Bunheads (13 page)

Jacob turns and gazes out over the trees, and then he looks back at me. Our faces are so close, we could almost kiss. “You’re standing on the rooftop of the greatest museum in the world, looking out over the greatest city in the world—that’s something to
make
time for.” His voice is soft but earnest.

I shiver, but whether it’s because I’m cold or because I’m close to Jacob, I can’t tell. “Are you lecturing me? If you are, you can quit, because I’m making time for it now.”

Jacob laughs. “I’m going to take all the credit for it, then,” he says. “Since it was my idea to meet here.” With his arm still around me, he leads me around the rooftop. “I like it up here because in the winter you can see everything. In the summer the park is just a sea of impenetrable green.” His fingers tighten around my shoulder, then loosen again. “I guess it’s just a matter of perspective. Things are prettier in June, but they’re clearer in January.”

“That sounds like a metaphor for something,” I say.

He laughs again. “Yeah, it does. But for what I’m not entirely sure.” He runs his hand through his dark hair. “I also wanted to impress you with my ability to sneak you into a closed roof garden.”

“I’m impressed,” I assure him.

He points out various buildings across the park—the Majestic, the Dakota, the Langham, and the San Remo, all on Central Park West. I half expect an architecture lesson (certainly, I’d get one if my dad were here), but thankfully Jacob doesn’t say anything about neo-Italian Renaissance facades or art deco motifs.

“You know, John Lennon was shot right outside the Dakota,” he says, pointing across the park.

I have my own trivia about the Dakota, which I know because of a documentary I got for Christmas/Hanukkah one year. “And Rudolf Nureyev lived in the Dakota,” I say. I think about watching him leap across my TV screen. I wish I could have seen him dance live, but I was only a toddler when he died. “He was one of the greatest dancers who ever lived.”

We’re quiet for a minute. I look up to see Jacob’s blue eyes
searching my face. “This may seem like a weird thing to ask, but I’ve been wondering… what’s it like to dedicate your entire life to one single thing? You’ve got to be so devoted.”

I shrug. “The only way to really succeed is to give yourself completely to it. It’s kind of like the Olympics, but it’s every day of our lives.”

“That singularity of purpose.” He thinks for a moment. “You’re like Captain Ahab in
Moby-Dick
, but without the whole psychotic, evil thing.”

“Wow, thanks,” I say. And I make a mental note to add it to my reading list.

“His one goal—to kill the white whale—drives him mad and ultimately kills him and almost the entire crew,” Jacob explains.

“Oh, great. That sounds like just the kind of person I want to be.”

He laughs and pulls me closer to him.

“But you know I do more than just dance,” I say. “I mean, I…”

But then I’m at a loss. What else do I do regularly? I can’t think of anything besides write in my journal. I pick up a stray dead leaf from the ledge and rip it into shreds. “Never mind. Maybe I am Ahab.”

Jacob rubs his hand across my back in little circular patterns. After a few moments he turns to me, smiling. “I think you’re probably a lot more attractive than Ahab.”

I laugh and punch him in the arm. Lightly, but not too lightly.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, smiling.

“Starving,” I tell him.

I tuck my arm through his again as we take the elevator down and pass through the halls filled with Old Master paintings. I point out a Goya I like; Jacob says he loves El Greco.

As we make our way to the lobby, he says thoughtfully, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but the ballet world seems almost cultish.”

I turn to him. “What do you mean?”

Jacob smiles uncertainly. “I mean, think about it….” he says.

“What? Just because we’re expected to behave a certain way, and we follow strict schedules and rules? I mean, we’re just
disciplined
.” I stare at my shoes as I stride toward the door. But then I stop and look up. “But then again, Otto does kind of reign over us. Like, his word pretty much determines the course of our lives. And we can never question him—I hardly know anyone who’s even
talked
to him. So maybe you have a point.”

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” Jacob says.

