by T. F. Walsh
“Problems?” Curtis dropped the paper bag on an uncluttered corner of her desk. Fresh baked fragrances, warmed bread and meat, filled the small room and her stomach growled. “Ham and cheese croissant. Want some?”
“Please,” Izzy said and Curtis opened the bag and fished out the butcher paper wrapped pastry. Biting into the savory croissant scalded her tongue. She blew air out of her mouth, cooling the cured ham and Swiss cheese, before chewing and swallowing. “My Cavalier is having performance anxiety and I don’t know why. He’s been fine until today.”
Travis was perfect casting for the Cavalier. Besides ballet, he played baseball and soccer and had a unique level of self confidence for a thirteen-year-old boy; a requirement for any man interested in classical dance. Ballet wasn’t Travis’s passion, but he’d taken classes with his sister, who had the role of Dewdrop this year, since they were five and Izzy got the impression he stuck it out for her sake. He’d also confided the leg work helped his kicks and control on the pitch. His sudden reticence was a mystery. Maybe it was the dress rehearsals she’d started after their costumes had come in? Travis preferred dancing in shorts and a T-shirt, but he’d done classes in tights.
“Can I watch?” Curtis asked.
Izzy picked at the grease stained butcher paper. Having an audience might give her more trouble with Travis. “That’s up to them.” Izzy stuck her head out into the studio where Amanda attempted a string of fouettés while Travis slouched on the barre at the floor’s far end. “How do the two of you feel about an audience today?”
With an eager bob of her head, Amanda performed a graceful arabesque and went to her starting position in the center of the studio, regal head high, arms floating out and framing her torso in an oval. Her flourish was entirely for the man crowding behind Izzy. Amanda thrived on stage and she clearly enjoyed being the center of Curtis’s attention. The same couldn’t be said for Travis, who sank further into his slouch and ducked his head. He’d have to get used to an audience or Izzy would have to recast.
“You ok with it, Travis?” she pressed. His body language said “no,” but he wouldn’t back down from a challenge.
“S’fine,” he said, tossing his dark hair out of his stormy eyes. He dragged his feet to Amanda and took her hands.
“All right then.” Izzy set up the music and took her place behind the young pair, her back to the frosty window. “From the top.” She counted time as the music warbled through the speakers, broken here and there with loud pops. Curtis sat on the stoop separating her office from the studio proper.
Delicate harp strings plinked and Amanda and Travis parted. They made a wide circle and came together again center floor. The coda was truncated for the Glazier Studio performance. Izzy had simplified the choreography, taking out most of the lifts and easing the Cavalier’s part as much as she could without diminishing Amanda’s role. Sugar Plum’s solo remained, also simplified, as a showcase of her talent, but Izzy cut Travis’s solo altogether. At the stretch of partnered steps preceding the first of two lifts, Travis’s shoulders hunched and he went off step, cringing when Amanda stepped in for her assisted pirouettes.
“Stop, stop!” Izzy shouted over the music and dashed to shut it off. She returned center floor, massaging her temples. “Travis, are you worried about dropping Amanda? Should I eliminate the lifts?” Originally, she’d removed all lifts from their number. At Amanda’s insistence, she’d restored two. The duo had practiced the lifts independent of accompanying choreography, but this was the first time they’d incorporated them into the dance. Could they be the source of Travis’s distraction? Amanda’s safety hinged on his skill after all.
The suggestion of still more simplifications devastated Amanda, who looked like someone had shot her kitten, and Travis gave a non-committal shake of his head. He wasn’t one to admit trepidation, but Izzy didn’t think he’d let Amanda fall. A demonstration might bolster his confidence.
“You two, over there.” Izzy motioned Amanda and Travis to the far side of the studio then turned to their audience. “Curtis, would you join me center floor?”
“Sure,” Curtis said, bounding up. His shoes squeaked on the vinyl flooring.
Placing him in Travis’s position — posture and all — for the lift, Izzy took Amanda’s spot. “I’m going to come to you,” she told Curtis. “Keep eye contact with me and I’ll prompt you when you need to lift me.”
“Lift?”
“Lift. Think you can pick me up?”
“I’m sure of it,” Curtis said and clapped and rubbed his hands together, shifting his weight side to side like a wrestler ready to grapple his opponent. Amanda giggled and Izzy suddenly doubted the brilliance of her idea.
“You’ll have one hand here,” Izzy slapped her torso, “and one here.” She clapped her thigh. “Pick me up and then turn around while you hold me. I’ll take care of the rest.” Resetting the record, Izzy returned to her place and awaited the musical cue.
At the rise of strings, Izzy glided into the choreography and danced to Curtis. With her eyes on his, she gave a short nod and leapt into his readied arms. He gripped her so strongly the breath rushed out of her and she almost forgot to position her arms and legs, also made difficult by his supporting hand closer to her knee than its proper place on her upper thigh. They made a wobbly, if firmly secured, turn with Izzy holding her legs in a sort of figure four, her left toe touching her right knee and her right leg extended back and up. Certain they appeared a pair of graceless elephants, Izzy thought she’d made her point. On her feet again she addressed Travis.
“He’s never danced. Have you?” she asked Curtis.
“Nope.”
“But he caught me and did the turn even with his hands in the wrong place. It’s about trust. Trusting yourself enough to know you won’t hurt your partner and trusting your partner to know her choreography and cues.” Izzy could tell Travis’s mind was already elsewhere, like he’d absorbed her advice before she’d uttered a word and already shrugged it off, but she continued anyway. “If you feel off-kilter, forget technique and hold onto her. Amanda, you can brace yourself if you feel like you’re going to fall, right?”
“Yep,” Amanda answered her teacher though her gaze remained on Curtis.
“Where were my hands supposed to be?” Curtis asked, sounding wounded by the critique.
“Well, the one on my torso was fine, but on my supporting leg you should have been here.” Izzy patted her inner thigh. “Otherwise your arms ruin the shape of the ballerina’s extension.”
Realization widened Curtis’s eyes and he suppressed a chuckle behind his hand.
“Yeah,” Travis shot at him. “I’d like to see you do it with the proper technique in this get up.” He gestured at his white tights and military-style jacket complete with gold epaulettes.
Curtis waved the boy over. “Mind if I have a word?” he asked Izzy, who shook her head.
The men had a pow-wow in the corner — Travis gesticulating with sharp motions and Curtis’s mannerisms calm and assuring — while Izzy took a seat next to Amanda.
“He’s cute,” Amanda whispered.
Izzy nodded, concentrated on the pair deep in hushed conversation. “The Cavalier regalia suits Travis. He’ll look great onstage.”
Amanda made an exasperated noise. “Not Travis, Curtis. He’s very nice.”
Jolted from her inquisitive engrossment, Izzy fixed her student in hard eyes. She didn’t mind gossiping with the older girls — some of them spent so much time at the studio they felt more like little sisters than students — but there were a few lines she didn’t cross. If Amanda wanted to talk boys, fine, but her own love life was off limits.
“He is,” Izzy said, her words clipped and tone final.
Chastised, Amanda toyed with one of her pointe shoes’ loose ribbons, then fingered the browned edges of the pink sat
in toe she’d singed with a lighter to break it in.
Curtis apparently absorbed whatever Travis confided in him. The boy had opened up to him in a matter of moments. In all the years she’d known him, Izzy had never seen Travis talk so much. Where had Curtis learned that skill? She’d fallen victim to it herself. It generally took a while for Izzy to drop her guard when she met new people. Her ease around Curtis spoke to weeks of interaction, not days. Subconscious memories of him with her during the worst experience of her life, she’d thought, contributed to her attitude but everyone, it seemed, was drawn to him. She was still shaking her head when Curtis and Travis reached some sort of understanding.
“We good for another twenty minutes?” Izzy asked. “Or do we need to call it a day?”
“I’m good,” Amanda said and popped up.
Travis gave a curt nod and joined his partner center floor.
Those twenty minutes went well. Travis corrected his own posture when it slipped and his technique with lifts and assisted turns improved. Izzy finished their work with a little one-on-one time with Amanda, who was accomplished enough to concentrate on portraying character and understanding the nuance of her movement’s emotion than with technique.
“Do the solo with me!” Amanda begged while Travis retreated to the dressing rooms. Her excitement was infectious.
“You want to try the full choreography or stick with the truncated version?” Izzy asked.
The challenge had Amanda’s eyes sparkling. “Full.”
“All right then.” Izzy reset the record and stood in position far enough behind Amanda so they wouldn’t collide during their dance. Delicate chimes tinkled when the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy began and their bodies became elastic with movement.
The fairy’s solo tempo was allegro, light and dainty, and as she danced Izzy imagined herself a pale, gossamer scarf flitting in a breeze. Steps and turns were quick, bouncy, and airy. She couldn’t focus on Amanda, but her student appeared poised and spritely. Amanda was a joyful fairy, but the pas de chat wore her down.
In three parts, the solo increased in difficulty with each turn of the suite. The first showcased Sugar Plum’s character, the dancer enchanting the audience with expressive but simple movements. Part two taxed the dancer with a series of pas de chat, cat-like jumps. Pas de chat series were strenuous and they came one after another in this choreography in an unrelenting chain. As she went through them, Amanda’s endurance faltered. She visibly pushed to launch herself into the air and came down hard. She wouldn’t make it through the finale.
Izzy’s fingers tingled with adrenaline and sweat beaded at her brow. The chaine at the conclusion of the solo, a dizzying string of turns and fouettés en tournant, was exhilarating to perform. As she whipped around and around — the dreamy music fueling her performance — she caught Curtis’s rapt expression and nearly fell off pointe. She’d forgotten about their audience. This was the first time she’d really danced for someone A.A. An ache stretched in her heart like muscles awakening to morning barre work. She missed this. She missed this so much.
Watch me.
Nothing compared to an audience dazzled by a talented soloist.
Watch me, Curtis.
The end approached and it was abrupt, demandingly precise. When Izzy finished directly from her fouetté into fourth position, arms outstretched, her throat tightened. Curtis and Travis, sitting together in street clothes by the studio door, applauded. Izzy made her reverence, bowing her head and dipping into a demi plié, one foot pointed behind her ankle. Amanda did the same, chest heaving and hands trembling.
“Did you make it through?” Izzy asked, turning to her exhausted student.
Amanda shook her head, her jaw tight. “I had to fall back on the amended choreography.”
“You’ll get it. We’ll work more on endurance after performances. I have a feeling you’ll be in California or New York for the summer intensives this year.”
Amanda brightened at that and Izzy sent her to change out.
Parents waited testily outside for their children when the group finally emerged from the studio. Izzy confirmed their next session Thursday afternoon and Curtis accompanied her to her car.
“If it’s not a sacred man secret,” Izzy said as she munched on what remained of the cold ham and cheese croissant, “what was it you said to Travis? He was much better after your talk.”
“I told him there was no reason to feel guilty.”
“Guilty?”
“Those lifts of yours put his hands in places boys dream of going but are generally denied.”
Izzy inhaled some half-chewed croissant and beat her chest with her fist. She hadn’t thought Travis might be uncomfortable. Chemistry between partners often added to a performance, but they were a little young for that.
“After you had me do the lift with you, I figured he might be self-conscious what with the tights and the proximity.”
Waving that line of conversation away, Izzy struck her chest a few more times to clear it. The bit of food felt like a pebble lodged between her lungs. “I’ll take the lifts out if it’s a problem.”
“I think acknowledging it would be worse. Let him work through it. Half the problem is he has a girlfriend and he thinks the feelings he gets with Amanda are like cheating.”
“And you told him … ?”
“That his instincts don’t make him a bad person. That he’s normal.”
They walked without speaking until Izzy broke the silence at her car door. “Thanks for helping.”
“No problem,” Curtis said, “but you know, you could return the favor.”
“How’s that?”
“I don’t know Tavella as well as you. After we eat and you get a new phone, can you take me to the local animal shelter?”
Chapter Six
On all sides of the kennel, dogs barked and yapped from inside their pens. This wasn’t the best place in the world for Izzy. The Tavella shelter kept their dogs and cats housed separately and she’d prepped herself in the cat wing first, feeling gloomy when all the sad and bewildered kitten faces begged for a home she couldn’t give them. Their pitiful mews tugged at her heart strings. Challenging her canine phobia had to be better than battling guilt, so she’d headed to the dog wing where she stood now. Barks rattled through her. The cacophony traveled like a concussive wave over her skin and all the little hairs on her body stood on end. Terror mixed with the sour smell of animal and antiseptics made her queasy. She backed from the room of cages and right into Curtis who entered with a volunteer in tow. His hands came down on her shoulders.
“You ok?” Curtis stared down into her face.
“I don’t think this is going to work for me.” Izzy kept her voice hushed in the volunteer’s company and Curtis followed suit.
“You don’t?” He gave her a reassuring squeeze and glanced around the room. “All these fellas are behind bars and I really need your help. Petey needs another dog around and if you leave it to me, I’ll end up with another spaz-hound. I’m a spaz-hound magnet.” When Izzy’s expression remained pinched, he said, “Maybe you could wait in the car.”
“Excuse me, miss,” the volunteer interrupted them. Her light hair was gathered in a short ponytail and her plump cheeks were bright pink, the single points of color painting her otherwise cream and khaki person. “Do you need some water? You look a little pale.”
“Sure,” Izzy said and stepped out of Curtis’s arms. She didn’t have to wait in the damn car. One drink, a quick breather, and she’d be fine. “Thanks.”
“No problem. Take your time. They’re noisy, but they’re all sweethearts,” the volunteer left for the water, leaving them alone in the kennel.
While Curtis wandered from cage to cage inspecting their occupants, Izzy hung back awaiting the gal’s return. After she’d accepted and downed t
he contents of the waxy paper cup and pretended she had more to drink for a few minutes, she pitched the crumpled cup in the trash and joined Curtis at the back of the kennel where he stooped in front of a large pen. Inside, a wolfish Siberian husky sat against the far wall, sneaking tentative glances at the humans watching him.
The husky’s coat was silvery white. Black markings striped over his back, framed his face, and darkened the tips of his ears. His sickle tail tucked under his legs and each time he turned his head, Izzy caught a flash of the most beautiful ice blue eyes.
“How would you say this dog is feeling?” Curtis asked.
“Scared.”
“How can you tell?”
Izzy watched the husky back into the corner of his pen, overturning his water dish. “He doesn’t want to be anywhere near us. His ears are flat and he keeps looking back and forth like he wants to check that we’re still here but not draw any attention.”
Nodding, Curtis said, “What about the dog over there?” He indicated one of the large breed pens to their right where a big brown mutt paced and barked at them.
“Angry.” Izzy hugged herself. While she couldn’t pick out a particular breed for the animal, it was barrel chested with a great big belly and powerful legs. Its huge head came with equally huge jaws that looked strong enough to crush a boulder to powder.
Curtis frowned. “Why angry?”
“He’s showing a lot of teeth and making a lot of noise.”
“Loud barking doesn’t mean angry. If you learn dog behavior, you might be more comfortable around one or two. His teeth are out because he’s opening his mouth but he’s not purposefully baring them or snarling. He’s excited and his ears are a little flat so, wary.” Curtis rose and approached the mutt’s cage. It went into bark overdrive, then dropped its chest down and wiggled its butt high in the air as it jumped back and forth.