by Rena Rocford
“Done. I have to get moving.”
“However many lunges you usually do, add one hundred. I want you sore on Tuesday.”
My jaw clenched. “Why would I want to intentionally hurt myself?”
“You get sloppy when you get tired, so we’re going to have to train it out of you. Do the lunges, and throw in an extra set of weights while you’re at it.”
“Done,” I said in sullen agreement, turning to leave.
“Hey, Cyra?”
I turned to look back at her over my shoulder.
A sly smile spread across her face. “Good work, kid. That’s the fastest I’ve seen someone get their first rating after swapping weapons.”
he opening chords of Scheherazade rang out through the house. I searched the audience for the guy with brown curly hair. He sat near the front and to the left of the giant tables. Snaking down the outside aisle, I made it to the seat behind Rochan before Christine came on stage. She’d been practicing this piece for the last month.
She floated across the stage, taking the center spot. Her costume glittered in the spotlight, winking out at the crowd. Her hair had been twisted into a roll across the back of her head and held in place with a tiara to rival Princess Jasmine. I’d seen the dance before, but now when she performed in front of an audience, it was like she filled the air around her with the power of her existence. The air obliged by shining off her powdered skin, glowing in the spot light.
When she jumped, she flew across the stage.
Rochan stared, smitten. He looked like a man perfectly in love. He snuck out a camera and set it up. He set the huge lens on the back of the seat in front of him. He started clicking away almost the second he had the camera set up. Christine stayed in the moment, not acknowledging Rochan’s presence.
Sara and the rest of the ballet bots rounded out the background dancers. It wasn’t that they weren’t technically great, but the light literally leapt to Christine. Even the air knew she had a presence on stage that would overshadow anyone else. She looked like an angel, bound to Earth by the cold reality of gravity. Christine deserved to be center stage, and I barely noticed the other dances around her.
Before I was ready for it to end, the last note faded from the air, and the ballerinas all held their final pose. I shot to my feet, clapping my hand onto the stump of my forearm, cupping my left hand to make the sound as loud as any two-hander could clap. The rest of the crowd responded a half second slower, coming to their feet.
Christine graciously crossed her arm across her chest and bowed. Then, she held her hands out to ask the rest of the troupe to join her in the spotlight. The rest of the ballet bots came to her, trotting forward in that floating gait perfected by people who wore point shoes more often than high heels.
As a group, they raised their hands and bowed to the crowd. Even the judges at their tables in the audience stood to applaud. An announcer came over the house speakers. “Petaluma Airabelles.”
I had to hide my smirk. My salle had a heifer on the logo, but Sara’s studio had similar patronage. She couldn’t escape the ubiquitous Petaluma industry: cows. Somehow, Christine didn’t care that she was dancing in a troupe named after an ad campaign with a leaping cow. After seeing her dance for real, I wouldn’t be surprised if Christine could dance in a lobster costume and make it look graceful.
Then my eye caught Rochan. His camera sat in his hands, halfway up his chest. He blinked doe eyes at the stage. Rapt and utterly unaware of the rest of the world, he stared up at the dancers. Sara scowled back, but Rochan only had eyes for Christine—to be fair, everyone was watching Christine. Sara was like a light bulb compared to the sunrise. They weren’t even in the same league.
And Rochan couldn’t see anything but the ballerina in front of him.
Before they were done graciously accepting the applause, Sara broke ranks and left. She floated off stage, and the rest of the ballet bots on her side followed, as if they’d practiced it like that. The other half flitted away, a delicate stream of dancers. Christine offered up one last bow, and the applause swelled as she ducked her head in humble acknowledgment before heading offstage.
Rochan shook his head after Christine left the spotlight, as if his brain started to function again after he couldn’t see her.
Of course, he probably couldn’t see past her beauty and grace.
