Bunheads (31 page)

“So something happened,” I say. “Zoe got promoted to soloist—”

“Wow, okay,” he says, nodding.

“Yeah, and I got this really great part.”

Jacob’s eyebrows rise. “That’s fantastic, Hannah!”

“Yeah, it’s great,” I say. “And I’m probably going to be promoted, too… at some point. But I talked to Bea about it, and
she kind of made me see that I’ve been feeling ambivalent about that for a while now.”

Jacob looks slightly confused. “It seems to me like you’ve been pretty damn dedicated.”

“Yeah, I have been. But don’t you see? Getting promoted will only make it worse. I’ll have even
less
time for anything. And I’m realizing that there are just so many other things I want to do and see and learn about.” I shake my head. “The truth is that I’m not willing to do whatever it takes to be a ballerina.”

Jacob nods his head slowly. “So, what would you do if you left?”

“Who knows?” I cry. “But I was sort of thinking about it, and I remembered that I used to love reading, like, biographies of famous women. Helen Keller and Amelia Earhart. And I had this fantasy about spending some time in India. But right now? I’m the kind of person who doesn’t even know how to make a grilled cheese sandwich.” I look into his blue eyes. “I’m envious of all you’re able to explore and learn. And I want that. I want to learn Italian, too, but for real, and I want to have the time to go see really amazing art. And I want to get to know my parents.”

My eyes suddenly fill with tears. I stare out over the blurry river, and a few silent minutes go by. The water laps at the shore as a seagull floats above us.

“But the idea of leaving
terrifies
me,” I say eventually. “Leaving would be like going into a witness-protection program or something; I wouldn’t ever see the people in my life anymore, because I’d be on the outside, in the real world. It would be like
starting from scratch… like moving to Kansas or Idaho or… New Jersey.”

“You know, New Jersey’s right over there,” Jacob says, smiling. He points across the river. “So
that’s
not so bad.”

I can’t help but smile back.

Jacob puts his hand on my knee and squeezes it lightly. “But dancing will always be a part of you. There’s dance outside of this particular company, right?”

I nod, but I’m quiet for another moment as the tears run down my cheeks. Then I wipe them away with my sleeve.

“Come here.” Jacob opens his arms, and I sink into them. “Can I kiss you now?” he asks softly.

But he doesn’t wait for an answer. He just does.

“Ladies, ladies,” Christine says, snapping her fingers at us. She’s chewing gum so quickly it looks like some kind of facial tic, which is apparently her new way of combating the stress of her job. “
Emeralds
is up.
Rubies
goes in twenty minutes. What in the world are you doing, Adriana? You’re not in this. Shoo!”

“We’re fine, Christine,” someone calls.

“God, I hope so.” Christine sighs, then turns around and heads down the hall.

Laura smiles at me as she fits me into my short, red, jewel-encrusted costume. I check my makeup and bun in the mirror. In a moment begins my inaugural performance of
Rubies
.

“
Merde
,” Laura says. “You’re going to be amazing.”

I smile. When you think about it, it’s a really beautiful thing that we do. The company is a collection of one hundred very different people, from all over the world, but we all believe in
the power and importance of art. That’s what binds us, keeps us together, through the effort and the intensity and the competition.

I blow Laura a kiss and then scurry down the hall to the backstage area. Harry lingers by the boom, and he mimes a standing ovation as I pass by. Then he clambers up to the flies, where Bea is waiting for the performance to begin.

My parents, who refused to remain in Massachusetts when their one and only offspring was dancing her first solo, are somewhere in the invisible audience. And Jacob is, too, with an armful of roses so big he can barely hold them (he ruined the surprise by texting me a picture).

Before the curtain goes up, I stand alone in the darkness in the center of the stage and listen to the sound of my breath. Sometimes—and maybe this is one of the magic times—the pause before the opening notes can dilate, and the seconds seem to stretch into minutes, hours.

I think about the moment I fell in love with dance as I leaped over chiffon scarves when I was seven. I think about my mom driving me to ballet lessons in downtown Boston, and my dad hand-sewing the elastics onto my ballet slippers. He obsessed over making sure they were just perfect.

On the other side of the red velvet curtain, the conductor taps his stand and raises his arms. The audience waits. I take a deep breath and imagine the air filling my lungs. I nod to Christine and step into a sous-sous. I hear the opening strains of the violins.

The curtain rises. I feel the lights hit my skin. For the first
time, I’m alone onstage, as I’d always dreamed. There’s no other dancer to share the moment with—only the invisible audience. There’s a terrific sense of freedom, but I’m caught off guard by how lonely it is.

I take a deep breath.

Then I stare straight ahead and charge downstage.

Even as kids we were warned of the brevity of dance careers. When I was in third grade, my teacher, pretty, willowy Mrs. Eaton, would say, “Dance each step as if it were your last.” We looked at her blankly. What did we understand of that then? We were eight years old: A single school day felt interminable, and childhood seemed like it would go on forever.

