Bunheads (25 page)

It’s still unseasonably chilly and gray when we start rehearsal for the spring season in April. Before this we had a weeklong break, which I spent in Weston with my parents. My mother, whom I’d told about my off-and-on attempts to not eat animals, decided to experiment with seitan and tempeh at every meal, which prompted my dad to start looking for his car keys every day around dinnertime. He’d suddenly “remember something at the office” and drive off in his Volvo, heading for the nearest diner. When he came home, he smelled like eggs and bacon.

At night we lined up on the couch and watched old movies, and I tried to hide the fact that I wouldn’t indulge in the buttered popcorn. Even though my parents wanted to know all about the goings-on of the company, I didn’t really want to talk about it. And though I’d missed them during the season, there
was a big part of me that wished I was already back in the city, taking class and whipping my body into even better shape.

I called Bea to commiserate. “I’ve been dying for a break, but now that I’m here, I just feel restless. And I swear, in three days my muscles are already starting to atrophy.”

I could hear Bea flop down on her bed. “Ech, tell me about it. I hate falling out of shape and then having to get back in shape. It’s too hard.”

“So you’re taking classes?” I asked.

“Yeah, are you kidding me? I go back to the city tomorrow. Those dumb young girls who take the week off? You can
always
tell.”

I gazed out the window at the trees in our yard, which were just beginning to bud. “Maybe I should switch my train ticket.”

“Oh, just hit the gym or do yoga or something—you’ll be fine.”

I took her advice and had my mom drive me into Boston for yoga each day. (I’d never learned to drive, since I pretty much grew up in Manhattan.) And at night I slept in my childhood bedroom, its yellow walls still plastered with images of Allegra Kent and Gloria Govrin and glow-in-the-dark stars still dotting the ceiling. My old pointe shoes were still in a crate in my closet. And lined up on top of the bookshelf were all the stuffed animals I used to love so much—but not enough, apparently, to take with me when I left.

I imagined my mother coming into my room to straighten the covers and fluff the pillows, even though there was no need to, because I was gone. I realized for the first time how hard it must have been for my parents to allow their fourteen-year-old
daughter to move to New York by herself. They must have wished I’d stay with them a little longer. But they knew how driven and ambitious I was, and so, however reluctantly, they deposited me in the Manhattan Ballet Academy dormitory and waved good-bye.

I could never regret leaving. But it wasn’t an uncomplicated feeling.

And lying there in bed, I couldn’t help but replay the fight I’d had with Jacob. I was sure I’d ruined things permanently this time.

I told myself he’d be better off without me. There were plenty of girls with more time on their hands, and I was pretty sure he wouldn’t have any trouble finding one.

A few days later, my mom sent me back to New York with a suitcase of new clothes, freshly highlighted hair (“This’ll make Otto adore you,” she’d whispered), and one of her glazed ceramic bowls, which was supposed to bring me good luck. For a while I left it on my coffee table, but then I wrapped it in tissue and put it under my bed. If it really brought me good luck, then I wouldn’t be perpetually frustrated at work and Jacob wouldn’t have vanished from my life.

But I try not to think about him too much these days. We have three weeks of rehearsal period before spring season opens. It’s a time to learn new ballets, rehearse the ones that are in the company’s regular rotation, and practice ones we haven’t danced since last year. The schedule starts off light, with everyone just back from break and easing into their dancing bodies again, and then picks up as we get closer to performance season. Though
there are no-last minute throw-ons during rehearsal period—which, when it comes down to it, is the most anxiety-provoking part of performance season—rehearsal period isn’t without stress. The ballets you’re called to rehearse are the ones that you’ll be performing, so you spend a lot of time worrying about where your name will be on the rehearsal postings.

One evening, after a long day of learning new ballets, Jonathan links arms with me and walks me home up Columbus Avenue. “I hardly ever see the sunset,” he muses. “It’s always pitch-black when we’re done.”

I glance up at the wispy purple clouds. It’s true—when was the last time I saw a New York sunset? “It’s pretty,” I say. “We should appreciate things like this more often.”

Beside me, Jonathan gives a little hop of excitement. “I’m just psyched to get home in time to watch
Models of the Runway
.”

“How intellectual of you,” I say.

“Hey, I never claimed to be a scholar,” he replies.

We walk for a few minutes in silence. “I hate rehearsal period,” I blurt out.

“Really?” He raises his eyebrows at me. “But don’t you love evenings off?”

“They make me anxious,” I admit.

“What’s to be anxious about getting off early?”

I shrug. “I don’t know what to do with myself when I’m not performing.”

Jonathan purses his lips and looks thoughtful. “Yeah, now that you mention it, I can’t wait to get back onstage, too. I’m
dead sick of standing next to Caleb in
Wonder/Ponder
rehearsal. He’s a total mouth-breather.”

“It’s weird—when our lives are just a little bit less intense, I miss the crazy intensity. What’s wrong with me?”

“Dr. Jonathan knows what’s wrong with you,” he says. He pats my hand. “You’re just what they call a
dancer.
Here, take two of these”—and he hands me his ballet shoes—“and call me in the morning.”

“Oh, go on,” I giggle. And I toss his shoes back at him as the sun sinks slowly behind the buildings of New York City.

