by Una LaMarche
“Look, if you move your hips too far left, you’ll throw your whole balance off. We’ve got to practice having you lean on me without looking like you’re leaning.”
“So, what?” I asked, “We’re going to be doing our own rehearsals outside of rehearsal?”
“Unless you’ve got something better to do.” You moved behind me, repositioning your hands gently on my waist and shifting me over, lifting me ever so slightly.
“No,” I laughed. “I just don’t know how you’re going to manage to spot me from halfway across the room. You can’t hold me up the whole time.”
“I mean . . .” You clasped my hand and guided me to put more of my weight into your palm. I could feel your pulse racing under the skin. “Basilio is in love with Kitri, right, so he’d want to touch her all the time anyway.”
“I guess you’ll just have to pretend to love me, then,” I said, feeling suddenly unsteady in a way that had nothing to do with my feet.
“I guess so,” you said softly.
• • •
After rehearsal, you surprised me with a belated birthday cake—Entenmann’s marshmallow-iced devil’s food, my favorite—and we took it to the fountain with two plastic forks just as the sun started to dip down below the skyline. I propped my leg up across your lap.
“This is very high-low culture right here,” I said, licking crumbs off my fingertips while looking up at the twinkling lights of Avery Fisher Hall. The New York City Ballet spring season was about to begin, and a big banner promoting A Midsummer Night’s Dream had replaced Sleeping Beauty on the front of the building. Tourists enjoying the first breath of warmth after the bitter winter were wandering around with their jackets draped over their arms.
“What, you and me?” you asked jokingly, scooping up nearly half the cake in one bite. You swallowed and grinned, a blob of white frosting resting perfectly in the center of your top lip, that part that people call the Cupid’s Bow, because God forbid you should ever kiss someone without thinking about a little, naked cherub sniper. I reached up and wiped it off with my thumb, and your smile faltered for a second.
In every dance movie ever made—and I knew because I’d seen them all at least ten times—the two leads fall in love. That is just a fact of life, like the nitrogen cycle, or that one person who always leans on the pole in a crowded subway car. I wondered if it was because dancing was so physical. If forcing yourself to smile could create happiness, like Ms. Adair claimed, then maybe repeatedly pressing your body against someone else’s could create desire. It seemed logical, but also incredibly inconvenient. What if the person you were dancing with was someone you hated? Or, worse—what if they were one of your best friends?
“What are you thinking about?” you asked. You took another forkful of cake and marched it playfully toward my mouth, but I shook my head. I was already riding a sugar high, if my hammering pulse was any indication.
“College-acceptance letters,” I said quickly. “They should be coming in a few weeks.”
“Right.” You put the fork down and I instantly felt a pang of guilt. I should have said something else, something that didn’t exclude you. My parents were snobs, but I didn’t want to be.
“It’s boring,” I said, trying to backtrack. “I’m not even going, so it’s pointless.”
“No, it’s not. It’s smart to have a backup plan.”
“It’s depressing to have a backup plan.”
You laughed. “See, you’re being pessimistic. My mom once told me that if you want something bad enough, it becomes a part of you, whether you get it or not.”
I raised my eyebrows. “You believe that?”
“Actually, I think she was just trying to make me feel better about what Dante wrote on my dance bag,” you said. “But it sounds true.”
“Then I’m already a prima ballerina.”
“The best.” You grinned.
“And you’re already in your spotlight?” I took another bite of cake and clutched my coat around me. The wind was picking up.
“Nah.” You smiled. “I’m just waiting for my cue to join you onstage.”
You and me. It was all clicking into place like a line of dominoes falling, so fast not even my thundering heart could keep pace. It was terrifying. “What, you followed me?” I asked, trying to act like I didn’t notice your hand, which had casually dropped onto my leg.
“Rode your coattails is more accurate, but yeah.” Neither of us said anything for a minute. Over on Broadway, cabs flashed by in the dim light, leaving a flurry of staccato honks in their wake.