I sat down again and put the program on my lap, trying not think about Rochan. It didn’t matter; he didn’t see me like that. I wasn’t beautiful like the ballet girls. Even with my rock hard legs, it wasn’t like I could hide the fact that my body was distorted compared to everyone else’s. It might have been my words that brought them together, but I never had a real chance. She was perfect, and I had thighs twice as big around as her waist.
Without waiting for the lights in the house, I stood up. Rochan saw me and cupped his hands to whisper. “Cyra, where are you going?”
“They only have the one performance. I’m going to sneak backstage and see how they’re all doing.”
He rushed to catch up, gathering his camera and slipping it into his messenger bag. Cameras were not allowed, a fact pointed out three times on the program, once per page. I stalled in the aisle closest to the wall so no one would have their view blocked by me. He took long enough that the next group was beginning their performance. I hoped the lights were too bright for them to see that there were people leaving the audience. That would have sucked.
And then, I realized I had Rochan with me, and I was supposed to be passing a letter to Christine so she could give my poems to Rochan. I was glad I faked what it was to be on stage in this one. Considering how much he loved the performance, he’d lap that crap up.
Reading my words while dreaming of her.
I couldn’t even be my own full package.
We slipped out through a recessed door near the stage, and I took special care to make sure it clicked back into place as quietly as possible.
“What’s this?” Rochan said, pulling something out of my back pocket.
It was my freshly won right-handed glove.
He held it up and blinked at it. “Ah, well, I can see how this would be absolutely crucial to your fencing.” He kept a straight face, but his eyes twinkled.
“Exactly. That’s what I tried to tell the officiators, but they were horrified by their lack of foresight. I can’t wait to tell the story to my grandchildren—not that I’m in a rush, but you know, someday. Maybe in the documentary about my life.”
He whistled. “Documentary? Wow, such aspirations.”
“Oh come on, doesn’t everyone want to live a life worth being documented?”
A smile squished up against his cheek. “So long as it isn’t a Michael Moore documentary.”
“Or a docudrama from the Discovery Channel, like ‘Super Volcano and the Doomed Maiden.’”
“Oh, or ‘Stormtroopers and Their Victims.’ You definitely don’t want to be part of that one!”
I hit his shoulder with the back of my hand to stop him walking. “I definitely don’t want to star in the documentary ‘Boring Girl With One Hand Laments Average Life.’” I opened my eyes extra wide as I said it.
“Do you honestly think someone who drives a right-handed antique could possibly live an average life? Really?”
Nodding, I took the glove from him. “You can see here, that I won third place in the men’s competition, so I have earned my C in epee, which I already had because of my B in foil, but hey, it’s nice to have it legitimately and all. Now I just have three years to blast my way up to an A, make Div I A, and go to the Olympics.” I held up the glove. “Today the glove, tomorrow the world!”
My smile caught on, and he grinned back. “You are absolutely larger than life.” He blinked. “Wait, you’re not joking. You really want to fence at the Olympics?”
“Yeah, why else would I put up with the body deforming pursuits?”
“But you’ve been fencing since you were ten, right? Shouldn’t you alrea
dy be at the top of your game, or whatever?”
“I had to take a break from fencing just before I came to Petaluma. We couldn’t find a salle where I could train. And it’s not like fencing has the same sort of time limit as other sports. The guy I beat to land in third today, he was in his thirties, or maybe older. In fencing, age is an asset, not a detriment.”
He looked thoughtful. “But aren’t all Olympic people doing their sport from birth?”
“Sure, but this is fencing and I have a good background. What I need is more time. Besides, I can already see the difference with my new coach.” I chewed on my lips. “Now all I need to do is start actually winning. Third place isn’t going to cut it.”
“Well, you’ve got some time. Three years.”
“Three years is nothing in the chase.”
“Yeah, I mean, you’ll be what, twenty? College junior. Yeah, nothing will have changed.” He held his eyes open wide, exaggerating his words.
I rolled my eyes at him. “Really?”