“Oh, you meant it in a good way?” I laugh. “Because cults have such a great reputation. Well, whatever. If we’re a cult, we’re a very artistic and high-minded cult.”

Jacob laughs, too. “You’re an
amazing
cult,” he says, leading me down the Met steps.

We walk east to Lexington Avenue to catch the number 6 train downtown. The subway car is crowded, and we get separated in the crush of people. I’m wedged between a stroller and an overstuffed backpack, while Jacob is opposite me, pressed up
against the door. For a minute, I wish he were more like Matt, who would never take anything but a cab—or maybe a limo. But then Jacob smiles at me from across the car, and a wave of excitement washes over me. As the train screeches along the tracks, taking us to the East Village, I feel as though Otto and the Manhattan Ballet are miles away. I feel free and light—if a little squashed.

We get out at Bleecker Street and walk to a cozy Italian restaurant on Second Street.

“This place is one of my favorites,” Jacob says. “Il Posto Accanto. The name means ‘the next place.’ ”

The room is small and dimly lit by flickering candles. A huge bouquet of flowers sits on a bar next to colorful platters of antipasti. Against the far wall, a long mirror reflects us back to ourselves, and I notice that my nose is red from the cold.

“So, I played at Gene’s again last week,” he says as he pulls out my chair.

“Did you sing about waffles?” I ask teasingly.

He fakes a look of indignation. “As a matter of fact, I have a new song cycle that has nothing to do with breakfast. It’s all about…” and here he pauses, as if trying to decide whether to tell me. “It’s all about dreams, actually. It sounds kind of corny, but it’s not, I promise.” Then he looks at me hopefully, expectantly, as if my opinion matters. It’s not a look I’m used to.

“I think it sounds great,” I tell him. “I can’t wait to hear them.” Thankfully, he says nothing about the Pete’s Candy Store show that I missed, or the fact that he has sent me invitations to a dozen other shows I’ve failed to go see.

A pretty waitress with a tattoo of a snake on her wrist comes over to give us our menus, and I scan my options. Zoe had instructed me on the proper date ordering technique. “Pick the thing that won’t make you look like you were raised by wolves,” she’d said. “For instance, forget spaghetti.” It seemed like good advice at the time, but I realize that with Jacob, I don’t really have to worry. I bravely order salmon fettuccini.

Jacob asks for the porcini risotto and then turns to me. “And actually I wrote a song for you, too,” he says.

Immediately I can feel myself flushing, and I look down. I’ve always wanted someone to write a song for me. (Find me a girl who hasn’t!) “Really?” I almost whisper. There’s a part of me that doesn’t believe he means it. “What’s it called?”

And now it’s Jacob’s turn to blush. “ ‘Girl in a Tutu,’ ” he says. He looks out the window and twists his hands together nervously.

I’m
dying
to hear the song. I want to reach across the table and hold his hand, but I’m overcome with shyness. Eventually I find my voice. “I love it,” I tell him.

He turns to look at me. “But you haven’t heard it yet,” he says, smiling.

“Well, of course I want to.” My throat feels dry, so I take a sip of wine. “But so far, so good.”

“I’m glad you approve,” Jacob says.

“You could sing a little of it for me now,” I say. Because I really have to know: What does it say about me?

“Only if you
dance
a little for me now,” he responds, grinning.

I shake my head vehemently. “Never. Only if you’re in the
Avery Center audience.” I say this because, for one thing, ballet—unlike singing—is not something one can quietly do at one’s dinner table. And for another thing, I prefer it when my audience is invisible.

“Only if you’re in a tutu, you mean?” Jacob asks.

I smile. “Something like that.”

His attention is momentarily diverted by the delivery of a plate of spaghetti to our neighbors. “Did I tell you about Paulo?” Jacob asks suddenly. “The spaghetti reminded me.”

I shake my head.