When our spring season opens, I’m in the best shape of my life. I’ve lost five pounds since winter season; my breasts are smaller and pressed against my ribs (Bernadette has made me two more
undergarments
). So what if I don’t have time to appreciate the pretty pink buds opening on the trees near the Avery Center? So what if I’ve stopped eating bread, stopped opening mail, stopped answering my phone?

My mother learns to text in desperation.
Call me sometime why dont u?
she writes.
Daddy sends luv.

So busy
, I write back.
Love u.

One morning when I’m coming out of the elevator on my way to the dressing room before company class, I almost bump into tall, muscular Roman Fielding. Since he’s a principal, I don’t think I’ve ever exchanged a single word with him. He gazes down his aquiline nose at me.

“Sorry,” I say, trying to get out of his way.

He stops, which makes me pause, too. His dark, heavy-lidded eyes search my face. “You never smile anymore, Hannah,” he says. And then he gets into the elevator without another word.

As I hurry to the dressing room, I marvel at the fact that he knows who I am and that he noticed my facial expression. The vast majority of dancers spend their time noticing things about
themselves
, not other people. After all, it’s our job to scrutinize ourselves in the studio mirrors so we can correct our imperfections.

But is Roman right? Have I stopped smiling these last few weeks?

As an experiment, before I walk into the dressing room, I fix my mouth into a bright and I hope sincere-looking smile. “Morning, ladies,” I say.

Daisy looks up at me from her chair, where she’s sewing her shoes. “What’s that weird expression on your face?” she asks.

I guess Roman was right. But who cares about smiling? I can see my stick arms returning. I can picture
Hannah Ward
on the casting list, right there under the name of a big solo part.

After company class I decide to stick around and practice my pirouettes. I’ve never been a great turner, especially to the left; it always makes me kind of anxious. (Being partnered with Luke doesn’t help, either, considering he’s always an inch away from dropping me.)

All around me other dancers are leaping and madly spinning, practicing tricks or going over the choreography for upcoming ballets. Luke is practicing his double tours, and Julie is doing furious fouettés, like she does after every class, her curly hair flying; she’s hoping to be cast as the Swan Queen this season.

I focus on myself in the mirror as I prepare in a large fourth position, with my weight mostly in my front leg. I spring into a passé while snapping my head to the mirror,
one-two-down
, and again
one-two-down
, and again. I fall out of the turn and gasp in exasperation. When I attempt pirouettes to the left, I stumble awkwardly out of the very first rotation. “Damn it!” I say under my breath. I take a breath and prepare to turn to the right,
one-two-down
, and
one-two-down
.

“Don’t rush it,” I hear someone say.

Suddenly Zoe’s standing right in front of me, still pink in the face from the grand allégro. “Try bringing this arm in directly to your chest,” she directs. She grasps my left arm and says, “You’re leaving it out there too long.”

And I admit, my first instinct is to resent her for thinking that she ought to give me advice. But when I try the turn again, this time almost slapping my chest with my left arm, I do a
triple.
I smile.

“Perfect,” Zoe says, nodding.

“I don’t know about perfect,” I say. “But it felt good. Thanks.”

Zoe smiles. “Sure thing. You want to do it again?”

“I don’t want to jinx it,” I say. But I do it again anyway. I tell myself that this is just part of the montage sequence, and that all this additional work is going to pay off.

Pretty soon I’m doing triple after triple and my leotard is soaked, so Zoe and I head back to the dressing room for a quick change before rehearsal.

At my spot is an enormous bouquet of yellow tulips.

“Wow,” I say. I rush over to look at the card, hoping madly it’s from Jacob. But of course it’s not: The flowers are from Matt.

“So, who’s this Matt guy again?” Zoe asks, looking over my shoulder.

“He’s the one in the front row who always shouts ‘Whoo!’ during bows. He’s a total balletomane,” I say.

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” she says.

“He’s got the Patek Philippe?”

She bends down and smells one of the golden blooms. “Oh, right. The hot one who sends girls balloons and flowers. He dated Serena and Olivia last year.”

I shrug; I can tell she’s trying to bug me. “I guess. That’s what Daisy says.”

Zoe squints at the card. “ ‘One remembers an atmosphere because girls were smiling in it,’ ” she reads, and then looks up at me with a baffled expression. “What in the world does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” I say, snatching it out of her hand. “It says here that it’s a quote from Proust.”

“Who?”

“A French writer. Matt’s a Francophile, too.”

“A man of passions. I like that,” Zoe says, smirking.

“You probably
would
like him,” I say.

She nudges me with her foot. “Are you guys dating?”

I sigh as I struggle out of my soaked tights. “It’s complicated.”

“He says these flowers match a present that’s coming later.”

“Yeah, I don’t know what that means,” I say.

“Oh, look at you,” she says, nudging me harder. “Nineteen years without a kiss, and now two boys after you at the same time. You’re practically like me now.”

I just shrug. But I think to myself:
I’m nothing like you.

Eventually I get the tights off and then rummage in my theater case for another pair. “I don’t think Jacob is after me at the moment.”

“Because you blew him off again.”

I groan. “We sort of had a fight. It’s hard enough just trying to get through the day here without bursting into tears or tearing a major muscle group. I don’t know how to date on top of that. I mean, it’s incredible that some of the older dancers are married. How do they find the time and energy?”

Zoe sits down on her chair and starts running her fingers through her glossy blond hair. “Duh, Hannah! They all married dancers.”