I look at him in confusion, then take it from his hand; it’s surprisingly heavy. “Hanukkah was almost four months ago, you know,” I say.
“Yeah, okay, then it’s a happy—” and here he glances around my little apartment. The couch, which I’ve obviously just vacated, has a nest of pillows and blankets and a mug of tea steaming on the coffee table. “Happy Hannah Day,” he finishes.
The smile I was trying to suppress comes out. “Is that a legal holiday?”
“In certain municipalities,” he says.
“Funny,” I say, “because it isn’t in mine.”
He shrugs off his jacket, which he lays on the back of a chair. “I know,” he says, “you never have any free time. Save it, Ward, I’ve heard it all before. And I’ll have you know that I’ve become the butt of many of my friends’ jokes because I’m still hung up on you.”
I’m still standing by the open door. In the hallway the overhead light flickers.
“Well, aren’t you going to see what it is?” he asks, pointing to the box. He sits on my couch and pats the spot beside him.
I sit down next to him and lift the lid of the box.
Inside there is a small, carved stone figurine of a dancer. But she’s not a ballerina—her body is thick and powerful, and she’s wearing many layers of carved clothing and jewelry.
“It’s an Iteso dancer,” he says. “From Africa. She symbolizes strength and power and happiness.”
For a little while I don’t say anything; I just turn the figure over in my hand. It’s cool and smooth, with a pleasing weight. The woman’s feet are invisible underneath her skirts, but her hands are raised above her head, and on her face is an expression of joy.
“Well?” Jacob asks. “Do you like it?”
“I love it,” I say. I place the little figurine on the coffee table between us. “Thank you.” I’ll put it on my bookshelf, right next to the agate my dad gave me when I was ten and a bronze casting of my first pair of baby shoes, which I use as a bookend.
“So…” Jacob’s hand cups my shoulder, and I feel a slight tug toward him, which, for some inexplicable reason, I resist. “How have you been?” he asks.
“Exhausted. The end of the season is always tough, and now that I’m going for a promotion, I’m pushing myself even harder,” I say.
“So what else is new?” he teases.
“I know, I know; I’m an overachiever from way back. Why didn’t you answer my e-mail?”
“Sorry, I got really busy, too. I meant to, and I just kept spacing. I thought about you a lot, though.”
His hand moves from my shoulder up to my neck, and his thumb touches skin. He rubs me, ever so softly, and then his fingers reach up and wind themselves into my hair. I fall against him, folding my body into the space along his ribs, and bury my face in his shirt. I sigh deeply.
I can feel myself relaxing, sinking into him, and then Annabelle’s voice echoes in my head. “Your job is not to have a life. Your job is to dance.” I sit up abruptly.
“What?” he asks, but I just shake my head.
Jacob looks at me with concern, and then he reaches down and clasps my foot firmly in his hands. He runs his thumbs under my arch. I have a split second of anxiety when I remember how ugly my toes are, but then I relax. He presses hard in all the right places. I sigh.
After a few moments, he reaches for my hands. He pulls me toward him again, and he holds me tight and close. I resist for a moment, and then I stop resisting; I put my head against his chest and exhale. His heart beats against my cheek like a drum, and I imagine it pumping the blood through his body.
After a while I lift my head and look from his lips to his eyes and back again. The corners of his mouth turn up in a little smile. I’m drawn even closer toward him.
“I know you’re busy, but do you think you have time to kiss me?” Jacob asks.
“I believe that I could make the time, yes.” I laugh as I lean in even further.
Our lips touch, and an unfamiliar tingling feeling washes over my body in waves. We roll over, and then Jacob is above me. I feel his weight on me, and it feels better than anything I’ve ever felt. I wrap my arms around him as he eases my shirt over my head. His shirt comes off, too, and soon I lose track of where my body ends and his begins.