What are you thinking? I wanted to ask, but I was too afraid to say the words. Besides, I’d been burned before with that move. Once, Caleb had been staring off dreamily after we made out, and I’d posed that question, expecting something romantic, and he’d just turned to me and said, “I love dogs.” So even though everything was telling me that something important was happening—I almost couldn’t look at you, I was so afraid of the charge humming between us—I couldn’t completely rule out the possibility that your mind was actually on the cocker spaniel being walked around the corner of 66th Street.
“I was thinking,” you finally said, as if reading my mind. “I want to . . . um, you know . . . go do something sometime. With you.” Your kept your eyes, which were barely visible under a tousle of disheveled curls, locked on the ground. “Not just eat a box of cake.”
“I like boxed cake.” It was my clumsy attempt at flirting. It felt like the time I’d gone to Paris with my family after taking two years of French, and then promptly told the hotel concierge, Je suis anglaise. I am English. I’d gotten my own country wrong on the first try.
“You know what I mean,” you said. You smiled nervously, finally looking up at me. I’d never seen you so unsure of yourself. “I want to take you out. On a . . .” date, I thought, my stomach churning wildly “. . . n adventure,” you said.
“An adventure,” I parroted.
“A date-y adventure.”
“Oh,” I said. I got a rush of adrenaline like the first time I’d gone up en pointe. Just one little muscle shift and then, suddenly, a whole different world. “Um. Well. Yeah. I mean, how could I say no?”
“Yeah?” Your face lit up. “OK. All right. I’ll start planning, then.”
“Something non-weight-bearing,” I said quickly, not sure how to fill the new, uncertain space between us. “I need to be elevated.”
You smiled slowly. “Not a problem.”
“I guess—” I cleared my throat, moved my leg. “I guess we should probably get going?”
You shot me a dose of my own premium side-eye. “But I haven’t sung you ‘Happy Birthday’ yet.”
“You know what, that’s OK. Really. You don’t have to—”
But I was too late; you were already singing, adorably off-key and so loud that everyone around us turned to look. For some reason, though, your serenade didn’t make me cringe like the one I’d endured just forty-eight hours earlier at V&T.
I sat and watched you quietly, warmth spreading through my aching body like someone had snuck in and lit a lantern deep inside.
Chapter Twenty-One
April 21 (fifth day of Spring Break)
22 days left
“NO! DIEGO, your face should be just under her crotch,” Mr. Dyshlenko shouted, in his deep, gravelly accent.
I was hovering over you in a frozen arabesque, trembling a little, for more reasons than one. Your left hand was on the underside of my left thigh, and your right hand was wedged just over my right hip bone. It was the first time we were practicing our press lift, the culmination to a week of firsts: the first time we rehearsed our choreography on the main stage, with its state-of-the-art lights and dizzying, panoramic view of eight hundred tiered seats. The first time I got off the subway with my heart in my throat at the thought of seeing you. The first t
ime we greeted each other without a “Hey,” or a “What’s up,” but instead with a series of shy yet irrepressible smiles. The first time our dancing felt like flirting, or like practice for something else, some more intimate choreography that I hadn’t learned yet. And, of course, the first time your face was anywhere near my crotch. I tried in vain to stare stoically into the middle distance.
“The leg should be right in front of your face,” Mr. Dyshlenko continued, motioning with his arms while I held my position suspended in midair. The lift reminded me of the séances Liv used to spearhead at our childhood sleepovers—one of us would lie down and the others would kneel around her, two fingers wedged between body and carpet, whispering, light as a feather, stiff as a board. The incantation had never made any of us levitate, but it was, as it turned out, a pretty good mantra for ballet. The only difference was that this was a hell of lot more uncomfortable.
“Yeah, get behind the leg. No one wants to see you,” I joked. Even though it wasn’t easy holding an arabesque for that long, I was downright giddy to be off my feet. My ankle was a fireball of pain every time I put my weight on it. In particular, there was a manège of piqué pirouettes that was brutal. Luckily, most of the rest of my solo choreography was on the backburner until after break, when Ms. Adair would coach me one-on-one.