And then Jacob begins to tell me more about the after-school program he works at in Spanish Harlem, and about a boy named Paulo who follows him around like a puppy. Paulo is always getting into trouble for one thing or another, and he seems to take great pleasure in being a source of chaos. “Once,” Jacob says, “he took a piece of spaghetti he’d saved from lunch, and stuffed the entire thing up his nose.”

“Ew!” I say.

Jacob holds up his hand. “Wait—it gets better. Somehow he had the one end coming out of his nose, and he got the other end coming out of his mouth, and he basically flossed the back of his throat with the noodle.”

Hearing this, I let out a little snort of laughter. Embarrassed, I look around as if trying to spot the person who made that sound.

“What was that?” Jacob smiles. “I didn’t take you for the snorting type.” And then he reaches over to tickle me.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say indignantly. “It was that guy behind me!” Pretty soon I’m desperately trying
to stifle my giggles and wriggling away, trying to dodge his hands. Eventually he gives up, and I catch my breath and relax in my chair. Our eyes meet. Suddenly he reaches across the table, takes my face in his hands, and leans toward me.

Oh my God, he’s going to kiss me
, I think. I feel a physical, almost magnetic pull toward him; I close my eyes. There is one delicious millisecond of anticipation, and then our lips touch. I feel the surprising softness of his mouth. A surge of energy rushes through my body, and I’m hot and cold at the same time. It’s as if I have a fever, but the feeling is one of indescribable sweetness.

After a moment Jacob pulls away and sits back, his blue eyes glowing.

I want him to kiss me more, but now the waitress is beside our table. Her face betrays no reaction to our PDA. I suppose she’s seen a lot worse in her day.

“Bread,” she says. She slips a basket of steaming rosemary-studded focaccia between us and then turns and glides away.

I glance down at the bread. Suddenly I’m no longer hungry. I just want Jacob to kiss me again.

“Do you think Zoe’s leotard is bright enough?” Bea whispers as she tries to smooth down a few red flyaways. “She looks like a highlighter.”

“That’s because you-know-who is teaching class this morning,” I whisper back.

When Otto teaches company class, everyone—all one hundred of us—shows up. There’s a mad scramble for the best positions: Who can place herself directly in Otto’s line of sight? Who will be stuck in the back, a half-visible form waving her arms to be seen? Daisy stands next to the piano, where the teacher usually demonstrates, and Zoe positions herself by Lottie, whose ankle has healed. Everyone strips down to leotards and tights when Otto’s around. He calls layers “garbage.”

By ten thirty, we’re all in our places along the barre. I’m
somewhere in the middle, next to Bea, who has wrapped her hair around her ears like Princess Leia (the look is somehow cute on her).

Even with a limp, Otto has a certain feline grace and a subtle malevolence. He is wearing tight jeans and a billowy button-down shirt, as usual. He is also carrying, as usual, a bottle of Evian. I have never seen him without one; he must drink even more water than Daisy does.

Within fifteen minutes of the start of class, I have rivulets of sweat running down my chest and soaking my pale pink leotard. My back muscles are burning, and my legs are beginning to throb. Bea’s freckled brow is furrowed as she concentrates on the combination.

“Don’t think, just do,” Otto barks.

He doesn’t want us to overintellectualize the choreography, because sometimes it’s better to just take the plunge. But today my muscles ache, and I’m hyperaware of him gliding through the room, inspecting our line, our devotion. Could he be casting a new ballet? Or looking for expendable dancers? Who is getting his attention? Who’s meeting his approval?

I decide to do everything I can to stand out from the horde of bodies moving in sync. During center, I position myself in front, where Daisy and Zoe usually stand. I can feel them giving me looks, but I ignore them. In the adagio, I create resistance between my limbs and control every muscle fiber as I développé into arabesque. During the promenade, I look out over my fingertips, past the colored blur of dancers staring back. In the
grand allégro across the floor, I expand my movements and try to outjump not only the women but also the men.

I can only hope that Otto notices.