by A. K. Small
That night in the shower, as I scrubbed myself with lavender soap, I didn’t pinch my skin the way I used to. I didn’t measure how much fat I could clasp between my fingers (before, I would have hoped for less than half a centimeter, if I was lucky). Instead, I let my fingers travel up and down my sides, hot water soothing me. I felt the way my waist dipped in like un vase de fleurs, a flower vase, and found pleasure in brushing my skin. Eyes closed, I guided my right hand to my navel then upward. It was as if I was following a well-known map but exploring it in a new way, eager to discover de nouveaux sentiers, fresh paths. This time the purpose of the touching was not to count my ribs. I stopped at my sternum. I opened my eyes, looked down. My skin was covered in goose bumps. I cupped the underside of my breast, felt my heart beat, and for a little while was grateful to be whole.
thirty
Kate
The evening after Ice Bucket Night, I returned to Nanterre from another uneventful, no-Benjamin Bastille rehearsal to find Marine’s side of the room utterly bare. All I could do was stand in the doorframe and stare. M’s quilt had been stripped from her twin bed and was gone, as well as her sheets, pillow, and pillowcases. What was left was the exposed mattress, a coffee-colored stain stretching down the middle. The scratchy navy-blue blanket that we all received every September but never used was folded at the foot of the bed. The fan M always clicked on to help her sleep and forgot to turn off during the day was also gone, and so was its churning. The silence was deafening. All of M’s posters had been removed, tape still attached to the walls, and there were brighter patches of paint where paper had once hung.
It felt like someone had died.
When I dared to step across the rug and open M’s closet door to find only two wire hangers dangling from the rod and one lying broken on the floor next to a red button from M’s favorite cardigan, I had to kneel to catch my breath. It was one thing to abandon me at the barre, but vacating our dorm room? In all my years at Nanterre, I had never once lived a single minute without M’s belongings adjacent to mine. I picked up both the hanger and the button, unsure what to do with them. I rose, still staring at M’s blank side of the room. It wasn’t until someone in the hall yelled “Bonsoir,” startling me, that I finally noticed the small piece of paper on top of my own bunched-up bedspread, next to a tall pile of clothes.
Dear Kate, the note read. I know that this is for the best. I need to gain my strength back and in the end I can only do it on my own and, well, since you have a soon-to-be fiancé, I know you’ll enjoy the privacy. I promise not to tell. M.
I crumpled the note and stuck it in my shoebox. The good memory of my mom—the one of that sunny morning crossing the busy street, hand in hand—bloomed. How safe I’d felt. But then the image of the chipped coffee mug drying, and later my birthday party—the cake gagging me, the balloons, how I’d seen myself float up to the sky, pink flip-flops dangling, my heart concave, the hollowness growing—also came back. I wished I could stop time, rewind to a dorm room full of both our stuff. And then, as if all that wasn’t enough to process, I allowed myself to conjure up the baby the way I once had in the cafeteria, my baby, its tiny beating heart yanked out of me forever, its high-pitched screams now constantly haunting my dreams.
I couldn’t bear another person leaving me.
I swallowed another one of J-P’s pills, then another, and began to clean. I folded every piece of clothing I owned, then placed them on my shelves. I picked up street shoes and dropped them in a bin. The word fiancé etched in the note burned worse than the ice bucket. Benjamin’s amber smell was still faintly on my sheets, so I didn’t change them. Instead, I yanked them and neatly folded the corners, then beat my comforter. With a warm washcloth and a bit of nail polish remover, I erased the blot that had been smudged between the polka dots for years. I scooped up all my new pointe shoes and sewed ribbons and elastics on each one.
The more I cleaned, waiting for the high to fully hit me, the more I thought about M asking Monsieur Arnaud if The Witch would let her transfer. Of course, I’d heard the words but they hadn’t sunk in, and besides, I was sure that The Witch would say no. But she’d said yes and Marine had left. I washed the floors with soapy water until the linoleum was bright gray and I dusted the baseboards. By the time I was done, it was almost two a.m. The hallway was still.
Under different circumstances, I might have enjoyed the fresh smell of soap. I might have changed into pajama shorts and gone to bed proud of my tidying. But without M’s stuff in it, I despised the room, clean or not. How would I ever sleep without my best friend’s steady breathing next to me, even with drugs circling my veins? Still in my dirty leotard, I grabbed my woolen overalls, slipped them on, and made my way to Yaëlle’s old single. I was about to beg M to reconsider. I was about to tell her that I would do anything to get her back but when I cracked open her door, heard the fan, and saw her fast asleep beneath her quilt, in a perfectly decorated room, I knew that our living together was over, that M wouldn’t miss me, and that her decision was final. Like on a fast train, the hallway seemed to shake, tilt to the right then to the left. I grew sick to my stomach and did the only thing I knew to do: I ran down the stairs, crossed the empty common room, and climbed up to the older boys’ dorms.
I went straight to the terrace. It was balmy outside and a light rain fell. I remembered how Cyrille had kissed me in the rain, my hopes and dreams sky-high then. Now, the only lights were a red moon shining down on me, and Paris blinking in the distance. Near the edge of the patio the boy names were still etched like small tombs. I sat next to them and ran my fingers over the initials, wishing I knew who Benjamin’s roommate was, what year they’d come through. I grew so lonely and frightened that I stood up, thinking maybe I should go knock on Cyrille’s door, that maybe we could make up and become friends again. Then the terrace door swung open, scaring me, and Jean-Paul walked out holding a bottle of wine, teetering already.
“If it isn’t the American Queen breaking the rules as usual,” he said when he saw me. He plopped down in the middle of the terrace, then he pulled the cork and took a swig. “Join me, petit macaron.” He gestured for me to come sit next to him.
I hesitated. But I saw my room—the discolored walls, the awful blue blanket—and decided that hanging out on this terrace in the middle of the night, even if only with The Creep, was better than returning to Hall 3. I meandered over to him, grabbed the bottle, and gulped wine too.
“What are you going to ask me to do for it?” I said.
J-P dug his hand through his pocket and yanked out a joint. After taking a couple hits, he passed it to me. I balked.
“I’m feeling generous,” he said. “Tonight, you can have my stuff for free.”
I took the joint and smoked. We passed the bottle back and forth.
Feeling the buzz hit me like a slap in the face, I said, “I used to play this game with M. All you have to do is answer questions. I’ll go first: Would You die for The Prize?”
J-P looked out into the distance, slowly got up, and made his way to the edge of the terrace.
“Come here,” he said.
Out there in the dark, if I didn’t know better, I’d have thought J-P was semiattractive. After all, he was tall and lean like all male dancers. And the mixture of drugs helped. As I walked over to him, I felt incredibly light on my feet, as if someone had carved out my heart and thrown it away. J-P pointed to an opening in the fence. He slid his body through the crack, then looked down. In his sneakers, he stood on the little ledge and bent forward, the fence behind him.
I didn’t feel so light anymore. I said, “What the hell, J-P?”
He said, “It’s not Would You die for The Prize. It’s Would You die if you don’t get The Prize.”
He leaned his torso down so far that I grabbed the back of his sweatshirt.
“Don’t,” I warned.
“It would be so easy, wouldn’t it?�
� he said.
Eventually, J-P wedged his way back inside. I shivered and yearned to lie down somewhere, anywhere. “Can I crash in your room?” I said.
He signaled for me to follow but stopped at the door. “You still haven’t answered. What will you do if you don’t win?”
Out there with the small tombs and the crack in the fence, I told him the truth.
“I don’t know,” I said.
J-P shut his bedroom door behind me, then threw me a sleeping bag.
Climbing into bed, he said, “Don’t fret, praline. Not all is lost. Maybe The Codes will help you.”
The Codes? My heart twisted on itself even with my high. “What codes?” I said.
J-P grinned in the dark. “Your ex-boyfriend’s experiment? You’ve never heard of them?”
I stood still, clutching the sleeping bag. At once, I thought of the blue confetti twirling in my ice bucket months ago, how I’d dismissed what I’d read. Slowly, I shook my head.
“I thought everybody knew about them. Code Green, Code Red. You might be up to Code Blue—electricity and laws of attraction—since you’ve had sex with him already, lucky bastard. But who am I to discuss His Royalty’s romantic search for The One. He is one strange cat.”
The room grew quiet and stuffy.
“I don’t get it,” I said.
J-P chuckled. “Did you ever play Cyrille’s favorite citation game? In the end all collaborations are love stories—Twyla Tharp. Having limits to push against is how you find out what you can do—good old Sylvie Guillem. Or, did he measure the span of your shoulders? I quote, ‘The beautiful arch in your spine’? Did he ask you who shaped your life? Or better yet, did he take you on the rooftop and kiss you right in the middle of the terrace beneath the stars? Sorry to break it to you, calisson, but you weren’t the only one.”
“Are you making this up because you’re jealous?” I said, a new kind of humiliation surging.
“This is nothing but the truth,” J-P replied. “The walls are thin up here.”
“How many girls did he do this with?”
“Not sure. Some people say that he stopped at Marine, that she knocked the air out of him. But with her fragile state now, I bet he’s still looking for The One, for a backup. I think you might go all the way to Code Platinum if the stars align. My bet: it will come down to you or Gia.” He paused. “But whatever. If you want to cozy up, numb the pain, I’m here for you.” Yet within minutes, he was out.
I curled up on his floor and squeezed my eyes shut.
The next evening, Monsieur Arnaud rang the courtyard bell, freaking everybody out because it was a Tuesday, not a Friday or a générale night. By the time everyone assembled in the Board Room, beneath the clinking chandeliers, the atmosphere crackled with excitement and fright. Every division was in attendance. The younger students sat in the middle of the floor while the older divisions lined the walls. People whispered. Someone said they heard a First Division dancer was once promoted to coryphée around this time of year, no questions asked. Another said that Suzanne De La Croix was about to be endorsed as the newest corps de ballet member.
I wished I’d taken another one of J-P’s pills but after what J-P had said about Cyrille and his miserable codes, after crashing on his floor and French-kissing him this morning for ten whole minutes in order to get new and stronger pills, I’d sworn to myself that stooping this low was over. The truth was that I was beginning to recognize a frightening pattern when it came to boys and me that involved drugs and my constant fear of being left, but what was I supposed to do about it? I still loved Benjamin and thought about him every second of every day. He was different from Cyrille, wasn’t he? Yes, I swore to myself. Benjamin was a soloist. He hadn’t romanced me for The Prize. He was well beyond that. People in the company got married and even sometimes had children. We’d had something, something real, that only seasoned dancers experienced. I thought of us in the middle of the night underneath my polka-dotted comforter, how he’d consoled me. With time he would come find me and we would get back together. I was nearly sure of it. I also tried not to think of Marine deserting me.
When Madame Brunelle, Valentine Louvet, and Monsieur Chevalier arrived, everyone quieted. The director smiled at us the way she’d smiled at me outside of Bastille, and I would have given my right leg to rewind time and stand on that sidewalk again. I’d still have fallen in love with Benjamin, but I would have paid more attention to the stage, and I’d be there shining now.
“We have important news to share that will mainly affect First Division,” Louvet said. “Madame Brunelle will have the pleasure to announce it.”
I looked at Bessy and Isabelle, who’d chosen to sit on the floor next to the younger rats, and wondered if I’d soon need to sit too. Bessy hugged her knees while Isabelle leaned her head on her shoulder. Colombe stared at her leg warmers and I thought she might start to cry before the announcement, which made me feel like crying too. Gia and Suzanne De La Croix were the only First Division rats who seemed relaxed under the pressure. They both leaned against the wall and waited for the news the way one waits for drinks at a restaurant. Nearby, Jean-Paul kept banging his fists on his thighs, and at the sight of him I grew ashamed and turned away. Other divisions sighed.
“After peeking at several duets and closely monitoring the past few weekly générales,” The Witch said, “we have decided that three female dancers and two males will leave. When we call your names, walk back to your rooms and pack your bags. Your guardians have been informed and are on their way.”
I imagined my father arriving at Nanterre. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d spoken or when I’d last received a package from the US. I was tempted to run to my room, to check if he sat on my polka-dotted bedspread, waiting for me. But Madame Brunelle’s next words brought me back to the Board Room.
“Thierry, Fred, Colombe, Suzanne, and Isabelle. When you are done packing, drop off your room keys in my mailbox. It’s been a pleasure working with you.”
The three rat-girls glanced at one another. Isabelle, the boldest, began to say something then stopped and stared, sulking one final time at Madame Brunelle. Bessy covered her face with her hands and sobbed. Suzanne leaned against the wall, frozen. Thierry and Fred jumped to their feet, high-fived Guillaume and Luc, and bolted out the door without giving anyone a final glance. Colombe was as pale as her ivory leotard.
As the girls were about to exit the Board Room, M made her way to each dancer, pecking them on the cheek. Gia followed.
Once they were gone, Madame Brunelle said, “We have more news.”
A collective wince could be felt.
“Nothing to agonize over,” she continued. “The Grand Défilé will still occur in late May, less than three weeks from now, but the First Division winners of the company internship will not participate this year.”
What? I tried to listen.
“The newly celebrated members will be performing at a Tokyo worldwide competition with a select few. The chosen rat-girl will have the honor to perform one variation with Benjamin Desjardins, a brilliant idea he himself proposed. The chosen rat-boy will partner with our newest principal, Sarah Barinelli.” Madame Brunelle paused. “To help us finalize our decision as to who shall go to Tokyo, First Division will be presenting coed générales in full costume at the Palais Garnier next weekend. Families, faculty, and the media have been invited. Couples will dance the same pas de deux once. Desjardins and Barinelli will be there to judge as well. Here are the adage partners in order. Listen carefully because there have been some changes.
“One, Kate Sanders and Cyrille Terrant. Two, Marine Duval and Luc Bouvier. Three, Gia Delmar and Jean-Paul Lepic. Four, Bessy Prévot and Guillaume Lanvin. Five, Sebastian Cotilleau will perform a single variation, not for Tokyo, but to show us if he is capable of repeating First Division next year. If you have further questions, Monsieur Chevalier
will oblige.”
Before anyone could raise a hand, the holy trio vacated the room. By the time they’d left the dance annex, the Board Room was in mayhem. I couldn’t move. Had Benjamin done this thinking of me? Surely yes. There was the proof that he loved me, yet he’d never breathed a word of it. This had to be a secret message. But then Cyrille startled me.
“I’m not performing with you,” he said.
“It wasn’t my idea.”
Cyrille continued, “Marine is the one I will perform with this Saturday. We’ve been anchor partners all year. I’m not changing now. Are we clear?”
Maybe it was the lingering heat or the fact that I hadn’t seen Benjamin in weeks and was dying to talk to him about this Tokyo affair, or maybe it was the image of J-P on the terrace bending into the wind, or the sad hoax that was what I thought I’d had with Cyrille, but I grew so tired that I nearly sat down on the floor. “Faculty verdict,” I said. “If you don’t partner with me your career might be over.”
Except that Cyrille had already turned his back to me and was walking away.
thirty-one
Marine
On Tuesday evening, after dinner, I found a rehearsal spot for me and Luc in one of the second-floor studios. I liked the remote space. It was a narrow rectangle and during late spring the windows were always open. Sometimes Mireille’s bees buzzed in, making younger rats run out, furiously swatting their hands. I didn’t mind them though—any contact with nature delighted me these days. Sun drenched the floors, and though there were of course lots of mirrors, you could turn your back to them and perform toward the courtyard.
As the sunset streaked the sky pink, I anxiously waited for Luc to arrive. Earlier, I’d chosen to wear my bright red leotard, the one I’d worn when Cyrille and I had rehearsed Kitri, the one that showed off my hips. I’d also dabbed my wrists with l’eau de rose and clasped my favorite chain around my neck. I warmed up at the barre, making sure that my muscles would be supple when it was time to partner. I was having a healthy day and I loved the idea of finishing off my year dancing with Luc. There was something circular and beautiful about it. But after a while I started to fret. Luc didn’t show. It was unlike him to be late. By quarter of nine, I decided to look for him. Maybe he was waiting for me in another studio. But when I walked through the common room, I found him, lying back on the couch in street clothes, wearing his rugged baseball cap, talking to Sebastian.