“Well, good luck, one way or another. What I know about sports could be summed up in one sentence: sporting photography is hard. Oh, and expensive. Do you know the kinds of lenses those guys have? Ridiculous! Might as well start photographing humming birds!”
We pushed through a set of crash doors into a hallway filled with dancers. A woman with a clipboard and a headset intercepted us. “Where are you headed, sweetie?”
“We’re trying to meet our friends, the Petaluma Airabelles.”
She pointed. “Down the hallway, through the doors on your right. There’s a room that’s full of mirrors. You can’t miss it.” She waved us through but caught my arm as we tried to walk past. “No photography.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Rochan said without a hint of irony. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“I’m serious. No selfies, nothing on the Internet. This isn’t some normal competition. Don’t mess this up for the dancers.” She gave me a raised eyebrow.
“Um, sure. I won’t do anything to screw this up.” My eyebrow looked for reassurance in my hairline, but she let us pass.
We had to step over dancers stretching in the halls and duck under feet being thrown into the air. A dancer ran past, half her makeup on, costume unzipped, and a strap dangling off the back. “Tricia! What happened to the lipstick! I swear to God, I’ll skin you if you took it without asking again!”
Rochan caught my eye, and we both ducked our heads and giggled.
Because, seriously, there was nothing more tragic as not having the perfect lipstick.
We stepped over a bag, flopped open in the hallway. A younger dancer stood next to it and glared at us.
I held up my hand. “I didn’t do it.”
The girl kept scowling as we walked past. Rochan craned his neck to keep watching the girl standing guard over the dance bag. “What is her problem?”
“Christine warned me about stuff like that. Sometimes, at individual competitions, or worse, auditions, jealous dancers will sabotage other dancers. Powdered glass in point shoes, torn or ripped costumes, icy hot in the pancake, stuff like that. Competition is fierce, and some people just don’t have the talent to get there all on their own. They cheat.”
“Holy sh—”
I shot Rochan the mother eye since we were walking through a troupe of twelve-year-olds.
He held the S sound. “Ssssugar pops. Holy sugar pops, that is darned tough.”
“And I thought fencing was rough.”
Doors on the right led to a warm up studio with mirrors along every wall. Inside, bags littered the ground, and the older dancers warmed up at bars or did their makeup in the mirrors. Even without knowing, it was obvious who the real contenders in the competition were. The costumes were better, brighter, newer.
Christine’s father stood next to her as her whole troupe chatted enthusiastically. She saw us before we could say anything. Her eyes lit up, and she ran across the room. At the very last second she stopped herself from launching her stiff tutu into Rochan. She bent into him, giving him a graceful, if somewhat restrained hug.
His eyes shone, and his shoulders relaxed. He was absolutely a visage of love. They were in love. Mr. Neuve noticed, too. His lips curled under, pinching into his teeth before he smoothed out his features.
Christine remembered herself. “Dad, I’d like you to meet Rochan! Rochan, this is my dad.”
Rochan stood up straight and stepped up to shake hands. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Neuve!”
“The pleasure is all mine,” Christine’s dad said with that sharp-eyed look of a predator.
Rochan leaned away, and Christine moved to intervene, but I caught her arm and flashed the letter at her. Her eyes popped open, revealing the whites all around. She took the letter and crossed the room to her bag. Surreptitiously, she tucked the letter under a set of sweats. Pulling on a sweater, she popped up and trotted back, still in her point shoes.
“Don’t they let you get out of those?”
“We have to be available for photos until they announce the winners. If we win, they expect a bit of a show.”
I nodded like that made sense to me, but I had never been to a ballet competition. A light blinked, and all the dancers from other groups squealed and left the room in a flurry of “Wait, I just need another bit of blush!”
Christine watched them go, almost nostalgic but clearly relieved to have her part over. “This competition is also a qualifier for the Prix. So yeah, we want to make a good impression.”
Sara rolled her eyes. “And just because we’re favorites here doesn’t mean anything. Christine didn’t tell you about how the SFB sponsors three groups, each of which could pretty much make us look like teetering music box dolls.”