“Everyone will want to see him,” Mr. Dyshlenko said, giving me some strong Russian side-eye. “But, yes, for now, Diego, your job is to showcase her.” He motioned for you to put me down, and I could feel your muscles shake as you lowered me inch by inch, taking care to rest me gently on the box of my right shoe while still supporting me more than you needed to.
“For you, Joy, the important thing to remember is that while he is holding you, you don’t just relax,” Mr. D continued while we shook out our limbs. “You are being displayed like a fine jewel, so you’ve got to give him something to work with. The dance hinges on your strength and ability. So while he technically carries your weight, he is only as strong as you are.”
I gave you a look like, Sucks for you.
You shook your head and winked. You got this.
We practiced the lift a few more times, which meant more manèges of piqué pirouettes. They were supposed to be quick and light—I was basically running away from you as you followed me across the stage, playing the charming suitor—but it was hard to relax my face when every second en pointe felt like torture.
“Watch your form, Joy, your ankle is sickling!” Mr. Dyshlenko called as I stepped woodenly out of my last turn. “Are you seeing Sylvia?” Sylvia was our department physical therapist, and I knew she’d helped plenty of Janus students through sprains and other injuries. But Sylvia also had the ear of Ms. Adair, and if Dr. Pashkin was right, there was no way I was letting her examine me.
“I’ll make an appointment,” I lied.
When he asked us to start from the beginning I almost wept, but at least that was a partnered section, and you stayed right behind me, keeping my weight off my bad ankle so discreetly that Mr. Dyshlenko couldn’t tell you were helping me. It left me shaking, and I still can’t tell you if it was fear, gratitude, or something else entirely.
“This dance, it is lust, it is love, it is passion!” Mr. Dyshlenko cried. “And Joy, while your line needs work, the fire in your expression is perfect, don’t change it, OK?” I nodded, despite the fact that I hadn’t even been thinking about my face.
“Are you free tomorrow?” you whispered, setting me down again as Mr. Dyshlenko went backstage to make a phone call.
“Maybe.” I lowered myself down to the floor, grateful for the chance to rest. “Why?”
You sat next to me, dangling your legs over the stage. “’Cause I thought of the perfect outing,” you grinned. “It has all the elements you need: rest, ice, compression, and elevation.”
“Please tell me we’re watching Step Up and eating Klondike Bars?”
“That can be the next date,” you laughed. “Trust me, this is better.”
“The next date?” I raised my eyebrows. “We haven’t even been on one.”
“Yeah, well, I’m making up for lost time.” You leaned toward me, and for a split second I couldn’t feel my ankle at all, or any part of my body, because all of a sudden we were right there in the spotlight, alone onstage, and we were close enough to—
“You want to try it one-handed?” Mr. Dyshlenko boomed. You leapt up while I tried to catch my breath. The whole week had me in a tailspin. You were different, we were different, the game had been changed, and no amount of cold water on my face was ever going to make things go back to normal.
Mr. D showed us how to approach the more advanced, dangerous lift, which began like the two-handed version but then had you quickly letting go of my arabesque leg, and me leaning forward so that my leg dipped into a penché above my head. The first time we tried, we lost our balance and I toppled into Mr. D’s outstretched arms.
“I’m so sorry,” you said, shaking out your left arm.
“It’s not easy. You have to really hold your position, Joy, otherwise the whole thing will fall apart,” Mr. Dyshlenko instructed, lifting me up gently to demonstrate. Even though he must have been fifty, he felt like a redwood, and suddenly I was weightless. “You see?” he asked, as you looked up at me from what felt like miles away. “You hold on, hold on, and then—quickly! Before you even think about it!—let go.” I felt myself swaying a little, but I kept my eyes on you. We were always being told to pick a focal point, something steady that we could return to again and again, that would keep us balanced.
