The alarming swoop of my guts. The screech of tires. The crackling of ice before it splinters—
I shake my head.
Save it for the therapist, Jolie. Not right now.
I need to be on my game. Make the best first impression. Today will set the tone for the rest of the season—and potentially my career.
I push open the door and pass the posters decorating the walls with beautifully poised ballerinas, all principals at Ballet Potomac. There are some I recognize, a handful I don’t. We had similar pictures posted up at the Institute—a lot more of them, in fact, from decades of being the premiere company in the nation’s capital. I used to peer up at them each morning while I ran to class as a reminder of my goal.
Now, they just remind me of how far I’ve fallen.
My stomach ties itself in knots, screaming for me to turn around and run out the door. Maybe coming back to this makes me a masochist, but I refuse to give up on my dream.
You can do this.
The receptionist—a pale woman with a thick, red perm and false lashes—keeps her attention on the computer screen as I approach the desk.
“Hi, I’m Jolie Wilder,” I say, mustering my most friendly smile. A smile that says I’m approachable even though I know you’ve all been judging me since before I stepped through the door.
She nods but doesn’t lift her gaze. I glance behind me to see if I can figure out which room I’m supposed to go into, but the few dancers who’ve arrived this early trickle into different studios.
Guess I need to tweak my definition ofearlyif I want to be one of the first ones here.
My fingers tap nervously against the counter until the receptionist finally looks up.
“Ah, yes. The director told us you’d be coming today, Miss Wilder. Studio B.” She points to the door at the farthest end of the hallway, denoted by the big, boldBpainted on it. A poster for this year’s Ballet World Summit is plastered below it. Every year the ballet festival takes place in a different part of the world, showcasing various companies by invitation only. Too bad if Ballet Potomac gets an invitation, I won’t be making the cut. That’s a soloist and principal opportunity. And honestly, as a lesser-known company, the likelihood of them being invited is fairly slim for an international event as big as the Ballet World Summit.
“Thanks,” I say to her, not taking my gaze off the picture of dancers leaping against Sydney’s stunning backdrop.
“Welcome.” Her tone is clipped, attention already back to the computer.
It isn’t exactly the greeting I’d imagined. She didn’t even give me her name, though the golden nameplate across the desk says Ms. McCormick.
Guess that’s it, then.
I turn back toward the lobby. Normally someone shows you the ropes on your first day. But today isn’t technically my first day, is it?
I follow blonde and brunette buns down the hall, passing another room of dancers chatting with each other. Their voices drop once they notice me, and for the first time that I can remember in my dance career, I wish I was invisible.
Scurrying toward studio B’s open door, I peel off my jacket and layers, hanging them on the hooks outside the room before I enter. My gaze darts to the clock, and I suck in a breath. Not as early as I’d planned, but I still have time to get on my shoes and warm up before the ballet mistress arrives.
A few of the other dancers look up from either stretching or chatting among themselves, shooting me curious glances before returning to their pre-practice activities. No one makes a move to introduce themselves. If anything, they seem to retreat further among their fellow company members. This room holds close to twenty other people, and they’re all huddled in little clusters, leaving me starkly alone and standing out.
Exactly what I don’t want.
I grew up dancing with some of these girls, but then we headed off in different directions, some going to college before auditioning for companies, and others, not wanting to waste those precious years at school, looked for work right away. I’d left Virginia to study at NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts before coming back to the area to be closer to my mom. After working my way up the rungs of the District Dance Institute, I thought I’d dance with them until I retired. Maybe teach. Now those plans were gone and here I was, back at square one.
Luckily, one of Ballet Potomac’s benefactors is the spouse of one of my former instructors, and they were nice enough to put in a word with the director. While I’ve been demoted back to the corps, the ballet company’s ensemble, at least I have the opportunity to dance again.
Dragging my bag over to me, I unzip it, grabbing out my pointe shoes and setting my pads in place. They’ve barely been touched in months and the boxes are chilly and stiff.
I take my time tying up the ribbons, flexing and pointing my feet to ensure they aren’t too tight or too loose. This used to besecond nature, like putting on a second skin. Now my fingers are clumsy, fumbling over the ribbons.
Once I finish lacing my shoes, I stand, adjusting my warm-ups over my leotard. I leave my shrug on, checking the other dancers to see if they still have on their layers. Most do and I exhale for what feels like the first time since I walked through Ballet Potomac’s doors.
At least they won’t have to see my scars yet.
I spent more time than I should’ve concealing them with makeup this morning, uncertain if they had rules about leaving on layers for class. It’s not like they’re a secret, though. If I had to guess from the way the other dancers are scrutinizing me, some of them already know what happened. The accident was in the papers, after all.