“You looked lovely on stage, Sara,” Rochan said.
Sara harrumphed and strode away, but her words had already penetrated Christine’s mind.
She scowled and twisted her hands together. “She’s right. There are so many wonderful dancers here. I just hope we did well enough to qualify for the next competition.”
Christine’s brows drew together, and I knew what she was doing, going through the whole thing in her mind. Behind her half lidded eyes, she probably ran the whole performance, seeing tiny imperfections as mountains between her and her dreams. It wasn’t that I hadn’t been there myself, but with fencing, you got the results immediately following your performance. I always knew who won the match before I left the strip.
Just then, a woman in a business suit walked in. She had a clip board and a scowl. She closed the door with some solemnity behind her after checking the room. “Ladies, listen up please.” All the girls from Christine’s troupe watched her, confused. “I have been informed that some of you are considering a career in the administration of ballet. As such, I’ve agreed to let you view your own results as we wrote them down.” She paused to look each girl in the eye. “This is a very rare opportunity, and it could be vastly misconstrued. As such, you may look but not copy. No pictures, as there is no photography at this facility. I am going to go freshen up in the ladies room. I expect this—and all of you—to be here when I return. Do I make myself clear?”
Christine stared back, wide eyed. This was decidedly unusual. I arched an eyebrow at her, and her wide eyes gave away her apprehension. She watched the moving clipboard like it had the answers to everything she ever wanted. Her father had the look of a man who’d just produced a flower from his sleeve for the very first time.
The judge in her business suit waited for someone to react, but all the ballerinas were like deer in the headlights, scared stiff. Sara stepped up to receive the clipboard, a self assured smile on her lips. The judge nodded at her and turned to leave. Mr. Neuve shook hands with her, and solicitously escorted her to the door of the warm up room. Christine scowled at the exchange. Mr. Neuve closed the door after the judge left and nodded to Sara.
She waved the clipboard. “Gather round, and I’ll let you know.” From where I stood, I could s
ee over Sara’s shoulders. The pages had a picture of each dancer and hand written notes next to the pictures. She flipped through the pages, reading off names. “Jessica, you qualify for junior. Beth…” She fell silent and shook her head. A girl—I presume Beth—scowled, but didn’t burst into tears. She turned away from the others and made herself into a small little ball of pain. “Nancy, well, beginner’s luck. They’ll eat you alive when you go to regional.” She flipped the pages with flare and extra drama.
Her face turned to ash under her makeup, and she handed off the clipboard to Nancy. Nancy took it with hungry hands and flipped through the pages to one with her face smiling back. “It says they like my extension!” She squealed, and one of the other dancers clapped her on the shoulder.
Mr. Neuve turned to Christine. “Aren’t you going to look sweetie? This is an unparalleled opportunity to find out what they really think of you as a dancer. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
She hissed back. “We could all get in serious trouble over this.”
“You’re just looking. As long as you don’t do anything to change the marks or scores, it is absolutely the best education you can get. Those are unfiltered comments about you girls. Your mother would have killed for a look at something like this.”
Christine’s head tilted to the side like she was talking to a very small child and not her father. “Well, I’m not Mom, now am I?”
He sighed. “I thought you’d be happy.”
“You can’t buy happiness for me. I want to dance.”
Exasperated, he pointed at the clipboard. “And this is the best opportunity I could get for you. Just read what it says.”
She half turned her head away from him. “How do I know she isn’t biased because you paid her?”
“Honestly, Christine. I know how to bribe someone without muddying the water.”
Her pursed lips suggested that she agreed with him. She spun on her heel and strode to the knot of dancers huddled around the clipboard. Her fear filled anger made her makeup seem more extreme than when she danced. She reached through the girls, and they dissolved around her, leaving her with the clipboard. Bracing for the worst, she flipped the page and started reading. Everyone watched as she read through the judge’s comments, her face a perfect mask.