The other corps members and I line up along the curtain. Bouncing back and forth, I roll through the box of my pointe shoes, pressing up onto my toes to warm up my feet. No matter how many times I’ve done this, the nerves always arrive while I’m waiting in the wings. The blues and whites of the spotlights frame the stage in an eerie ambiance, and the thick red curtain is the only thing standing between us and the audience. Their murmurs filter over the top of it, a background hum amplifying my anxiety.
I remind myself this feeling is normal and the sensation will disappear the moment I emerge under the stage’s inviting illumination.
Heading to the barre poised backstage, I hike my leg over the top rung and stretch out my hamstring one last time to prevent worsening my injury. Though the physical therapists are on standby, there’s not much they can do for me while I’m performing. Once I’m out on that stage, I’ll give it my all—no compensating. I’ll push through the pain and check in with them during intermission. The most intense work, though, will be afterward, in The White Act, the second half of the ballet when the wilis are on stage. Even during the restful moments, we must hold our poses, exuding the picture of grace, framing the pieces taking place center stage.
In the corps, the last thing you want to do is stand out.
There are thirty of us out there. If each ballerina performed the piece individually, you’d notice the way Evelyn’s archesextend her lines beyond reproach, the way Veronique’s fingers tense when she turns swiftly across the floor, the way Sara perfectly tilts her chin with every step.
They claim no two snowflakes are alike. Each holds its own unique presence. It’s a beautiful sentiment, but how often do we really appreciate the intricacies? When it snows, all we see is the wintry mix around us. The whole. Not each piece that creates it. The instructors, the audience,that’swhat they desire from the corps. The mirage of wholeness. We aren’t individuals with years of sweat and suffering under our belts. We are a blizzard of motion. A storm of poise that moves and breathes as one.
Evelyn shoots me a knowing smile, switching her weight back and forth on her feet. I bring my leg down, finishing out my stretches before lining up behind her in the wings.
“Ready?” she asks, a slight shiver to her tone.
“Yes.” It’s half true. I’m always ready to perform. To be up on the stage in front of an audience, showcasing the talent I’ve worked hard for. But there are extra nerves that come with opening night. Something unexpected is bound to happen… And for the first time, the one comfort I’ve always relied on isn’t here.
My mom.
When those curtains draw up, I won’t find her smiling up at me, pride shimmering in her eyes. No moment where she’s the only one I see, the rest of the audience merely a dark blur surrounding her glow.
However, Lark and Delilahwillbe here. I coach myself a few times to seek them out. But when the red velvet rises, I can’t stop the pang of disappointment that floods me when my mom isn’t there. Logically, she won’t ever be, but no amount of reason can prepare me for the realities that come with the loss of her.
I grip my knees, gasping for air that’s just out of reach. I’m drowning all over again, air shredded from my lungs. Helpless.Trapped in that car. Only this time, there’s no piercing gaze. No mate to save me.
Mom is gone.
Jax is gone.
Evelyn kneels down, hand gently gliding up and down my spine. “You okay?”
It’s enough to ground me and stop the theater from spinning. My gaze finally snags on Lark and Delilah in the front row. They must have paid a fortune for those seats. Not that they cared about that. I quickly sniff the tears away before I ruin my stage makeup.
I’m not alone.
“Yeah,” I rasp, catching my breath and shaking out the last of my nerves.
The orchestra sweeps into the introduction. Wren’s shoes lightly tap against the floor as she breaks into her first variation as Giselle. She’s light and gorgeous on her feet, extending out into a stunning arabesque, unaware of the Duke watching her move gracefully across the floor. Her work is something to aspire to. I can’t help the smile on my face when Rudolph takes her in his arms. Their bodies are instruments of storytelling, just as much as the ones made of brass and strings reverberating from the pit at the base of the stage. How beautifully they move together. Rudolph partners her with such synchronicity, the level of support that only comes from hours of dedicated practice and a foundation of trust.
I’m carried away for a moment, envisioning myself dancing out there. Picking flowers alongside my partner. Commanding the audience’s attention.
Time slips by, and the next thing I know, I’m taking a deep breath and prancing out onto the stage alongside the other corps members to finish out the last section of the first act. For theensemble, it’s mainly acting to enhance the story being told. The real work comes in Act II.
We filter into the wings, hustling toward our dressing rooms to change into our wilis costumes—white leotards with long tutus. Quickly making additions to each other’s makeup, we complete our costumes with darkened circles around our eyes. Then we pass out the chiffon veils, draping them over ourselves, transforming into the ghostly apparitions of the woods. Before we can take a true breath, we’re behind the curtain once again, ready to go. My hip is stiff, so I wave over Heather, who does some dynamic stretches with me before the curtain rises once again onGiselle’s second act.
The lights darken to deeper blue. Mist creeps along with us as we drift out from the wings. Our entrance is slow, a series of ethereally elegant lines. Every so often I catch glances of my friends up on the stage with me and those in the audience. The ghost of loneliness still lingers, but each time my eyes connect with one of them, I’m comforted.
We dance for what feels like forever and an instant, until my limbs and toes are sore to the point of numbness. Until the performance is over and the thick, velvet curtain blankets us from the audience in a ripple of crimson.
We have a moment to catch our breaths before we’re called over by Ballet Potomac’s director. “Well done!” he says, clapping his hands together. “There are always hiccups the first show, but we couldn’t have asked for a better opening.”
My stomach unclenches. I inhale deeply, savoring the air dragging into my lungs now that my pulse is steady. It’s not the type of feedback I expected—we never heard such a positive review on a first performance at the Institute. In fact, even by the last one, these meetings were something I looked to with anxiety.
The more time I spend at Ballet Potomac, the more I wonder if the loss of my position was a blessing in disguise.
The director turns things over to Mistress Maral and our choreographer, who talk us through a few spots they want us to focus on before tomorrow’s matinee performance. Then we’re dismissed to our dressing rooms.
After changing into my clothes, I hurry out to the lobby to meet Lark and Delilah. They each pull me in for a hug, handing me a lush bouquet of winter roses.
