Waking Kiss (2 page)

I scurried to my mark, or maybe one of the stagehands pushed me. I heard the cue to enter and looked up at the same moment into Rubio’s dark, wide-set eyes. My inspiration, my idol—this was both a dream and a nightmare. We moved toward each other, arms outstretched. My smile said
oh God, help me
, while his was more
WTF?
He fixed his expression first, turning to the audience with a blazing smile. I did the same. We posed, the happy couple, Sleeping Beauty and her prince.

The orchestral cue straightened my spine like the demanding tap of a teacher. I could do this. I’d been dancing for twenty of my twenty-four years. I could do it—I just wasn’t ready to. Rubio swept me forward to center stage and we struck another pose. His whole body tensed, vibrating beside me. I could sense his fury like a palpable thing and it shook my already-faltering confidence.
Don’t mess up
, my brain screamed.
Don’t do one thing wrong or your idol will hate you forever.

The dance began with a sustained
développé
facing away from the audience. I had to extend my leg to the front and then lean backward in a very slow, graceful, controlled movement. One wobble, the slightest falter, and I’d fall on my ass in front of four thousand eyes. My balance depended solely on his skill as a partner. My hands were so sweaty I was afraid my fingers would slip, but his grasp tightened like a vise. He centered me, supported me. In those slow, panicked seconds he sent me a message with his stance, his grip, his balance.

I got you. This is yours to fuck up.

Oh God, I was going to fuck it up. I knew it. A quick turn and I was in his arms. His body was solid relief after balancing so precariously on one toe.
Arabesque…
Graceful…graceful, Ashleigh.
His hands were there when I needed them, right where they were supposed to be. He hadn’t become the world’s premier dancer by being a clod.

He let go and we were free of one another, sweeping the length of the stage only to turn and make lovey eyes at each other. My toe shoes sounded as loud as gunshots. I clasped my hands to my heart in an exaggerated motion I’d seen Mariel do a hundred times.
Arabesque, sweep around
. Oh no, our timing was off. I strained to hear the beats in the music, but all I could focus on was the thumping of my shoes. Somehow Rubio managed to look both impassioned with love and livid with me.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered as we came together for an
arabesque penchée
.

“Shut up,” he hissed through his teeth.

On that note, we moved into another series of supported and unsupported
attitudes
. He could have let me fall on my ass. I’m sure he wanted to, but he was steady as a rock and I felt overwhelming gratitude.

Fresh on the heels of that trauma—a lift. Oh no, and another and another. I tried to remember what I’d learned in partnering class but I’d been in the corps so long that I wasn’t used to being lifted. I wasn’t any heavier than Mariel but I probably felt like a ton of bricks to him. He set me down with an illusion of weightlessness but I could feel the effort in his arms. There was nothing to do but smile and pirouette. I accidentally whacked his thigh with my knee during the last turn.

“Asshole,” he grunted as I arched into a fish dive. My form was so bad he almost dropped me. Through the next three series of supported pirouettes I was careful not to touch him, but that threw off my balance so his hands had to rescue me, extra effort for him.

Another eye contact moment. Both our smiles were forced. His gaze looked demonic. I skittered downstage left.
Thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk.
One of the ball guests actually broke character to grimace.
Ignore her, Ashleigh. Pose, smile.
Rubio pulled me into a sweeping
arabesque
. More pirouettes, another lift, fish dive. Somehow I survived it.

“Thank you,” I said under my breath as he led me forward for the bow or
reverence
.

His reply came through a tight, fake grin. “Get off the fucking stage.”

I waited in the wings while he did his solo, trying to process the emotions I felt. Part of me was giddy to have been partnered by The Great Rubio, while another part of me was devastated by his scorn. I took slow, deep breaths as I watched him perform. His solo was a parade of soaring leaps and intricate steps—and he made it look effortless. I was supposed to follow this? I felt a sense of panic, of being trapped. It was like being strapped into a roller coaster car, heading straight up the tracks even though you’d decided on second thought you didn’t want to ride.
Click click click click.

