Bunheads (23 page)

Leni nods carefully. “
Immer wenn du meinst es geht nicht mehr, Kommt Von irgendwo ein Lichtlein her
,” she says.

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“Just when you think you can’t go on, somewhere a little light comes on,” she says. She holds out a bag of something green. “Kale chip? They’re loaded with good phytochemicals.”

I shake my head and smile. I
do
feel as if a little light has come on.

When Jacob calls me that night, I run to grab my phone to tell him the news. But then I hold it in my hands as it rings. There’s his picture, flashing on the screen—his smiling face, with a Big Apple tour bus behind it. I count three rings, then four, then five.
Focus, Hannah, focus.
I don’t press the button to answer it, and the call goes to voice mail.

Of course, I’m not the only one who’s motivated by the promotions. In addition to beginning a new diet, Daisy has bought an entirely new workout wardrobe. She looks like a model from a Danskin catalog.

“God, she’s desperate,” Zoe mutters as she roots around in her purse.

“Yeah, if that tactic worked, we’d all be wearing Day-Glo Lycra,” I whisper back.

Daisy is oblivious as she prances around the room, her wavy black hair shining from a recent hot-oil treatment. “Dr. Shapiro says that colors can really affect your mood and outlook on life, you know,” she says.

“Yeah, that yellow really says soloist.” Zoe smirks.

“What?” Daisy asks.

“Oh, nothing. I was just saying how I like the yellow of your leotard.”

It’s not as if Daisy’s the only one to feel competitive. Zoe has begun dancing next to me again and occasionally shooting me looks—part-joking, part-serious—that are full of challenge.

Only Bea and Leni seem the same to me. As Daisy put it, “They have greater emotional equilibrium,” which is obviously a phrase she learned from Dr. Shapiro.

“I’m
la ballerine près de l’eau
,” Leni says.

“You and your foreign phrases,” I say. “What does that mean?”

“It’s French,” she says, “for ‘the dancer closest to the water.’ It means an older dancer, one who’s assigned a spot by the backdrop. In the old days that was a fountain.”

“I don’t get it.”

She shrugs. “I’m like the scenery. But I think Otto will keep me around. I think he likes me, as much as he’s capable of liking anyone. But I’ll never be promoted.”

And for all I know, she’s right. Maybe she’s just a competent, strong dancer who lacks (or sees herself as lacking) that ineffable quality that could make her a star. Bea thinks that about herself, too, though at least she has youth on her side.

“Do you think we’ll have the cute one again today?” I whisper to Bea. “Taylor?” We’re back at Bikram because now that I’ve
rededicated myself to the Manhattan Ballet, I have to tighten my soft bits and look flat and tight for the upcoming leotard ballets.

Bea shrugs as she unfurls her yoga mat. She lies down in corpse pose. She didn’t really want to come.

“I’ll buy you a smoothie after,” I whisper to her.

She opens one eye. “I’m going to order a large, with all sorts of extras like spirulina and stuff. It’s going to cost you.”

I smile and poke her arm. She tries to stifle a grin, and I poke her again. I’m on the verge of embarrassing both of us with some kind of tickle attack when the door to the studio slams and we look up. Instead of Taylor, bronzed and clad in clothes that hug every muscle and sinew of his body,
Zoe
enters the room. She’s wearing tiny black yoga shorts and a minuscule purple sports bra. She walks in our direction, stepping around people, and places her mat next to mine. She sets up her towel and water bottle in silence and then turns to me and smiles broadly. “Couldn’t let you get into killer shape alone, could I?”

Beside me I hear Bea exhaling slowly. She’s going to pretend that Zoe isn’t even here. Too bad that’ll be impossible for me, since she’s only inches away.

When Taylor walks in, flashing his photo-shoot smile, Zoe leans over and whispers, “Damn. As if I needed to feel
more
motivated.”

I can only sigh.

And of course she gets his number. She goes right up to him after class and tells him what an
incredible
,
amazing
teacher he is. She says that his encouragements really
inspired
her and that he helped her get to a new level in her practice.

I almost spit out the water I’m drinking. “Her practice?” I say to Bea. “She’s never even tried Bikram before.”

“She’s totally shameless,” Bea agrees as we head into the locker room. “Remind me of that the next time I wonder how it is she has so many boyfriends.”

“Taylor will never be her boyfriend,” I say. “She might sleep with him once or twice, though.”

“Boyfriend, fuck buddy, whatever,” Bea replies. “Let’s go get that smoothie you owe me.”

I stare at her. “Did you just say
fuck buddy
?”

“I believe I did.” Bea tries to keep a straight face, but I can see a smile dying to come out.

“I’ve never heard you say the word
fuck
before.”

She gives in and grins. “People change.”