The sun wakes me, and I lift my head slowly. I realize that we fell asleep on the couch, and that Jacob’s warm, bare chest was my pillow. He’s still asleep; his dark hair is messy, and he looks so handsome and vulnerable that I can’t help but smile. I kiss him gently on the cheek, but he doesn’t wake up. I curl back up in the space by his ribs and take his arm and wrap it around me. I’m wearing only my white cotton underwear and a skimpy tank top. I could get used to waking up to a cute guy, I think.
After a few minutes, he stirs. “Hey, lady,” he says, his voice hoarse and sexy. He runs his fingers along my arm.
“Hey,” I say, sitting up. I’ve never been this naked in front of a guy before.
He looks at me and smiles, and little creases form in the corners of his eyes. “What are you doing today? Want to grab brunch or something and then walk through the park?”
I reach up and touch his cheek. He needs to shave, I think. But he’s gorgeous.
“You’re not answering me,” he points out.
It takes all my willpower to respond. “I can’t,” I say, touching his chest. “I have to do all my theater laundry, and I have Pilates at noon, and then I’m meeting Bea for Bikram.”
He frowns slightly, but his expressions eases as he props himself up on his elbows. “Okay,” he says, “how about we meet up later and see Dial M for Murder at the Paris Theater? It’s supposed to be great.”
I sigh. “I’m sorry—I want to, but I can’t. I have to rest up for tomorrow. I have two really hard ballets in the show.”
He gets up from the couch abruptly and reaches for his pants. He tugs them on, tightens his belt, and then grabs his T-shirt from the floor.
“What are you doing?” I ask. I reach for a pillow to cover myself.
“Getting dressed. What does it look like?” His voice has lost its warmth.
“What’s the matter?”
He whirls to face me. “You know what, Hannah? I’m really trying here.” He pulls his T-shirt on. “But I’m about out of patience.”
Immediately, I bristle. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t you ever give yourself a break? You’re so damn rigid.” He’s standing in the middle of my living room, and he’s almost glaring at me.
I stand up, the pillow still clutched to my chest. “This is my career,” I say. “Nothing is more important to me.”
“Yeah, apparently.” Jacob stalks across the living room looking for his shoes.
“I told you about the promotions,” I say. “How they’re making everyone work harder—”
Jacob interrupts me. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re completely self-involved?”
I can see that his shoes are under the coffee table, but I don’t tell him. “Because I care about my career?” I say, my voice rising.
He puts on his coat and crams his hat on his head, but he still can’t find his shoes. “You can’t make time for anybody but yourself.”
“You have no idea how hard my job is. This is what it takes! You’re just jealous that I made it as a performer, and you most likely won’t.”
As soon as the words come out, I regret them.
Jacob’s eyes darken, and his jaw clenches. “I’m leaving,” he says. He finally sees his shoes and he shoves them on. “See you later. Or not.” The door slams behind him.
“Jacob!” I call. “Jacob!”
But he’s rushing down the stairs, as if he can’t get away from me quickly enough.
SPRING SEASON
29
It’s still unseasonably chilly and gray when we start rehearsal for the spring season in April. Before this we had a weeklong break, which I spent in Weston with my parents. My mother, whom
I’d told about my off-and-on attempts to not eat animals, decided to experiment with seitan and tempeh at every meal, which prompted my dad to start looking for his car keys every day around dinnertime. He’d suddenly “remember something at the office” and drive off in his Volvo, heading for the nearest diner. When he came home, he smelled like eggs and bacon.
At night we lined up on the couch and watched old movies, and I tried to hide the fact that I wouldn’t indulge in the buttered popcorn. Even though my parents wanted to know all about the goings-on of the company, I didn’t really want to talk about it. And though I’d missed them during the season, there was a big part of me that wished I was already back in the city, taking class and whipping my body into even better shape.
I called Bea to commiserate. “I’ve been dying for a break, but now that I’m here, I just feel restless. And I swear, in three days my muscles are already starting to atrophy.”
I could hear Bea flop down on her bed. “Ech, tell me about it. I hate falling out of shape and then having to get back in shape. It’s too hard.”
