by Cate Holahan
Aubrey refused to look at anyone but Nia. The teen’s giant blue eyes followed her every movement, singeing the back of Nia’s neck as she walked down the line at the barre. They bored into her as she corrected Suzanne’s hip position. They pricked her arms as she pushed June’s knee, urging her to turn out.
Nia paid special attention to June. Aubrey’s ill-gotten ascendance to soloist had left Joseph without a partner, and June would now dance the pas de deux. The girl’s form was decent, but she lacked the finishing touches that separated the pros from the hobbyists. Her knees didn’t turn out enough. Her feet didn’t arch high enough. Her movements were as stiff as a starched collar, and she couldn’t jump. Fortunately, her small stature meant Alexei would have little problem picking her up, whether she got the leaping height to make it easy or not.
Aubrey’s stare needled into Nia’s back. She couldn’t take it anymore. She whirled to meet the gaze full on. Her hands flew to her hips. “Do you need help?”
Aubrey snickered and lowered into a plié.
Ms. V’s bell rang out of the attached office. Monday’s morning class was over. Nia would get a break from Aubrey until rehearsals later that afternoon. She retreated to the side of the room and worked her thumbs into her arch. Her rage—or maybe the stress of swallowing it—was making her foot ache for the first time in more than a week. Every muscle, tendon, and fiber of her being wanted to stand in the center of the room and point her index finger at Aubrey for orchestrating Lydia’s fall. But she couldn’t accuse her. She didn’t have any proof. Not even Lydia’s own father believed another student could be so evil.
Mr. Carreño had pulled Lydia from the school, citing a lack of official supervision at the party where his daughter had imbibed to oblivion. Ms. V had informed her after Sunday’s class of the news and its impact on the fall show. She’d said he’d threatened a lawsuit.
Nia had already known about Mr. Carreño’s fury thanks to an emergency Sunday meeting with Stirk. Surprisingly, the dean hadn’t been upset by the belated RA rescue. When Stirk had recounted the conversation with Lydia’s father to the RAs, she’d actually thanked Nia and Peter for responding in such a timely manner and reiterated that they were not required to supervise student activities after five o’clock in the afternoon on Friday, when school officially let out.
Nia missed Lydia. The two days without her made the class feel disjointed, less like a ballet school than an extracurricular activity. Her favored student had been a real preprofessional ballerina. Nia prayed the girl would have the same potential after surgery and rehabilitation. She wanted to check on her, but the dean had forbidden contact, given the lawsuit threat. Lydia had not been in touch.
Nia glanced in Alexei’s direction. Was the rumor mill already churning about Aubrey’s involvement?
As usual, Alexei gossiped with June on the way out the door. He whispered lower than usual, but he seemed to look at Aubrey sideways.
Once or twice, Nia caught June’s eyes on her. An irrational voice said they were discussing her relationship with Peter, but she assured herself that her pairing with another RA was old news. More likely, June feared that Nia would overhear the latest secret. Whatever it was, it must have been juicy, because she couldn’t make out any of the whispers. Alexei usually shared gossip at the top of his voice.
The class filed into the hallway. Ms. V’s office door opened as the studio door shut. “Ms. Washington, a word.”
Nia didn’t like the woman’s clipped tone. She stood extra straight as she walked into the office, prepared for another Aubrey accusation. She wouldn’t let this one slide.
Ms. V’s desk was the opposite of the Detective Kelly’s. Not one paper sat on the tabletop. The office was clean, airy, filled with light from a large picture window overlooking the lake. Framed photos of prior students striking ballet poses were arranged on the walls. In the center was a black-and-white article from a Russian newspaper. Ms. V, thirty years younger, was pictured in the accompanying photo. She looked resplendent as “the Firebird,” with the sharp, fanned tutu that Nia knew was red, even though the photo didn’t show color.
The woman behind the desk contrasted starkly with the photograph. She wore a billowy black top and thick glasses that distorted her eyes like a fishbowl.
“Is something wrong?” Nia asked.
