a tiled area in the corner. On the floor, oversized mats are situated with bins full of stretchy bands, foam and textured rollers, and various sized balls for getting out knots and working through tense spots with trigger point massage.
“Hey!” Evelyn calls over to me. She’s wrapped in a towel with tiny water droplets scattered across her shoulders. “Just finished up in the ice bath, but if you give me five, I’ll come back out and stretch with you.”
“Sounds great.” Relief washes through me. At least now I can chat with her without feeling bad about turning down her ice bath offer again, making myself more of an outsider to the rest of the company.
Finding a spot on the large mat, I pull out a textured roller with jagged edges, rolling it up and down the backs of my legs between stretches. Evelyn and two of the other girls from the corps, Sara and Veronique, grab their recovery toys of choice and plop down next to me. My chest clenches, trying to decide what I’ll say if they ask about why I was kept after class. It’sVeronique who kicks off the conversation, only it’s not in the way I expect.
“You know, I saw your Lilac Fairy performance a few years ago.” A smile peels across her lips. “It was stunning.”
Veronique is one of the youngest in the corps and came straight from Ballet Potomac’s training program. Her father is a French diplomat who works at the embassy. I don’t think she’s even twenty yet. Her thick raven hair is pinned up in a messy bun, her big, brown eyes conveying something akin to admiration. It surprises me, along with her compliment.
My cheeks heat. “Thank you.”
