Third Position

by Melody Grace

  “I don’t know,” Karla shrugs. “And neither does Ros. Which is why she’s sticking it out for now.” She gives me another smile. “Come to dinner. I promise not to mention his name if you don’t want.”

  I feel a wave of homesickness for my old roommates. I look around the empty stage, and know I’m done for now. There’s nothing more I can practice; it’s all up to tomorrow. “OK,” I agree. “But I can’t stay long. Mom wants me back at the apartment before nine. I have to stay rested before the big night.”

  Karla gives me a look, but doesn’t disagree. “I’ll text Ros, have her save you a seat.”

  14.

  We head down the block, to the old pizzeria many of the dancers use as an informal gathering place in the evenings. With the dress rehearsal finished, everyone is here, taking one last chance to let their hair down before the big test to come. It’s noisy and buzzing with energy, but I sense the mood change when I walk in: catching whispers and stares as Karla leads us to a table in the back.

  “Annalise!” Ros leaps up and hugs me. “I’m so glad you made it. I already ordered,” she adds.

  “Let me guess,” Karla sighs, collapsing into her seat. “A huge pepperoni pizza for you, and limp rabbit food for the rest of us?”

  “That’s what you told me to order!” Ros protests.

  “I know, but I still hate you for it.” Karla beams cheerfully.

  I slide into a seat, self-conscious. “Why is everyone looking at me?” I whisper, looking around the room.

  Karla makes a vague gesture. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “That means they are.” I feel a tremor of fear. I’ve been so focused on getting ready for opening night, I’ve barely registered the other dancers in rehearsals, but now, away from the studio, I realize that I must have been a major topic of conversation. “What are they saying?”

  Karla and Ros exchange a look. “It’s just stupid competitive bullshit,” Ros says hurriedly.

  “Lucia is still mad they didn’t fire you and give her the solo instead,” Karla adds, “so she’s bitching all over the place, saying how your mom pulled strings for you. It’s nothing. Ignore her.”

  “Oh.” The waiter arrives with our food, and the subject is dropped as we turn our attention to our meals, but I can’t help sneaking glances over to the corner table, where Lucia is holding court with a couple of the other corps de ballet. She probably thought that turning me in over Raphael would secure her the part, but instead, she’s still left in the background, willing me to fail.

  “She’s right,” I admit.

  Karla blinks at me. “What?”

  “About my mom. They should have fired me,” I say, shrugging at the hard truth of it. “Anyone else who broke the rules like that would have been on the first flight back home. It’s only because Mom sweet-talked them that they kept me around.”

  And begged, and pleaded, and threatened, I silently add. My mom waged a full-on war to keep me in the company, promising that if I was sent home in disgrace, she would pull strings and have Mademoiselle and Gilbert replaced before they could even say ‘arabesque.’ I’ve always hated the thought of Mom’s reputation giving me undeserved breaks in my career, but I have to admit, I’m thankful she was able to keep me here. The alternative is just too awful to consider.

  “Face it, Lucia just did what any of us would have done,” I add, glancing her way again. Lucia catches my eye this time, and gives me a massive glare. “This is a competition, remember. You have to play dirty to win.”

  Karla frowns at me. “Jesus, way to sound like a heartless bitch.”

  I shrug again, feeling nothing but emptiness inside. “Come on, you’re saying that if you were my understudy, you wouldn’t have turned me in?”

  “What? No!” Karla protests, but I fix her with a look.

  “Really?” I raise my eyebrow. “If I was the one standing between you and all your dreams coming true, you wouldn’t have been tempted?”

  There’s silence.

  Karla looks away, clearly realizing the truth.

  “See? It’s the way this works,” I say, my voice coming out with a bitter metallic edge. “You don’t get ahead without pushing someone else down.”

  The way Mom did, to make it to the top. The way Raphael did, with me. The way I should have done from the start.

  But my words seem to surprise my friends. Rosalie shakes her head, looking concerned. “I don’t like to hear you talk like this. It’s not like you.”

  “And what is?” I challenge her. “Being stupid and naive, believing everything will work out just because I want it to? Just because you let Mademoiselle push you around, doesn’t mean the rest of us have to live that way.”

  “Annalise!” Karla exclaims. I stop. Rosalie is looking hurt, biting her lip, and I realize in a guilty flash that I’ve gone too far.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her quickly. “Forget I said anything. I didn’t mean it, I promise.”

  “It’s OK.” Rosalie gives me a wavering smile. “I know you’re having a tough time.”

  We’re interrupted suddenly as Lucia and her minions pass us by, talking loudly. “She’s barely keeping it together,” Lucia is saying. “Why do you think her mommy came running? She can’t handle the pressure.”

  “Totally.” The other girls agree.

  “And is it any wonder that Italian guy dumped her?” Lucia shoots me a smug look, sashaying past. “She’s got ‘frigid bitch’ written all over her.”

  I tense, ice running through my veins at the mention of Raphael.

  “Don’t listen to her,” Rosalie whispers, giving me a reassuring pat.

  “Seriously,” Karla agrees, glaring after them. “Everyone knows you’re ten times better than her. That’s why they didn’t send you home,” she adds. “They must have figured that if they promoted her, it would ruin the whole show.”

  “Thanks,” I give them a small smile to show I’m not about to fall apart. “But you’re exaggerating. And we both know your solo is all anyone will be talking about after tomorrow night,” I change the subject, teasing.

  “That is true,” Karla laughs.

  “You looked amazing up there, Karla,” Ros adds, taking a big bite of cheesy pizza. My stomach rumbles just looking at it, and I’m about to ask for a slice, but then I remember what Mom said to me, and turn back to my salad instead.

  “How did it feel?” I ask Karla. “I was changing, so I only caught the end.”

  “Fine, great, awesome.” Karla beams, entirely unconcerned by the looming performance. “I’ve got this thing nailed.”

  “I don’t know whether you’re crazy or a genius to be talking like that,” I tell her, shaking my head. “Aren’t you worried you’ll jinx it?”

  “Superstition is for losers,” Karla declares. “I have talent. Hard work. Dedication.”

  “Modesty,” I finish for her. She laughs.

  “Hey, if I don’t believe in myself, who will?”

  I pause, suddenly thrown. Raphael believes in you, a voice whispers.

  Believed, I correct myself angrily. And that was all just a game.

  Oh yeah? the voice challenges. So why was he texting and calling you, begging for a chance to explain?

  I push the thought aside and focus on my food instead, letting Rosalie’s and Karla’s easy banter surround me in a brief blanket of warmth.

  Raphael is gone. There’s no going back now, even if I could.

  After dinner, I head back to the apartment. I find myself checking my cell phone on the ride up, even though I know there’s no chance of a message from him. At first, he bombarded me with calls and texts. I deleted them all without reading, it was still too much to take, seeing his name flash onscreen at any moment: a terrible reminder of the hurt he’d caused. I got a new number, and even changed my email address, and just like that, he was gone: silence instead of the constant buzz.

  Emptiness, instead of pain.

  I let myself into the apartment and find Mom in th
e living room, watching old performances on the TV. I pause in the doorway, thinking she’s watching a tape of me, but when I look closer I can see it’s her: dancing Swan Lake back when she was playing my role, years ago.

  I watch the figure dance, so flawless, so perfect.

  “You never wavered, even for a moment,” I say, equal parts admiration and jealousy.

  Mom’s head snaps around. “You startled me!” She quickly reaches for the remote, but I stop her.

  “No, I want to see.” I take a few more steps into the room, and watch her finish the piece. Even now, I’m awestruck by her talent: the crisp elegance of her lines, the ferocity with which she tackles every movement. “You were so beautiful. I remember seeing you dance it for that charity benefit, when I was four years old. I’ve never seen it danced better.”

  Mom waves her hand. “I was past my prime then.”

  “Not to me. You were magnificent.” I remember how it made me feel, so proud that this special creature was my mother, the one who brought the audience to their feet, the applause echoing long after she took her final bow.

  “That was a long time ago.” My mom clicks off the TV. The screen goes dark. “How are you feeling?” she asks.

  I shrug. “A little sore, but I’ll be fine. I’m going to go take a bath.”

  “No, I meant...” she trails off, and a look of concern slips over her delicate features. “Never mind.” She shakes it away. “You should soak for at least a half hour. I brought the salts to soothe your muscles. Is there anything else you need?”

  The words cut through me. Raphael. I need Raphael, more than anything in the world.

  “Some tea would be great,” I say instead, because what I need is gone, and nothing can take his place.

  She fetches the tea and then leaves me alone in the marble bathroom, the water running hot into the claw-foot tub. I pour in half a bottle of lavender oils and then slowly undress, sliding into the hot water. I feel it wash over my body in a soothing tide.

  Suddenly, I feel so broken, I want to cry.

  How can I be missing him like this? I know he betrayed me, that he never loved me at all, but still, my treacherous heart aches for him like never before. I can’t help but wonder what he’s doing, out there somewhere in the city—so near, but so far away. His second audition is tomorrow, but maybe he’s working tonight at the restaurant, or rehearsing with Francesca, alone up in his loft, the way we used to.

  Touching her, the way he touched me.

  I sink lower, my body shaking with the sobs I can’t deny. I’ve been trying so hard to keep it together and put him out of my mind, but now the memories crash through me, and I’m helpless to resist.

  I hug my knees to my chest, naked, feeling the grief roll through me.

  I loved him.

  I loved him, and I still do. I can’t help it. Every moment we spent together, every dream we shared, the whispered confessions in the dark of the night—all of it keeps replaying over and over in my mind.

  It’s agony.

  I don’t understand, that’s the worst part. I don’t understand anything at all. How he could fool me, all this time, acting as if he felt the same way, when really, there was nothing behind his charming smile but empty promises and cruel lies. Should I have seen it from the start? Were there warning signs all along that I ignored? I play it through a hundred times, but still, I don’t see the clues. But there must have been. I was just too trusting, too naive. I wanted so much for this to be love that I was blind to everything.

  I gave myself to him, so completely. And now...?

  Now, I’m left with a bitter absence in my chest, where joy and hope used to be.

  The loss of him cuts me to the core.

  I slide under the water, feeling it close over my head. Here, my tears don’t sting my cheeks with their hot grief. Here, my sobs are dulled to a silent shake.

  “Annalise!”

  I break the surface, gasping for air. My mom is standing over me, looking anxious.

  “I was knocking. Are you OK?”

  “Fine,” I say quickly, grabbing a towel and getting up. I wrap it around myself securely and wipe water from my face. Water, and hot, salty tears.

  Forcing a bright smile, I move past her. “I should get to bed. Like you said, it’s a big day tomorrow.”

  “OK. Sleep tight.” When I look back, my mom is watching me, a shadow of concern on her face. I turn away, and close my bedroom door behind me.

  My whole body cries out for rest, but as I slide into bed, sleep is the last thing I want.

  When I sleep, I dream only of him.

  15.

  “I can’t find my hairnet!”

  “Where did you put that lipstick?”

  “They called for us, we’re late, shit, shit!”

  The dizzying babble of backstage panic whirls around me. Fifteen minutes until the curtain goes up, and the entire company is going crazy, crammed into our tiny dressing rooms, fighting over mirror space.

  “Oh my God, the place is packed!” Karla races into the dressing room, her face lit up with wild excitement. “I just snuck a peek, and there’s not an empty seat in the whole theater.”

  I feel my nerves flare to life, even before Karla adds, “And the Director is here, too. Not Gilbert, but the American Director. Mademoiselle said he flew over especially.”

  My heart skips. “Karla!” I whimper. “Don’t tell me that. I’ll screw it up now for sure.”

  “What happened to you?” Karla’s face creases with concern. “When you left last night, you were totally together. What changed?”

  I shrug. “I didn’t sleep very well,” I reply vaguely, looking away. “Bad dreams.”

  All night long, I dreamed of Raphael. Gasping, wanton dreams of us together, his hands sliding over my body, his mouth sending me wild with desire. I woke trembling, my body flushed and craving, my heart betraying me with a hopeful ache. I lay there in the dark, and I felt the absence of him beside me, so deep I turned my head into my pillow and wept.

  But there’s no time for heartache, not tonight.

  “This is it, kid.” Karla gives me a wink. She’s dressed up in her peasant girl costume, two bright red circles rouged on her cheeks. “I won’t see you until you’re done, so good luck!”

  “You too.” I hug her, careful not to crush my stiff tutu. “I know you’ll kill it.”

  “Damn straight.” Karla beams, a picture of cool relaxation. She even snaps her gum as she strolls out of the dressing room toward the stage, as easy as if she were wandering off to a movie, not the stage of one of the oldest opera houses in Rome.

  I turn back to the mirror, wondering where Raphael is right now. There should be no comparison: a gala opening night, the high point of my career, or playing support to someone else’s audition in some warehouse downtown. But despite everything, a treacherous part of me wishes I was far away from here, with him instead: clinging to the back of the Vespa, speeding through the city to his audition.

  You’re crazy, I tell myself. You’re finally the lead, the one they’ll all be looking at.

  Dancing Odette, the lights, the glittering costume, the applause. This is everything you’ve ever dreamed about.

  But that was before him.

  “Hello? Some of us need to get ready, too.” A voice snaps me out of it. I turn to find Lucia, giving me a glare.

  “Sorry,” I reply, moving out of the way. She checks her reflection, smoothing back her hair, wound tightly in a bun. She’s wearing the costume of the corps de ballet, the matching white tutus of the swans. My outfit is white too, but more elaborate by far: laced with silver and feathers, shimmering and fluttering with every movement. I have more crystals woven in my hair, and a tiara wound with feathers, glittering under the lights.

  Lucia eyes me, clearly jealous. “Break a leg,” she says, with a saccharine grin.

  “You too,” I reply, not doubting for a moment that she actually means it.

  I feel a hand on my a
rm and turn. Mom. She’s dressed up in a gown and jewels, looking like a princess. “I just came to wish you good luck, darling. I’ll be right in front.”

  “Thanks.” She kisses me on the cheek and turns to go, but panic suddenly courses through me, and I clutch her hand, pulling her back.

  “Mom?” My voice comes out strangled. “I’m scared. What if I mess up?”

  “You won’t,” she says firmly. “We’ve rehearsed the steps a hundred times.”

  “No, but what if I can’t do it?” I whisper, terrified. “What if I’m not good enough?”

  I want her to tell me not to worry, that I’m wonderful, that I’ll be great. But instead, Mom gives me a hard look. “This isn’t the time for silly nerves. There are important people here tonight. Don’t let me down.”

  She adjusts my tutu, and then leaves in a swish of silk.

  My fear hardens, icy and bleak.

  “Swan Lake, Act Two scene to the stage,” a voice yells. The panic in the dressing room goes up a notch, but I try to zone out, letting everything drift away as I follow the other girls down the corridor to backstage.

  “Good luck out there.” Mademoiselle grips my shoulder briefly, giving me an encouraging smile.

  I nod, panic twisting in my stomach. The other dancers gather, hushed, in the folds of the curtains, ready to start.

  This is it. No going back. Everything is on the line.

  I slowly flex my ankles, stretch out my arms. The audience settles, the orchestra starts, the lights dim again.

  There are important people here tonight. Don’t let me down.

  The stage manager gives a nod. The other girls glide out into place to begin.

  Don’t let me down.

  Don’t let me down.

  My cue comes, the lift of violin, a shiver in the air. I take a deep breath, and leap, soaring onto the stage in a shimmer of feathers. The swan queen, mid-flight. Arriving.

  In some performances I lose myself, pure motion on the stage. Other times, I stay firmly in my mind, aware of every lift and spin: calculating, analyzing, working at the dance.