“So you’re taking classes?” I asked.
“Yeah, are you kidding me? I go back to the city tomorrow. Those dumb young girls who take the week off? You can always tell.”
I gazed out the window at the trees in our yard, which were just beginning to bud. “Maybe I should switch my train ticket.”
“Oh, just hit the gym or do yoga or something—you’ll be fine.”
I took her advice and had my mom drive me into Boston for yoga each day. (I’d never learned to drive, since I pretty much grew up in Manhattan.) And at night I slept in my childhood bedroom, its yellow walls still plastered with images of Allegra Kent and Gloria Govrin and glow-in-the-dark stars still dotting the ceiling. My old pointe shoes were still in a crate in my closet. And lined up on top of the bookshelf were all the stuffed animals I used to love so much—but not enough, apparently, to take with me when I left.
I imagined my mother coming into my room to straighten the covers and fluff the pillows, even though there was no need to, because I was gone. I realized for the first time how hard it must have been for my parents to allow their fourteen-year-old daughter to move to New York by herself. They must have wished I’d stay with them a little longer. But they knew how driven and ambitious I was, and so, however reluctantly, they deposited me in the Manhattan Ballet Academy dormitory and waved good-bye.
I could never regret leaving. But it wasn’t an uncomplicated feeling.
And lying there in bed, I couldn’t help but replay the fight I’d had with Jacob. I was sure I’d ruined things permanently this time.
I told myself he’d be better off without me. There were plenty of girls with more time on their hands, and I was pretty sure he wouldn’t have any trouble finding one.
A few days later, my mom sent me back to New York with a suitcase of new clothes, freshly highlighted hair (“This’ll make Otto adore you,” she’d whispered), and one of her glazed ceramic bowls, which was supposed to bring me good luck. For a while I left it on my coffee table, but then I wrapped it in tissue and put it under my bed. If it really brought me good luck, then I wouldn’t be perpetually frustrated at work and Jacob wouldn’t have vanished from my life.
But I try not to think about him too much these days. We have three weeks of rehearsal period before spring season opens. It’s a time to learn new ballets, rehearse the ones that are in the company’s regular rotation, and practice ones we haven’t danced since last year. The schedule starts off light, with everyone just back from break and easing into their dancing bodies again, and then picks up as we get closer to performance season. Though there are no-last minute throw-ons during rehearsal period—which, when it comes down to it, is the most anxiety-provoking part of performance season—rehearsal period isn’t without stress. The ballets you’re called to rehearse are the ones that you’ll be performing, so you spend a lot of time worrying about where your name will be on the rehearsal postings.
One evening, after a long day of learning new ballets, Jonathan links arms with me and walks me home up Columbus Avenue. “I hardly ever see the sunset,” he muses. “It’s always pitch-black when we’re done.”
I glance up at the wispy purple clouds. It’s true—when was the last time I saw a New York sunset? “It’s pretty,” I say. “We should appreciate things like this more often.”
Beside me, Jonathan gives a little hop of excitement. “I’m just psyched to get home in time to watch Models of the Runway.”
“How intellectual of you,” I say.
“Hey, I never claimed to be a scholar,” he replies.
We walk for a few minutes in silence. “I hate rehearsal period,” I blurt out.
“Really?” He raises his eyebrows at me. “But don’t you love evenings off?”
“They make me anxious,” I admit.
“What’s to be anxious about getting off early?”
I shrug. “I don’t know what to do with myself when I’m not performing.”
Jonathan purses his lips and looks thoughtful. “Yeah, now that you mention it, I can’t wait to get back onstage, too. I’m dead sick of standing next to Caleb in Wonder/Ponder rehearsal. He’s a total mouth-breather.”
“It’s weird—when our lives are just a little bit less intense, I miss the crazy intensity. What’s wrong with me?”
“Dr. Jonathan knows what’s wrong with you,” he says. He pats my hand. “You’re just what they call a dancer. Here, take two of these”—and he hands me his ballet shoes—“and call me in the morning.”
“Oh, go on,” I giggle. And I toss his shoes back at him as the sun sinks slowly behind the buildings of New York City.
30
When our spring season opens, I’m in the best shape of my life. I’ve lost five pounds since winter season; my breasts are smaller and pressed against my ribs (Bernadette has made me two more undergarments). So what if I don’t have time to appreciate the pretty pink buds opening on the trees near the Avery Center? So what if I’ve stopped eating bread, stopped opening mail, stopped answering my phone?
My mother learns to text in desperation. Call me sometime why dont u? she writes. Daddy sends luv.
So busy, I write back. Love u.
One morning when I’m coming out of the elevator on my way to the dressing room before company class, I almost bump into tall, muscular Roman Fielding. Since he’s a principal, I don’t think I’ve ever exchanged a single word with him. He gazes down his aquiline nose at me.
“Sorry,” I say, trying to get out of his way.
He stops, which makes me pause, too. His dark, heavy-lidded eyes search my face. “You never smile anymore, Hannah,” he says. And then he gets into the elevator without another word.
As I hurry to the dressing room, I marvel at the fact that he knows who I am and that he noticed my facial expression. The vast majority of dancers spend their time noticing things about themselves, not other people. After all, it’s our job to scrutinize ourselves in the studio mirrors so we can correct our imperfections.
But is Roman right? Have I stopped smiling these last few weeks?
As an experiment, before I walk into the dressing room, I fix my mouth into a bright and I hope sincere-looking smile. “Morning, ladies,” I say.
Daisy looks up at me from her chair, where she’s sewing her shoes. “What’s that weird expression on your face?” she asks.
I guess Roman was right. But who cares about smiling? I can see my stick arms returning. I can picture Hannah Ward on the casting list, right there under the name of a big solo part.
After company class I decide to stick around and practice my pirouettes. I’ve never been a great turner, especially to the left; it always makes me kind of anxious. (Being partnered with Luke doesn’t help, either, considering he’s always an inch away from dropping me.)
All around me other dancers are leaping and madly spinning, practicing tricks or going over the choreography for upcoming ballets
. Luke is practicing his double tours, and Julie is doing furious fouettés, like she does after every class, her curly hair flying; she’s hoping to be cast as the Swan Queen this season.
I focus on myself in the mirror as I prepare in a large fourth position, with my weight mostly in my front leg. I spring into a passé while snapping my head to the mirror, one-two-down, and again one-two-down, and again. I fall out of the turn and gasp in exasperation. When I attempt pirouettes to the left, I stumble awkwardly out of the very first rotation. “Damn it!” I say under my breath. I take a breath and prepare to turn to the right, one-two-down, and one-two-down.
“Don’t rush it,” I hear someone say.
Suddenly Zoe’s standing right in front of me, still pink in the face from the grand allégro. “Try bringing this arm in directly to your chest,” she directs. She grasps my left arm and says, “You’re leaving it out there too long.”
And I admit, my first instinct is to resent her for thinking that she ought to give me advice. But when I try the turn again, this time almost slapping my chest with my left arm, I do a triple. I smile.
“Perfect,” Zoe says, nodding.
“I don’t know about perfect,” I say. “But it felt good. Thanks.”
Zoe smiles. “Sure thing. You want to do it again?”
“I don’t want to jinx it,” I say. But I do it again anyway. I tell myself that this is just part of the montage sequence, and that all this additional work is going to pay off.
Pretty soon I’m doing triple after triple and my leotard is soaked, so Zoe and I head back to the dressing room for a quick change before rehearsal.
At my spot is an enormous bouquet of yellow tulips.
“Wow,” I say. I rush over to look at the card, hoping madly it’s from Jacob. But of course it’s not: The flowers are from Matt.
“So, who’s this Matt guy again?” Zoe asks, looking over my shoulder.
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