“Don’t change too much, okay? You’re my rock.”

“No problem,” she says with a laugh.

I strip off my sweat-soaked clothes and step into the shower. The hot water rushes over me, and I feel like I might melt. “I need to e-mail him,” I say, almost to myself.

“What?” Bea calls from the neighboring shower. “You’re going to e-mail Taylor? What for?”

“No, Jacob. He called me days ago, and I haven’t called him back.”

“Better get on it,” she says. “Hey, can I use some of your shampoo?”

I can’t make a date with him, but I can at least write to say hi. And so that night I do:

But then a few days go by, and I don’t hear from him at all.

“Just let me bring you lunch,” Matt says. “I’ve got nothing to do today.”

I hold the phone in the crook of my neck as I change into a new pair of pointe shoes. “Are you sure you don’t have to take a flight to Paris or whatever?” I ask. “You’re not due on a chartered jet to Gstaad?”

“Very funny. As a matter of fact, I’m here for the foreseeable future. At least until after the Met Opera gala.”

“Hmm,” I murmur.

“How are things?” he asks.

“Busy. I didn’t even mean to answer the phone.”

“But you saw it was me,” Matt says, “and so you had to.”

“Actually, I just forgot for a second,” I say.

“You’re looking good up there lately,” he says. “Your leaps are fantastic.”

I forget that he’s so often in the audience, sitting next to his father, the lanky, gray-haired banking tycoon. Even when I haven’t spoken to him in a while, Matt knows where I am and what I’m doing.

“Thanks. I’m trying.”

“So, what do you want me to bring you?”

“I barely have an hour,” I tell him. “It’s not worth your time.”

His deep voice goes deeper. “How about you let me be the judge of what is and isn’t a good use of my time?” Then he laughs. “Seriously. You know how this goes. I propose something, you protest, I persist, you give in. So, what do you want for lunch?”

How I wish this lunch offer had come from Jacob—but he would never be so pushy.

I find my toe separators underneath my chair. “Tuna on rye and an apple,” I say.

“What kind of apple?” Matt wants to know.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

I think about this for a minute. “Fuji.”

“Fuji it is.”

And when I meet him outside the theater, I’m surprised to find myself happy to see him. He’s always untroubled, and I
don’t know very many people like that. Plus he’s one hundred percent attractive. As Zoe would say, he’s runway material.

We sit on the edge of the fountain as Matt sips a coffee and I eat my sandwich. We make a funny-looking pair: He looks ready for the office in a well-cut gray suit and shiny shoes, while I’m sporting a pair of Adidas warm-up pants I stole from Jonathan, and my rattiest Tretorn sneakers.

A group of teenagers walks by, and even though I only see them out of the corner of my eye, I recognize them as MBA students. The girls walk with their feet turned out and their tights rolled up at their ankles; the boys are as thin and leggy as colts. They’ve no doubt just come from School of the Arts, where they napped or doodled through their classes, the girls drawing ballerinas in the margins of their handouts, the boys scribbling band names—Blink-182, Maroon 5, whatever—on the backs of their notebooks.

Perhaps their poor teacher was trying to teach them Shakespeare, but their heads were full of the combinations they learned in class that morning. Maybe one of the girls was willing herself not to eat for the rest of the afternoon, while another one was imagining taking her curtain call at the end of the performance and curtsying to the wildly applauding audience. I was one of those kids once; I know how it goes.

“Hey,” Matt says, nudging me gently. “Where’d you go?”

I smile. “Sorry. Spacing.”

“What are you dancing tonight?” he asks.

“I can’t even remember,” I admit. “Are you coming?”

“I’ve got a party to go to.”

“Oh.” For some reason I feel disappointed.

“Your friend, the one who looks sort of like you,” Matt says.

I roll my eyes. “Zoe.”

“Right. She’s got that solo now.”

“Yes, thanks for reminding me.” I take a bite of my sandwich and wrap the rest in a napkin.

“She’s strong, but she’s not as graceful as you,” Matt says, tapping my knee gently with his finger.

I kind of wish he’d stop talking about her. “Tell that to Otto.”

“I could. He’s coming over to my father’s for dinner next Monday.”

“Don’t say a word to him,” I order Matt.

Matt laughs. “I wouldn’t, but I don’t have to. I can tell you’re stronger and more relaxed. You look great up there, and I’m not just saying that because I have a big crush on you.”

I look at him and open my mouth to speak, but he holds up a hand.

“Look, I’m only human. And you’re a bombshell. But I don’t have a reason not to tell you the truth. You’re going to be recognized one of these days. I know it. I’m just quicker at figuring things out than your director.”

My face flushes, and I can’t help but notice that I feel proud to be sitting here with this incredibly handsome guy who thinks I’m a bombshell.