Bunheads (24 page)

But it’s time for rehearsal again, so I stand and brush the
crumbs off my coat. “Well, thanks,” I say. “I mean it. For lunch and for saying that.”

“Don’t forget your apple,” he says. “It’s organic.”

Then he stands, too, and he leans down and kisses me on both cheeks. “See you soon, Hannah Ward,” he says. And he strides off toward Broadway, hails a cab, and vanishes.

“Doesn’t Mr. Edmunds remind you of Mr. Smithers?” I ask Bea.

We’re in dress rehearsal for
The
Awakening
, watching Mr. Edmunds lurk behind Otto like a creepy shadow. He’s wearing a puffy shirt and tight jeans (both Otto trademarks), and when Otto puts his hand on his hip, Mr. Edmunds does, too. When Otto crosses his arms, Mr. Edmunds crosses his arms, as if their postures are choreographed. It’s kind of hilarious.

Bea stifles a giggle as she piqués away from me. “Totally,” she says.

Later, as I’m picking up my water bottle and bag, Mr. Edmunds comes over to me, his brow furrowed. I have a momentary panic—could he have heard me?

“I can tell that you’ve been working much harder,” he says brusquely. “You look stronger. You’re on the right track, Ward, but you
must
stay focused.”

“Thanks,” I squeak out. I’m glad for the compliment, but Mr. Edmunds has always made me nervous.

As I walk back to our dressing room, I think about the fact that my body really does feel pushed to its limits. You know how in movies about athletes there’s always a great montage sequence in which you see the main character getting into shape to the beat of some inspirational music? You see the time fluidly, painlessly passing as she goes from chump to champion. Her sweat gleams; her muscles harden; she’s heroic in her efforts. Every camera angle is flattering.

Well, real life isn’t like that. I want the time to fly by while I strengthen my body and my resolve. But it doesn’t. It’s just a ton of grueling work.

In the tiny moments of spare time I have between rehearsals, gym workouts, and Pilates and gyrotonics lessons, I try to keep up with my journal. This is what I wrote yesterday:
Ugh. Oh God. Ow. Ow. I want to sleep. Everything hurts. Ow.

And that’s absolutely all I could manage.

That night, after a triple-header, my buzzer rings. I press the button and lean in close; the intercom doesn’t work very well. “Who is it?”

The voice comes through the speaker so fuzzy and cracked it’s almost unrecognizable. “Jacob. Jacob Cohen.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling my heart begin to beat faster. “Hi.”

The speaker crackles. “Are you going to buzz me up?”

I hesitate—it’s almost midnight—but then I lean my head against the doorframe as I press the buzzer and wait for him to walk up the three flights of stairs. I open the door and there he is, red-cheeked and smelling like the night air.

I’m wearing a pair of paint-splattered sweatpants and a long-sleeve T-shirt that used to belong to my dad. It says
Old architects never die, they just lose their structure
. I am sockless, braless.

“What are you doing?” I ask. I can feel a smile twitching around the corners of my mouth, but I’m nervous. Considering he never responded to my last e-mail, I’d sort of figured he was finally through with me. Why try to date a girl you can’t ever see?

“Can I come in?” he asks.

I step back and he walks into my living room. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a little box. “For you. A Hanukkah present.”

I look at him in confusion, then take it from his hand; it’s surprisingly heavy. “Hanukkah was almost four months ago, you know,” I say.

“Yeah, okay, then it’s a happy—” and here he glances around my little apartment. The couch, which I’ve obviously just vacated, has a nest of pillows and blankets and a mug of tea steaming on the coffee table. “Happy Hannah Day,” he finishes.

The smile I was trying to suppress comes out. “Is that a legal holiday?”

“In certain municipalities,” he says.

“Funny,” I say, “because it isn’t in mine.”

He shrugs off his jacket, which he lays on the back of a chair. “I
know,” he says, “you never have any free time. Save it, Ward, I’ve heard it all before. And I’ll have you know that I’ve become the butt of many of my friends’ jokes because I’m still hung up on you.”

I’m still standing by the open door. In the hallway the overhead light flickers.

“Well, aren’t you going to see what it is?” he asks, pointing to the box. He sits on my couch and pats the spot beside him.

I sit down next to him and lift the lid of the box.

Inside there is a small, carved stone figurine of a dancer. But she’s not a ballerina—her body is thick and powerful, and she’s wearing many layers of carved clothing and jewelry.

“It’s an Iteso dancer,” he says. “From Africa. She symbolizes strength and power and happiness.”

For a little while I don’t say anything; I just turn the figure over in my hand. It’s cool and smooth, with a pleasing weight. The woman’s feet are invisible underneath her skirts, but her hands are raised above her head, and on her face is an expression of joy.

“Well?” Jacob asks. “Do you like it?”

“I love it,” I say. I place the little figurine on the coffee table between us. “Thank you.” I’ll put it on my bookshelf, right next to the agate my dad gave me when I was ten and a bronze casting of my first pair of baby shoes, which I use as a bookend.