That was you. It had always been you.
“Trust in her,” Mr. Dyshlenko said, looking up at me. “And she will trust in you. Feel that risk of falling and accept it, but do not give in.”
As he righted me and set me back down, I looked at you expectantly.
“Want to risk it?” I asked.
“Say the word,” you said. “I’m ready when you are.”
• • •
You picked me up after breakfast on Saturday, revealing that despite its many confusions, the absolute best thing about going on a first date with someone who had been placed firmly in the friend zone was that your parents didn’t notice the shift.
“Have fun with Diego,” Mom said without looking up from her newspaper.
“Tell that boy to cut his hair,” Dad called.
I took the elevator down, trying not to think about how I looked, or more specifically how hard I’d worked on looking like I wasn’t thinking about how I looked. I had my hair pulled up in a high puff—my go-to style, nothing fancy—and was wearing my glasses, just in case. Below the neck, I had on jeans and sneakers (and, under my jacket, a gray sweatshirt I’d cut so it fell off the shoulder like the one Jennifer Beals wears on the poster for Flashdance). So far, so normal. But I’d also stolen into Mom’s makeup drawer and dusted something called Candlelight Glow highlighting powder onto my cheekbones, rubbing some on my eyelids, too, for good measure. That was new. I turned my head side to side, peering up into the tiny, triangular elevator mirror to see if I looked even the slightest bit more luminous. Given that the mirror looked to have been installed in the 1890s, it was hard to say.
You were waiting out on the sidewalk, hiding something behind your back. Don’t be flowers, I thought, cringing a little, ungratefully, at the thought of having to hold them on the subway, or explain them to my parents. But it wasn’t flowers.
“Your chariot awaits,” you laughed, whipping out a pair of janky crutches. “They were my abuela’s.”
“Doesn’t she need them, though?”
“Nah, she’s in a wheelchair now.”
You helped slip them under my arms and watched as I lurched and heaved myself over to the crosswalk. The crutches were a few inches too short, and the rubber was nearly worn off the bottoms, so they clanked a little on the pavement, but other than that, if I
kept my left leg bent, they worked perfectly. “I know it’s not exactly flowers,” you said, holding my arm as a bus careened past. “But this is your rest. This way you can stay off your bad foot.”
“Thanks,” I said, feeling foolish for rubbing all that fake glow on my face when you’d managed to give me the real deal in less than five minutes. Sure, hand-me-down walking aides from a disabled grandma wasn’t the usual way of sweeping someone off their feet, but I decided that it definitely passed anyway, on a technicality.
“So where are we going?” I asked as we shoved ourselves onto a crowded downtown 1 train.
“She will trust in you,” you said teasingly, in a bad impression of Mr. Dyshlenko’s thick Russian baritone that came out sounding more like Yoda.
At Times Square, you squeezed my hand, and you must have seen the look of horror on my face—crossing 42nd Street on the first nice spring weekend of the year was definitely what Dante’s inferno was originally based on, I was pretty sure—because you laughed. “Don’t worry, we’re just switching to the Q.” The station turned out to be just as crazy, though, with huge groups of tourists and school kids lumbering through in seas of matching T-shirts, getting in the way of the fast-walking native New Yorkers, who bobbed and weaved around elbows and suitcases like weary-looking ninjas. At one particularly tricky intersection, where a team of break dancers was performing for a semicircle of onlookers, I got hip-checked so many times that you actually picked me up and carried me piggyback, holding the crutches out in front of you like a divining rod.
“This is practice,” you explained, as I wrapped my arms around your neck. “The one-handed commuter clusterfuck lift.”
“Criminally underused by Balanchine,” I said.
“See? I’m bringing ballet to the people.” You grinned.
We took the Q all the way downtown and into Brooklyn, until it snaked around Prospect Park and rose up out of the tunnels, hurtling along the elevated track, past Midwood and Sheepshead Bay. As most of the city receded behind us, I pulled out my phone.