But I had to ride this one out, especially with Mr. Thibault staring at me from the other side of the stage. Rubio swept through his bows to a rising din of applause. As soon as he exited, I took a deep breath and made my entrance. The applause died. The audience surely realized by now that I wasn’t Mariel, the much-loved ballerina who’d danced the previous two acts.

The orchestra launched into my solo, the conductor watching my cues to guide the tempo. I didn’t know if I was dancing too slow or too fast. I performed leaps,
attitudes
,
battements
in my sparkling white costume and crown, mentally ticking through the combinations. I focused on executing each step and tuned out the clopping of my toes. I nailed the technique out of sheer desperation, and halfway through I realized I was going to survive. After the last racing slew of pirouettes I rose
en pointe
and halted in perfect concordance with the music. No toppling over, no weak ankles. My spine was tempered steel. I smiled joy out of every pore in my body and was rewarded with louder applause this time. I wasn’t Mariel, but they recognized my effort.

Rubio came sweeping back and we pranced through the last few lifts. I felt lighter this time, or maybe we were getting used to each other. “
Jesus Cristo
,” he muttered. “You whale.” Maybe we weren’t getting used to each other. His hands bruised my thighs with a death grip and he bit out something else in Portuguese that I was glad I couldn’t understand.

One last pose to this set of dances, and the gracious, swoon-like bow. He held my hand, dipped down into
reverence
like silk. Applause bloomed and rose to a roar of sound. Wow. This was fame, glory, adulation. It wasn’t adulation for me, of course. I understood that, but a smile still stretched across my face. Rubio was furious—I could feel it in the rigid set of his arms as he led me offstage. We waited in the wings as the corps, minus one member, moved through the formations of Act Three’s final number.

“Where is Mariel?” he spat.

“She got hurt. I had to fill in.” I’d lived so long with the injunction against talking to him that I didn’t dare say more.

He moved past me, advancing on Mr. Thibault, who’d joined us at the side of the stage. “Why?” he barked, flicking a finger to indicate me. “Why this?”

“There was no one else. It was an issue of time.”

“She is…” He threw up his hands as if adequate criticism escaped him. “Terrible balance. She kicked me.” He glared at my offending toe shoes. “The noise of her. I will never forget.”

“She got through it.” Mr. Thibault looked briefly at me, tension hardening his blue eyes.

“Come,” Rubio ordered, holding out his hand. “Finale.” We joined the company onstage for the closing tableau, and I executed my final graceful
arabesque
as we gazed adoringly at one another. It was all I could do to maintain the necessary eye contact. In the glare of the stage lights his eyes were black as the depths of hell.

The music ended and the audience exploded into applause. I felt more like a side of beef than a ballerina as Rubio hauled me through an endless series of bows. Roses flew at us like projectiles. “This is Mariel’s applause,” he snapped when I stayed a little too long
en reverence
, “and those are Mariel’s flowers.”

“They’re your flowers too,” I said. “They’re well deserved.” His only response was an irritated snort. For my part, I’d never fake-smiled so long or so hard in my life, but I didn’t dare stop, not here at his side with flowers raining down and the spotlight on both of us like some waking dream.
Rubio, Rubio, Rubio, bravo!
The chants came from every corner of the theater while the living legend bowed and flashed his signature megawatt grin. Finally the curtain fell, bringing the performance to a close.

My smiling, princely idol turned on his heel and walked away.
Thank you, Mr. Rubio. I’ll never forget this.
I didn’t say it. I wasn’t contractually allowed to say it.

My fellow corps members surrounded me as Rubio stalked down the backstage hall spouting foreign expletives. He slammed his dressing room door with a resounding crash. “You did a great job, Ash,” said my friend Desiree, tucking me against her side. A few other corps dancers congratulated me and made wry comments about my big break, but they were just being polite. I didn’t feel happy or celebratory about my performance, especially after Rubio stormed off cursing. I didn’t know how I felt. Maybe numb.

Desiree dogged me to the dressing room, where I surrendered Mariel’s beautiful costume to a stagehand.

“I can’t believe how lucky you are,” she sighed.

I made some vague, equivocal sound, throwing on a robe. She parked herself next to me while I removed my makeup. “How did he smell?” she asked. “Did he smell really virile? How did it feel when he smiled at you?”