“So…” Jacob’s hand cups my shoulder, and I feel a slight tug toward him, which, for some inexplicable reason, I resist. “How have you been?” he asks.

“Exhausted. The end of the season is always tough, and now that I’m going for a promotion, I’m pushing myself even harder,” I say.

“So what else is new?” he teases.

“I know, I know; I’m an overachiever from way back. Why didn’t you answer my e-mail?”

“Sorry, I got really busy, too. I meant to, and I just kept spacing. I thought about you a lot, though.”

His hand moves from my shoulder up to my neck, and his thumb touches skin. He rubs me, ever so softly, and then his fingers reach up and wind themselves into my hair. I fall against him, folding my body into the space along his ribs, and bury my face in his shirt. I sigh deeply.

I can feel myself relaxing, sinking into him, and then Annabelle’s voice echoes in my head.
“Your job is not to have a life. Your job is to dance.”
I sit up abruptly.

“What?” he asks, but I just shake my head.

Jacob looks at me with concern, and then he reaches down and clasps my foot firmly in his hands. He runs his thumbs under my arch. I have a split second of anxiety when I remember how ugly my toes are, but then I relax. He presses hard in all the right places. I sigh.

After a few moments, he reaches for my hands. He pulls me toward him again, and he holds me tight and close. I resist for a moment, and then I stop resisting; I put my head against his chest and exhale. His heart beats against my cheek like a drum, and I imagine it pumping the blood through his body.

After a while I lift my head and look from his lips to his eyes and back again. The corners of his mouth turn up in a little smile. I’m drawn even closer toward him.

“I know you’re busy, but do you think you have time to kiss me?” Jacob asks.

“I believe that I could make the time, yes.” I laugh as I lean in even further.

Our lips touch, and an unfamiliar tingling feeling washes over my body in waves. We roll over, and then Jacob is above me. I feel his weight on me, and it feels better than anything I’ve ever felt. I wrap my arms around him as he eases my shirt over my head. His shirt comes off, too, and soon I lose track of where my body ends and his begins.

The sun wakes me, and I lift my head slowly. I realize that we fell asleep on the couch, and that Jacob’s warm, bare chest was my pillow. He’s still asleep; his dark hair is messy, and he looks so handsome and vulnerable that I can’t help but smile. I kiss him gently on the cheek, but he doesn’t wake up. I curl back up in the space by his ribs and take his arm and wrap it around me. I’m wearing only my white cotton underwear and a skimpy tank top.
I could get used to waking up to a cute guy
, I think.

After a few minutes, he stirs. “Hey, lady,” he says, his voice hoarse and sexy. He runs his fingers along my arm.

“Hey,” I say, sitting up. I’ve never been this naked in front of a guy before.

He looks at me and smiles, and little creases form in the corners of his eyes. “What are you doing today? Want to grab brunch or something and then walk through the park?”

I reach up and touch his cheek.
He needs to shave,
I think.
But he’s gorgeous.

“You’re not answering me,” he points out.

It takes all my willpower to respond. “I can’t,” I say, touching his chest. “I have to do all my theater laundry, and I have Pilates at noon, and then I’m meeting Bea for Bikram.”

He frowns slightly, but his expressions eases as he props himself up on his elbows. “Okay,” he says, “how about we meet up later and see
Dial M for Murder
at the Paris Theater? It’s supposed to be great.”

I sigh. “I’m sorry—I want to, but I can’t. I have to rest up for tomorrow. I have two really hard ballets in the show.”

He gets up from the couch abruptly and reaches for his pants. He tugs them on, tightens his belt, and then grabs his T-shirt from the floor.

“What are you doing?” I ask. I reach for a pillow to cover myself.

“Getting dressed. What does it look like?” His voice has lost its warmth.

“What’s the matter?”

He whirls to face me. “You know what, Hannah? I’m really trying here.” He pulls his T-shirt on. “But I’m about out of patience.”

Immediately, I bristle. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t you ever give yourself a break? You’re so damn rigid.” He’s standing in the middle of my living room, and he’s almost glaring at me.

I stand up, the pillow still clutched to my chest. “This is my
career
,” I say. “Nothing is more important to me.”

“Yeah, apparently.” Jacob stalks across the living room looking for his shoes.

“I told you about the promotions,” I say. “How they’re making everyone work harder—”

Jacob interrupts me. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re completely self-involved?”

I can see that his shoes are under the coffee table, but I don’t tell him. “Because I care about my career?” I say, my voice rising.

He puts on his coat and crams his hat on his head, but he still can’t find his shoes. “You can’t make time for anybody but yourself.”

“You have no idea how hard my job is. This is what it takes! You’re just jealous that I made it as a performer, and you
most likely won’t
.”

As soon as the words come out, I regret them.

Jacob’s eyes darken, and his jaw clenches. “I’m leaving,” he says. He finally sees his shoes and he shoves them on. “See you later. Or not.” The door slams behind him.

“Jacob!” I call. “Jacob!”

But he’s rushing down the stairs, as if he can’t get away from me quickly enough.