“I bet you were amazing,” Evelyn adds. “What was it like being a soloist? If you don’t mind us asking.”
I think back to the piece, how many hours I spent honing the control and flexibility to get my lines to where I wanted. It was after those rehearsals I’d started to feel the stiff twinge of pain at my hip, the one that later began to radiate down my leg. The beginnings of my injury. I’d smiled my way through the Lilac Fairy’s variation, earning a riotous applause from the audience.
I craved it. Devoured it.
But the moment I got backstage, I found a dark corner, sobs racking my body as the ache surged through me. Lark scooped me up after she realized I hadn’t come back to our dressing room, stretching out my leg and sitting with me until I could gather myself up for the rest of the performance. She’s the only one I’ve ever talked to about it, other than my mom.
“Do you have a recording of it?” asks Sara. She seems…genuinely excited.
It’s odd how they are staring at me. It’s how I stare at Blake and the other principals at the Institute.
While some of these dancers might be threatened by my very presence, seeing me as the competition, there are also dancers who want to be friends. Dancers who respect what I’ve donethrough my career thus far. The three women in front of me remind me of myself when I started years ago. They’re hungry for their moment to shine, when the spotlight will shower them in its intoxicating glow, even if only for a few minutes. Where all eyes are on them and their craft.
“I can shoot you the link later if you really want.”
“Yes, please!”
My chest warms, chin lifting. “And it felt absolutely incredible. I definitely miss it.”
We continue to chat about each other’s backgrounds as we finish stretching. While their questions about my career press on a past that stings like an open wound, there’s a satisfaction that’s layered on top. A balm to my soul.
For the first time since I put my ballet career on pause, maybe there’s a place for me. Somewhere I’m a little less alone and ashamed of what I’ve lost.
After an hourof recovery and grabbing tea with the other girls, I head five blocks to the metro and ride it home. There’s a coat hanging on the hook and a dance bag tucked into the corner of the room. Lark is home.
I press my ear to the door and the sound of her showering spills from the other side. After removing the layers and layers of winter gear clinging to my frigid body like a wooly second skin, I wobble on sore legs down the hallway to my room.
After the chilly metro ride and trek home, I’m more than eager to warm up in the shower. I turn it on, then head back into my bedroom. Steam billows out from the bathroom, mistspreading next to the bed. I pull out my phone to jot down the notes into my journal and send Sara the recording of my Lilac Fairy performance fromSleeping Beauty.
I watch the video three times. The nostalgia is bittersweet and I can’t help but reminisce over what my body was capable of only a few years ago. A time when it was at its prime, thirsting to be pushed and challenged. I could dance for hours, then come home and rehearse in my bedroom or in my head until I passed out, before starting the routine all over. I can’t move like that now. But if I take PT seriously, like Mistress Maral wants, and keep working hard, maybe I can get back to that point again.
I strip off my dance clothes and toss them into the hamper. I spot my journal still out on the desk.Odd.I’m normally pretty careful about not leaving it out, but I was in a hurry earlier.
Two eyes peer up at me from the page, striking deep in my soul, along with the words that accompany them.
Where did you go?
Something I’ve wondered countless times. I sigh, shutting it and sticking it back into the drawer before I head into the bathroom. Thick streaks on the mirror catch my attention, and I cross my arms over my naked body before I rip the towel from its hook. I wrap it around myself, glancing into the bedroom. A chill spins down my spine. My heart races. I manage to take a deep breath and turn my gaze back to the big letters outlined in fog.
I’m here.
7
JOLIE
I’m here.
“Hello?” My voice quivers, hands shaking at my sides as I stare at those two words. Is this some sort of prank? A practical joke Lark or Delilah is playing on me? They aren’t really the type, but how else can you explain writing on the mirror in your bathroom? Nevertheless, I text Lark.
Haha very funny
Lark:
I usually am, but what did I do this time?
Were you in my room earlier?
Lark:
