Matt puts my hand in the crook of his arm and leads me to the mezzanine, where there are tables with white linen tablecloths and centerpieces overflowing with fuchsia peonies. Above us hangs a giant crystal chandelier, so brilliant and glittering it looks like an exploding diamond. Below us are the other opera-goers, dressed in floor-length ball gowns and black tuxedos. All of them look wealthy and manicured to within an inch of their lives.
Maybe this is what prom feels like, I think. Then I laugh to myself when I realize that prom doesn’t include a bunch of old people in fur coats.
“What’s so funny, Ms. Ward?” Matt asks as we walk.
“Oh, nothing,” I say, flushing. “Don’t mind me.”
Matt leads me toward one of the larger tables, where two twenty-something guys and a girl are waiting. One guy, the one with darker hair, stands when he sees me, and then the blond one with his bow tie slightly askew follows his lead. I glance back at Matt, who’s grinning at them. The three of them could almost be brothers—they’re all tall, lean, and tanned, with floppy hair, and they have that same confident, perfectly white-toothed smile.
The blond guy’s eyes widen a little as we reach the table. “Way to go, Matt!” he says, looking directly at me. He bends over at the waist and kisses my hand with a devilish expression. “I’m Will.”
“Hannah—hi.” I pull my hand back, and the darker-haired guy reaches for it next.
His smile is friendlier. “I apologize for Will,” he says. “Emotionally, he’s still in utero. I’m Charles.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, relaxing ever so slightly.
Matt pulls out the chair next to him, and I take a seat. A bottle of champagne rests in a silver bucket by my right hand.
The slender platinum blond wearing a short black sequin dress gazes coolly at me from across the table. She’s leaning back in her chair and bouncing her leg up and down.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” She raises an eyebrow.
“Madison, this is Hannah,” Matt says obediently.
Madison extends her spindly left arm and weakly squeezes my hand. “Pleasure,” she says with a smirk.
She obviously doesn’t mean it. I can feel her eyeing my dress before she turns and whispers something to Will. She’s dressed to the nines—besides the dress, she’s got on a killer ruby necklace—and I wonder if her mother named her Madison after the avenue.
Waiters in white gloves serve us tiny salads with spiky, complicated-looking leaves and the bright pink petals of edible flowers.
Charles elbows Matt and says, with his mouth full of salad, “You guys should come to Ibiza next week.”
“Yeah, Christmas was a bore without you,” Will says, rolling his eyes. “I skipped out on George’s party and took the jet home early.”
Madison kneads Will’s thigh and giggles.
Matt turns to me. “You wanna go to Ibiza?” he asks, leaning back in his chair and sipping his champagne.
“We’re in the middle of the season!” I say. “You know I can’t go.” I look around at everyone at the table. “I mean, how can you guys get that much vacation time away from work?”
Matt laughs. “Charles’s whole life is a vacation.”
Charles points a fork at Matt. “Like you should talk.”
“I work,” Matt says, spearing a piece of lettuce.
“Yeah, for your daddy,” Charles points out. “Who lets you take weeks off so you can enrich yourself through travel.”
Matt shrugs. “What can I say? Nepotism has its perks.”
I push my salad around on my plate, strangely not hungry. Sitting at the table with these people feels like some kind of social experiment. I’m learning how the rich manage to have zero responsibilities. “So, what do you do, Will?” I ask.
Will lifts his champagne glass to his lips and smiles at me over the rim. “I’m between jobs,” he says. “I was in banking for a while, but it just wasn’t that much fun. Madison and I might start a line of luggage together—right, Mad? She’ll do the design, and I’ll tap my friends for investment.”
A tiny sneer flickers over Madison’s face. “Handbags, Will. Not luggage.”
Will waves his hand. “Whatever.”
“You’re going to be a purse CEO?” Matt snorts.
Will grins slyly. “You know the ladies love a man who can get them the latest to-die-for bag.” This prompts Madison to swat him on the arm. “Ouch!” he yelps.
“I guess none of you really need to work,” I say softly.
“God no,” Charles says. “That would totally suck.”
Suddenly, Madison sits up and points across the room. “Ooph, that’s sooo unfortunate. Look what Bunny did to her face!”
Charles and Matt crane their necks, but I just sit back and take a huge gulp of champagne. Will seems preoccupied with Madison’s right hand, which is angling down toward his crotch. Doesn’t anyone care about the opera? I wonder. Or anything of real substance, for that matter?
“She should have stuck with the last face-lift,” Charles says.
Meanwhile Will’s hand is creeping up Madison’s dress. Every once in a while she swats him, but I can tell she doesn’t mind.
“Is Leo here tonight?” Matt asks, scanning the room.
“Haven’t seen him,” Will replies, pouring himself another glass of wine.
“He was here with that model last year. Cool people. I bummed a Nat Sherman from him outside during intermission.” Matt pauses and looks around again. “Chloë, too. I would have expected her.”
Madison winks at Matt and giggles.
Matt seems to have forgotten that he brought me. As a reminder, and in an attempt to change the subject, I speak up. “So, how long have you been coming to the opera?”
“Ever since I was a kid,” he acknowledges.
“Really?” It’s hard to imagine Matt as a child—a kid in jeans instead of a suit and a Patek Philippe. “Do you like it more than ballet?”
“How could a bunch of middle-aged, fully clothed people singing compare to a stage full of half-naked girls dancing?” he asks.
Madison snickers and snaps the corner of her napkin at Matt. “You pig,” she says affectionately.
And I don’t know who’s annoying me more right now, Matt or his friends. “You know, that kind of makes you sound like a jerk,” I say.
He laughs. “It was a joke.” He reaches over and gives my hand a squeeze. “That’s not really why I like the ballet better.”
He goes on to explain the similarities he sees between the two art forms. Charles, Will, and Madison are busy discussing a mutual friend’s most recent trip to rehab. I let my mind wander.
Matt’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “How do you like the entrée?” Matt asks.
“It’s great,” I say. I look down at the plate in front of me. “I love scallops.” I hadn’t even noticed that they served the next course. I stab a scallop with my fork but I don’t put it in my mouth. Instead I take a sip of water and wish that I were here with Jacob.
When the opera is over, we join the glittering crowd as it pours into the night. I’m walking toward the street when Matt reaches out and stops me.
“Hannah,” he says softly. “You are so elegant, and my friends are such Neanderthals.”
I nod in agreement. That’s probably the closest thing to an apology that he can muster. I kind of think that he’s a bit of a Neanderthal, too, but I’m not going to say anything.
He puts his hand under my chin and gently lifts my face. He bends down, and his lips meet mine, a hundred times warmer than the air.
I can feel myself hesitate, but his mouth and tongue are insistent. He presses me against the side of the building, and his hands find their way to my hair. He kisses me deeply. The dizziness I feel is probably from the wine—but maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s the way Matt’s kissing me, which feels both passionate and strangely deliberate. Expert.
After a minute I pull away. “I don’t want to do this,” I say.
But Matt puts his arm around me and tugs me toward his chest. “Yes, you do. Come home with me,” he says into my hair. “It’s just across the park.”
And if I were Zoe, I’d go with him. Dating a patron of the ballet? Even Otto would approve of that. He’d look at Matt and see dollar signs, more than he already does.
“I can’t,” I say softly.
“Why not?”
Because I don’t want to, I think. But I don’t want to be rude. “I have a matinee tomorrow,” I say.
“Oh, what’s one night?” Matt asks. “Come on. I’ve got the best view of the park from my apartment.”
I take a step back and look down at the beautiful dress he bought. “I don’t think this is really working for me.”
When I look up again, Matt wears an expression of complete surprise. “What do you mean?”
I could give him a hundred excuses about my career and everything else, but I decide to be honest. “There’s someone else,” I say—even though I’m not sure there is. For all I know, Jacob is finished with me forever. I take another step away. “But thank you for tonight. Thanks a lot.”
And then I turn my back and hurry toward the street, where a cab seems to be waiting just for me. I duck inside and relax back against the vinyl seat, relieved to be alone.
34
“Let’s begin with the solo,” Otto instructs.
The pianist shuffles through his music as his glasses slide down the bridge of his nose. Zoe briskly walks toward center stage, her pointe shoes loudly smacking the floor, and positions herself with a thud. I stand a little too close to her on her right. We’ve been rehearsing Rubies for two weeks now, and we have our first run-through today.
“And—” Otto motions to the pianist to begin.
I curl my toes in my shoes and feel energy coming out of my fingertips. I exhale and step into an arabesque. I thrust my hips forward and exhale again as I brush my leg through. I stumble a bit on the swivel but quickly recover for the piqués. I see Zoe out of the corner of my eye inching closer to me, but I force myself to imagine that I am alone. I focus on making large, full movements that flow into one another. Otto is seated directly in front of me, but I ignore his steely gaze. This isn’t for him.
As the music accelerates, my chest tightens, and I sip breaths deliberately through my nose. Overcoming the anticipation of exhaustion is always the most difficult part. It’s a mental battle on top of a physical one.
Sure enough, toward the end I can’t get enough air, and I begin to experience the familiar choking feeling. This is temporary, this is temporary, I think. But it feels like I’m drowning. As I come to the last set of turns, I turn off my mind and go for them. Overthinking will make me falter. Don’t think, just do.
I float through them. I nail the final pose. I hear Zoe panting beside me.
“Okay,” Otto says quietly. And then he walks away.
“You seemed a little off in the double pirouette to the knee,” Zoe says, turning to me. “Is your hamstring bothering you?” On her face is a look of what can only be false concern.
“I’m fine,” I answer, although, honestly, my hamstring hasn’t been feeling that great.
“I hope so,” she says. “Because those pirouettes are a really important part of the solo, and I can’t see Otto risking the role on someone who feels shaky.”
“Well, it would be convenient for you, wouldn’t it?” I ask mildly.
For a moment, she looks surprised. Then she smiles, revealing a row of small, perfect teeth—the result, I happen to know, of ten thousand dollars’ worth of orthodontia. “Oh, come on now, Hannah. You know I’d be happy for you if you got the role.”
I bend down to gather up my sweatshirt and leg warmers. “Of course,” I say. But I don’t mean it any more than Zoe means what she said about being happy for me.
We walk back to the dressing room in silence, and then Zoe goes up to the roof for a cigarette. I sit down in front of the mirror and put my head in my hands.
The physical effort is hard enough; why does the competition have to make it even worse?
After the run-through, I head down to physical therapy. The PT room is sandwiched between the vending machines and the laundry area, and it has all the charm and spaciousness of a utility closet. On the familiar cinder-block walls are random, aging anatomy posters, as well two large mirrors with big dinosaur stickers decorating the edges. There are two massage tables and some plywood shelves. The lower ones display a stash of Advil, Band-Aids, ice packs, and Ace bandages, while the top ones have a couple pairs of crutches and a boot.
“Hey, Hannah! How’s it going?” Frannie, the physical therapist, smiles broadly as she thrusts her elbow into Adriana’s calf. “Just finishing up here.”
“Hey,” I say. As I wait for my turn, I scan the physical therapy sign-up sheet, which divides the day into ten-minute slots for massage, adjustments, and so on. I see Daisy’s name a few slots below mine; she’s been complaining about her left shoulder. The sheets go up in the mornings, and they always fill up within moments.
I watch as Frannie uses the weight of her upper body to press down on Adriana’s muscle. Adriana sighs in what is probably a mixture of pleasure and pain. A moment later, Frannie pats Adriana’s foot, and she slowly dismounts the table.
“Is it cool if I do a little ultrasound?” Adriana asks as she squirts a mound of blue jelly onto her foot.
“Do what you need to, darlin’. You know how to set it up?” Frannie asks.
“I’m an old pro,” Adriana says as she switches a lever and turns a knob on the machine. She rubs the blue goo in circles over her metatarsals with a metal handle as the sound waves travel deep into her tissues, creating a gentle (and hopefully healing) heat.
I climb up onto the table.
“So, how can I help you?” Frannie asks. Her soft, kind face curves into a smile.
“I pulled my hammy again,” I say. I try to sound nonchalant, but I can hear the pang of panic in my voice.
“Oh dear. Are you on tonight?” Frannie motions to me to lie down on my stomach.
“I have a doubleheader.”
Frannie just sighs as I place myself in the head cradle, which presses against my forehead and cheeks. “I need you to work some magic,” I say into the face hole.
“I don’t know how you girls do it,” Frannie says as she leans into my leg with her body weight. It’s not exactly a feel-good massage, but I can tell that she cares about me and wants to make me feel better. I close my eyes and imagine that Frannie’s hands are my mother’s hands and that her touch is telling me that everything is going to be okay.
After a few moments Frannie gently taps my foot, and I lift my face from the cradle. There is a pink indentation across my forehead.
“Why don’t you come back for a little heat and microcurrent before the performance tonight?” she says.
“Okay, thanks,” I say. “I will.”
I gather up my things, but I’m reluctant to leave. It’s so rare to feel taken care of in this world that every moment of kindness feels incredibly precious.
As I head backstage to prepare for my first ballet of the evening, Harry intercepts me, holding out an envelope with a slightly embarrassed shrug. “It’s from Mattie,” he says. “She was up late last night making it, but she wouldn’t show me what it is. It’s pretty late for Valentine’s Day, but Lord knows that kid runs on her own clock.”
“I’ve got to do a barre,” I say, hardly looking at him or the envelope. “I’ll open it when I’m done.”
“Sure, sure, no problem,” Harry says. He ducks his head and waves me off.
But as I stretch my calves at the barre, I wonder if I’ve hurt his feelings somehow. Couldn’t I have just stopped for thirty seconds and looked at his daughter’s card?
“Did you hear about BaryshniMoss?” Jonathan says.
“What?” I bend over my leg and feel the muscles lengthen. Then I realize he’s not talking to me; he’s tal
king to Daisy, who is sitting at his feet like a disciple.
“Supposedly, Kate Moss is, like, training in ballet, and she and Baryshnikov are going to make some dance movie together,” Jonathan says. He bends down to touch his toes, pronouncing the last part of this statement into his knees.
“No way,” Daisy says.
Jonathan stands up and shakes his head as he makes a crossing sign over his heart. “She thinks because she can wear eight-inch heels down a catwalk she can stand on pointe. Well, good luck, Kate! That’s all I have to say.”
Daisy nods. “Totally,” she says. “But Baryshnikov—I loved him on Sex and the City.”
I have to stifle a snort. So that’s what Daisy thinks of when she thinks of Mikhail Baryshnikov: Carrie Bradshaw? She’s even younger than I thought.
Jonathan grins. “I know. He was a total silver fox.” And even though he’s in the next ballet, too, he skips off to spread the Kate Moss news elsewhere.
Focus, I tell myself, focus.
Christine hurries past, mumbling into her headset. She looks up and our eyes meet. “Costume, Hannah?” she says, making a hurrying motion with her arm. “You’re in Fortitude, right? That’s in ten.”
“I’m on top of it,” I say.
On the way to the Green Room, I open Mattie’s card.
Dear Hannah,
Please PLEASE come to my ballet Shcool next week on May 3rd. We’re having an Open House. Their will be lots of dancing!!!!!!
Love, your freind,
Matilda
PS I think your the best dancer in the company.
It’s very cute, misspellings and all. I put it with my things so I can hang it on my mirror in the dressing room, and then I step into the pink tutu that Laura holds out for me.
35
A few days later in Mr. Edmunds’s class, during one of the notoriously boring adagios to the tune of “My Favorite Things,” I’m blankly watching the first group of dancers promenade in arabesque when Mai seems to sit down in a less-than-graceful spin in the center of the room. At first Bea and I giggle—we think it’s just Mai being sloppy again—but when her head hits the floor and she stops moving, we begin to panic. The pianist stops mid-phrase and Mr. Edmunds rushes to her side.
Bunheads Page 19