It was another ten years before I understood what Mrs. Eaton had been saying. What she meant was:
Time is precious. And it speeds up.

There are a few more weeks of spring season, and then it’s over, all of it. I’ll pack up my theater case, and I’ll take down the pictures and notes tacked up around my mirror. When I leave the dressing room, it will be for the last time.

A few days ago I walked determinedly down the long hallway to Otto’s office. I ignored his secretary—who told me firmly that he was busy—placed my hand on the doorknob, and turned it.

I’d never been in his office before, never approached him uninvited. He had his feet up on a massive mahogany desk, but he
lowered them as he hung up the phone. He looked down his nose at me, and his dark eyes were cool and only vaguely interested.

There was a chair next to me, but it seemed too presumptuous to sit. And anyway, what I had to say wouldn’t take long. I took a breath and began. “I’ve always dreamed of dancing
Rubies
, and now I have, and I danced better than I ever have before. In fact I had the time of my life.”

“And if you keep up that level of work and dedication—”

I put up my hand to stop him. “No.” I shook my head. “I don’t
want
to. I’ve sacrificed enough already.” I pointed to the window overlooking the city. It was one of the only windows in the whole theater. “There’s a whole world out there that I don’t know anything about. I owe it to myself to learn as much about it as I possibly can. I want to lead an extraordinary life, a life that isn’t contained inside a single theater.”

Otto stared at me as if he had no idea who I was, and I realized in that moment that he didn’t.

So probably he didn’t care what plans I had for my life, but I told him anyway. “I’m going to college,” I said. “I’m going to be a part of the world.” Then I extended my hand and shook his firmly. “Thank you for this adventure, but it’s time for me to go explore something else.”

And Otto said nothing. He merely nodded at me, a tiny, bemused smile on his lips.

As I walked down the hallway, I began to cry—not because I was sad, but because I knew my life would never be the same again. I was scared as hell. But I was also free.

This morning I got the application packet for NYU. There is an undergraduate creative-writing program that I think might be perfect. In addition to my high school transcript and three letters of recommendation, I’m supposed to include an essay about an experience that made me who I am.

My name is Hannah Ward
, I’ll write.
Don’t call me a ballerina.

“Here, let me help you,” Jacob says, reaching over to grab a stack of papers from my arms. “What is all this, anyway?”

I shift my bag to my other shoulder and take a sip of iced coffee. “Short stories,” I tell him. “From my fiction workshop.”

“Is there one of yours in here?” he asks, thumbing through them.

“Mine’s due next week.”

“I hope it’s going to be about me,” he says. “I’ve always wanted to be featured in fiction.”

I laugh. “Maybe if you write another song about me, I’ll write a story about you. Although since a story is longer, you’ll probably have to write two or three more songs to be fair.”

“
Oh, Hannah was a dancer and not an equestrian, but then she went to college and became a pedestrian
,” Jacob sings.

“Very funny,” I say, giving him a little shove.

“Wait, there’s more.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” I laugh. “Come on, I’m going to be late.”

He takes my hand and we walk south to the edge of Chinatown, near the park where the old men play chess.

“So, remember, I’m playing at Gene’s tonight at eight, if you want to catch my set,” Jacob says.

“I’ll be there,” I say. “I’ll ask Meg if she wants to come.”

“Who’s Meg?” he asks, looking at me quizzically.

I grin. “She’s my new friend. I met her in art history class.”
And she doesn’t know a piqué from a bourrée
, I think but don’t add. “You’ll love her.”

“Awesome, can’t wait to meet her.”

I give him a kiss and then run across the street and into the Delancey Dance Academy.

In Mattie’s dance class, thirty boys and girls are all jumping up and down and yelling happily as they fling off their coats to reveal bodies of all shapes and sizes. There is one girl with the long limbs of a future ballerina and another who’s as short and thick as a little bear cub. One little boy is showing off his ability to do splits, while another is sitting in the corner eating a Twinkie.

I think about Leni on her Pilates mat, and Daisy gossiping with Zoe about the latest casting as Bea rolls her eyes. Last week I happened to walk by the theater, and I saw Zoe chatting with Jonathan as they returned from the deli. I waved to them from across the street, but I don’t think they saw me. Above Zoe’s head floated a dozen red balloons.

After dancing in the corps de ballet of the Manhattan Ballet, everything else seems manageable. It makes the difficult things of normal life seem… if not easy, then at least less hard. I think about the company almost every day. I’m thankful I was a part of it, and I’m thankful that I’m gone.

Beauty is everywhere, not just in the theater.

The children hush as I enter and take my place at the front of the class. “Ladies and gentlemen,” I say. “Please take your places at the barre and show me your first position.”

There is a mad dash for spots, and then thirty pairs of eyes are staring at me, waiting to see what I’ll do next. It is an utterly different kind of audience from the one I’m used to, and I feel my stomach flutter nervously. But I straighten my spine and smile.