“I was hoping you could tell me.” Ms. V’s mouth set in a line. The skin tightened on her veined neck. “Your relationship with some of the students appears strained. Marta is avoiding eye contact and I’ve noticed Aubrey being rather curt with you.”
Nia wanted to spill everything: Marta’s secret, Aubrey’s wild behavior. But she couldn’t. She had no good reason to share Marta’s problems with Ms. V, and the teacher was sure to interpret any disparaging remarks she made about Aubrey as spiteful retribution for Aubrey’s complaints about her conduct.
Nia sighed. “Marta told me some things as her RA that I felt obliged to repeat to another involved party. That party told her parents, and I believe she’s upset about that.”
Ms. V looked at Nia over the top of her glasses. “Well, Marta is clearly having some issues. I’m sure it is good that the parents were notified. And Aubrey?”
Is a little psycho. She couldn’t accuse the girl of orchestrating Lydia’s fall without proof. “She’s friends with Marta.”
Ms. V removed her glasses. “Yes. I’ve noticed that they’ve become close. Do what you can to smooth out those relationships. You can’t teach if you don’t command the respect of your students.”
“I’ll work on it.”
Nia’s clenched her teeth. She didn’t want Aubrey’s respect; she wanted Ms. V to see that her favorite student wasn’t worthy of admiration. Aubrey’s little Ms. Perfect persona was an act. Nia would prove it.
Somebody had to have seen Aubrey add something to Lydia’s drink.
37
Chassé [sha-SAY]
Chased. A step in which one foot literally chases the other foot out of its position; done in a series.
Nia knocked on Marta’s door: three steady beats. Firm but not loud. She needed to start this conversation off in the least confrontational manner possible.
The door swung back. Marta held it open with a large smile that vanished as soon as she saw Nia.
“Oh, I thought you were Aubrey.”
“May I talk to you for a minute?”
“I need to get ready for practice. Aubrey’s meeting me here in a second.”
Marta started to shut the door. Nia stepped inside the doorjamb, blocking it from closing.
“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry I had to tell.”
A student brushed behind her. Academic classes had ended for the day. Students walked the halls. Several doors were propped open, advertising to fellow classmates that the occupants were happy to talk to passing friends. Nia lowered her voice, both to ward off eavesdroppers and to make it clear to Marta that she respected confidentiality, to a point.
“Theo’s freedom depended on it. I wouldn’t have gone to the police if I thought there was any other way for the truth about his alibi to come out. And I know you wouldn’t have wanted someone to spend their life in jail because of your secret.”
Marta’s eyes fell to her feet. She wore ballet flats with fuzzy gray legwarmers scrunched below her knee. The look reminded Nia of Aubrey. In fact, the whole outfit seemed Aubrey-inspired. Marta’s gray sweater hung askew over a tank leotard, revealing a bony right shoulder from the neck hole. The leggings she wore underneath reminded Nia of something she’d seen Aubrey wear around the halls.
“Okay. Fine,” Marta whispered. “I get why you told. I’m sorry I couldn’t. I was too afraid of my folks.”
“How is everything with your parents?”
“Okay, I guess.” Marta sighed. “They say my ex took advantage because he was older and I was so far away from family. They kind of realized that they hadn’t been spending much time with me, and they promise that’s going to change.”
“I’m really happy to hear that.”
Marta attempted a smile. It pushed up the corners of her mouth but failed to make her look close to happy. The meek expression wasn’t an invitation by any means, but Nia would have to take it.
“I also want to know what happened at that party Friday night.”
Marta looked over Nia’s shoulder down the hallway. “I don’t know. Why don’t you talk to Alistair and his friends? It was their party.”
“They’re all suspended indefinitely. An e-mail will go out later today.”
Marta bit her bottom lip. Her gaze returned to the wooden floor.
“Mr. Andersen helped Alistair clean out his room on Sunday evening. Alistair said he didn’t know anything about liquor or spiked sodas. They swore they only had some beers. But you said Friday that you saw Lydia have a few drinks.”
“I saw her drinking something and getting tipsy.”
“Was it lime soda?”