But he hadn’t smiled at me, not once. “It felt great to dance with him,” I lied, only because I knew that was what she wanted to hear.

“How did his hands feel? Did they feel strong? Warm?”

I put down my towel and gripped the edge of my carrel. “Des, can I tell you about it later? After I’ve processed it for a while?”

“Sure. Hey, where are you going?”

I waved a hand at her and ran for the bathroom. She trailed behind me. “Ash, what’s wrong?”

I threw open the stall door and leaned over the toilet. Everything in my stomach came up.

“Oh God, hon. You’re sick.”

I retched again, an awful, grating sound. Tears oozed from my eyes. When I felt able, I reached back to shut the stall door.

“I’ll go get help.”

“No. Desiree—”

But she was gone and I didn’t feel strong enough to stand up yet. I gripped the edge of the seat, unsure if I was crying from sadness, nerves, or throwing up so hard. I heard someone in the bathroom whisper, “She wasn’t that bad.”

Asshole! Whale!
The words, with his accent’s inflection, sounded over and over in my ears. I retched again and I think I brought up some of my stomach lining. I felt devastated, completely emptied out. I heard a crisp knock on the stall and Mr. Thibault’s voice.

“Ashleigh, when you’ve finished vomiting, I would like to have a word.”

I bunched up a handful of toilet paper and held it to my mouth. “Are you going to fire me?”

“I have no plans to fire you.” His French-inflected words were low and reassuring. “You haven’t practiced the role of Aurora. I appreciate your attempt. It was adequate, things being what they were.”

Out of everything he said, I only heard two words.
Attempt
and
adequate
. It was a kind way of saying my performance sucked. I wiped my mouth again, dried my eyes, flushed the toilet, and opened the stall door. He held out a bottle of blue-tinted sports drink.

I flinched and shook my head.

He had bottled water in his other hand. Like I said, he was a good company director. I opened it and took a drink. “I’m sorry I didn’t do better. I’m sorry my shoes were loud. I wasn’t prepared.”

Mr. Thibault smiled, his brow crinkling behind wire-rimmed glasses. “None of us were prepared. I never saw such a fast costume change.”

“How’s Mariel?”

“I don’t think the injury is as serious as we feared.”

“Will they save the flowers for her? From the curtain call?”

He patted my arm. “I’m sure they’d mean more to you than to her. They’re collecting them right now to donate at the hospital. Before you leave, run and fetch an armful. Take them home and put them in a vase for a job well done.”

I felt a sudden impulse to hug him, and squelched it just as quickly. One did not hug the tall, slim, ultra-reserved ballet director. I didn’t believe even Rubio could hug him. I showered quickly, dressed, and packed up my dance bag, but by the time I reached the stage someone had already gathered all the roses. Then I noticed a small pink one shuffled under the edge of the curtain.

I tucked the rose into my bag and headed backstage, past the entourage of pretty women and well-dressed men spilling out of Rubio’s dressing room. They weren’t dancers. He had a posse. I tried to duck by, only to come face-to-face with The Great One himself.

“Ah, look,” he said, opening his arms to me. “My partner. Such beauty and grace.”

His voice dripped with sarcasm. I might have cowered. It wasn’t my finest moment. I was afraid he’d see the rose in my bag and take me to task over it, maybe call me an asshole again. His friends barely spared me a glance before turning back to their conversations, half in English, half in Portuguese. I opened my mouth to say good night, only to be pulled into the crook of his arm.

“You come to the party, eh, girl? Come on.”

I was about to refuse when I glanced into the half-open door of his dressing room. The tall man from backstage was hanging out in there, leaning against the far wall. In a weird, flashback-y way, I remembered the feel of his fingers brushing over my ankles as he untied my shoes. I hadn’t really taken it in while it was happening, but I remembered it so vividly now.

I had no business partying in my condition, but it might be the only opportunity to talk to the guy and express my thanks. I let Rubio sweep me along with his group, past the milling eye-contact-restricted dancers, past Mr. Thibault, who raised one finely manicured eyebrow. He seemed to ask,
What on earth are you doing?