She steps closer, hand on my arm with the casual intimacy of someone who’s seen me fail repeatedly and still has faith. “There’s this sequence where he moves from grand jetés—huge, sweeping jumps—right into pirouettes, then into a dramatic finish. Master that, and your balance and mobility will catapult to another level.”
The way she describes it makes it sound both impossible and irresistible.
“Alright,” I nod. “Let’s do it.”
A smile emerges on her lips. “You’re really serious about this, huh?”
“I am.” And I mean it, which surprises me more than her.
She finds the music on her phone. Tchaikovsky’s “Pas de Deux” fills the space with notes that likely expect more from me than I’m prepared to give. I stand at center, broadening my shoulders like that might make me worthy of this music.
“The Cavalier variation has a ton of jumps,” she explains. “Big but smooth. And you always land soft. I shouldn’t hear you hit the floor. Give it a try.”
I push off into a grand jeté, and for a moment I’m actually flying. My front leg extends ahead with what feels like real height though I know it’s not quite at hip level yet. My back leg trails behind, attempting that clean arabesque line I’ve watched the professional dancers achieve so effortlessly. I can feel my arms trying to frame the movement properly, except my left hand has tensed up and curled slightly inward—a habit Petra has noted before. The landing thunders through the studio floor, my heel hitting first instead of rolling through my toes. But for that half-second in the air, my body almost understood what it was supposed to do.
“Not bad,” Petra lies kindly, “but relax your shoulders. You’re carrying too much tension, and it’s visible.”
I reset, then leap again with her notes traveling from my mind to my body.
“Better. Now, tours en l’air,” she instructs.
I land and immediately coil into the next move, launching upward into a full turn that my body protests but somehow completes. My arms snap into position like they’ve been coached; my core engaging in ways that make me realize I’ve been using it wrong for years.
“Good—now transition directly into pirouettes. This is where your control gets tested.”
Her hand finds my ribs, knowing exactly where I’m weakest. “Core solid, or you’ll wobble.”
I push off into the pirouette, managing two rotations before the third sends me stumbling. She catches me, steadying my arm with her hands. “Almost had it.”
“I feel too unstable,” I exhale, shaking my arms.
“That’s because you’re fighting it. It has to feel natural. And you must spot yourself.”
She picks up her phone and restarts the music from the beginning. The music swells again, and this time I move with confidence. My jumps are cleaner. The pirouettes still tangle me up, but I manage two and a half before spinning out. When Petra shouts “Keep going!” I push through to the final arabesque, extending long and confident.
“That was…an improvement,” she says as I hold the finish.
I walk to my bag and take a sip from my water bottle.
“There’s something kind of incredible about watching an athlete learn ballet,” she says, stepping closer with eyes still bright from watching me not fail completely. “You’re learning to control all this power you already have, but in a completely new way.”
I’m about to respond when she suddenly stiffens, eyes snapping toward the door. Through the narrow glass partition in the door, we spot Kate Steel emerge from Nilas’s office down the hall. Kate’s laughing, glowing with the particular satisfaction of someone who’s gotten exactly what she wanted. Then, as if she can feel our eyes, Kate turns and spots us in the studio.
Petra and I freeze.
Kate smirks, insincerity personified, then waves at us, her hand swallowed by an oversized purple mitten. She then disappears down the hallway, leaving behind the kind of tension that makes me grateful hockey fights are more straightforward.
Petra exhales through her nose, slow and measured, gathering herself. Then she turns to me, and I see it: the frustration, the competitive fire, the desire to be in favor with Nilas instead of sneaking around in stolen studio time.
“Don’t worry about Kate,” I say.
“Impossible not to,” Petra says. “She’s always running some scheme.”
“All you can control is yourself…and hopefully me when I fall out of my pirouettes,” I say.
“You’re right. You’re absolutely right. Never mind her.”
“So,” I say, “want to run that sequence again?”