“Maybe.”
“Did the boys lie? Or did Aubrey spike Lydia’s drink?”
Marta’s jaw pulsed as she swallowed.
“Marta, I saw Lydia in the hospital. Her ankle is broken, and she will have to have months of recovery and physical therapy before she can dance again. I know you would never have wanted her to get hurt like that. You’re a good person. So who was it?”
Nia could see the struggle in Marta’s face: protect a so-called friend or do the right thing?
Marta lowered her voice to an almost inaudible level. “Whoever did it probably didn’t want Lydia to get hurt like that either. They probably just wanted to help her relax.”
“Aubrey said she wanted to help Lydia relax?”
Marta shrugged and nodded at the same time, a noncommittal yes.
“You need to tell the dean. Whatever Aubrey put in Lydia’s drink wasn’t just a little alcohol. It made Lydia forget everything. Aubrey didn’t want her to relax. She wanted her to hurt herself.”
Footsteps clacked down the hall. Marta looked up. Fear flashed in her eyes.
Nia turned to see Aubrey striding toward them. The girl broke into an easy jog.
Nia turned her attention back to Marta. She spoke quickly and beneath her breath. “Aubrey is not a nice person. What she did to Lydia is something you would never want to be a part of. You have to tell Dean Stirk.”
Marta stepped around Nia, as if she’d been trying to leave the whole time but her teacher had blocked the exit.
“Oh. Am I interrupting something?” Aubrey flashed a beauty queen smile at the two of them. “I can come back.”
“No,” Marta said quickly. “Nia just wanted to talk about my parents’ reaction to—”
“Careful, Marta. You know she’ll repeat whatever you say.”
“I won’t—”
“Don’t.” Aubrey held up a hand beside her face, a perfect imitation of Ms. V’s “stop” gesture. “We know you’re not our friend. It’s your job to blend in with the students and then report every violation you hear to the dean or our parents or, apparently, the police.” Aubrey turned back toward Marta. “She’s not allowed to keep secrets. The RAs are basically like undercover officers. That’s why they choose the youngest teachers, so we’ll trust them and lower our guard.”
“I wasn’t really talking.” Marta mumbled. She grabbed a duffle bag with the school’s crest on it and stepped out of the room, closing the door behind her.
Aubrey grabbed Marta’s hand and brushed past Nia.
“Those tights look good on you.” The compliment echoed in the hallway as Aubrey led Marta away from her would-be confessor. “I have another pair that might fit you too. We can go through my closet after rehearsal.”
“Cool. Thanks, Aubrey.”
“No problem.”
Aubrey draped her arm over Marta’s shoulder. The pair walked so close together that they could have run a three-legged race. Nia wouldn’t be able to break them up. Marta didn’t seem to have many friends and certainly none like Aubrey.
38
En Tournant [ahn toor-NAHN]
Turning. Indicates the body is to turn while executing a given step.
The curtain rose on four male dancers. Each wore black leggings and white short-sleeved shirts, practice gear in a modernist palette. They stood in a straight line, backs to the audience. Nia had read a review once arguing that Balanchine had intended for Agon’s dancers to be anonymous representations of piano keys—the men’s wide chests denoting the white notes, their legs forming the sharps and flats—and she could’ve seen that vision, if it hadn’t been for Dimitri. Even with his back turned, he would never be faceless to Nia. From her seat way back in the second ring, she could still recognize his wavy hair and bisque-colored arms.
The dancers turned toward the audience in unison, feet in a modified fourth position. They jerked to the music’s broken rhythm and then stepped to their right. Backs bent and feet flexed to Stravinsky’s offbeat march, as though the men warmed up for the show rather than performed in it. They stood erect and circled. Suddenly, they jumped with legs back in arabesque. Then they aligned and kicked their toes to their noses, one after the other, a cascade of feet and flexibility. They strutted. They showed off.
Despite the theatrical Greek name, Agon lacked a storyline. It epitomized dance as an art form, a Frank Stella painting set to music, all line and emotion. Still, whenever Nia watched the all-male opening, she thought of bucks play-fighting for an unseen herd of does. The women appeared minutes later, driving the men off stage like a sudden rainstorm. Black leotards hugged their torsos. Nia studied the female principals, comparing her motions to their own. Was her grand battement that high? Did her split look that effortless?
It did when she was in top form. She wasn’t there yet, but she would get there. Wearing the cushioned brace every night was stretching and supporting her damaged arch. The orthotics slipped into her heels also helped.
The men sneaked back onto the stage behind a loose gathering of female dancers. The girls split into two lines and the men took over, pushing the women back with a flurry of leaps, kicks, and pelvic thrusts. The dancers performed together for a minute before breaking into gender-specific groups again like teenagers at a high school dance. Finally, the men each chose a partner. They danced and then struck a sudden pose as the song abruptly ended.
Most of the dancers hurried into the wings. Three remained on stage: Dimitri and two women. They leaped around together before settling in the center. Dimitri stood between the ballerinas, turning each like a jeweler examining diamonds, checking for flaws. Then he burst forth with bravura, demonstrating the strength of his Achilles and his core, jumping, turning, falling backward only to pull himself up again with his abdominal muscles. The display was for the unseen ballerinas. He embodied everything a woman could want in a man: power, confidence, ability, and, above all, control.
He bowed after the solo. The audience clapped like they’d seen a particularly good golf shot. Her ex deserved better.
Dimitri hurried off stage. Another danseur performed with two women. Nia waited for Dimitri to return. When he did, it was in the company of one male and one female dancer. They performed together for a couple minutes, but three was a crowd. The ballerina left him to square off with the other rival for her attention. After a few minutes, she returned to dance with both men, as though still uncertain about which she wanted. The dance ended with her leaping into Dimitri’s arms.
Dimitri reappeared for the final act, along with the other men. Each claimed a female partner, but it didn’t stay that way. The other women returned. Again, the men battled a tyranny of choice. Again, Dimitri danced with two ballerinas. He reached for one, then the other, torn between partners.
The women flaunted long legs and fatless figures. Arms stretched outward to their male suitors, as if begging for approval. After a few agonizing minutes vying for attention, they abandoned the stage. The male dancers remained, paying for their indecision with loneliness. The curt
ain closed.
Nia applauded longer and louder than her fellow audience members, prompting several row mates to squeeze around her to the exits. After a few minutes, she followed the departing crowd into the Lincoln Center lobby. She stood by a wall of three-story-high arched windows, avoiding the river of people flowing out the main doors. The courtyard outside glowed golden. The famous Lincoln Center fountain shot forth shining white water, like liquid light.
Fingertips brushed her hand. Dimitri beamed at her. He wore relaxed blue jeans and a long-sleeved button-down. The casual attire announced that he’d performed. Most of the ballet audience donned business casual. Nia had shed the leggings and sweater ensemble she’d worn on the train for a knit dress. She’d changed in a Grand Central Station bathroom to keep Peter from seeing. She’d feared that wearing something so fitted to see a “friend” would bother him.
She kissed Dimitri’s cheeks, a French hello. “You were amazing.”
“You should’ve been up there with me.”
Dimitri could never take a compliment without returning one. She smiled. “I wish.”
His boyish face grew serious. The expression made him impossibly sexier. His palm engulfed her hand. “How are you feeling?”
“Good. Much better. Can’t wait to get out of that school, though. It’s crazy there.”
“Yeah?”
She shook her head. No need to ruin their night. “I don’t want to talk about it. I want to tell you how proud I am of you.”
He embraced her like a lover. Strong arms supported her back. His defined chest pressed against her bosom. He smelled of basil and lavender. She’d always loved his cologne.
“Let’s go to dinner,” he said.
She wanted nothing more. She had so many questions: What was it like working with the principal dancers? What was the tone of rehearsals? How did his preparation differ from their time at SAB? Her interests weren’t confined to the professional, either. Deep down, she wanted to claim his time. The idea of Dimitri celebrating his achievement with another woman made her anxious. Jealous.