it’ll get the marks out.”
Rosalie laughs. “Thanks, I’ll take it.” Then, as if
she has a sixth sense, Rosalie turns to the front of the bus. Two
seconds later, Mademoiselle’s voice rings out.
“Rosalie? Where are you?”
“Back to work,” she says with a rueful smile. “Some
of us aren’t lucky enough to get the day off.”
“Rosalie!”
She makes her way obediently to the front of the bus, just as the
engine starts, and the bus pulls away. Rosalie loses her balance at
the sudden motion, and goes flying into the nearest person’s
lap.
“It’s obvious who isn’t a dancer here.” The
girl, Lucia, shoves Rosalie upright, scowling. “Maybe you
should sit in on a class, learn something about being graceful.”
“You can talk,” Karla yells down the aisle. “Didn’t
you get so dizzy turning fouettes you puked all over the
Director?”
Lucia glares. Rosalie blushes, and scurries on up front.
“She’s such a bitch,” Karla murmurs.
“Yes, but her grand jetés put us all to shame.”
I watch Lucia plug in her iPod and slouch lower in her seat,
pointedly ignoring the beautiful city passing by outside the windows.
She’s Italian, and hasn’t missed a chance to remind us,
heaping scorn on our halting accents and halfhearted requests for
‘ uno espresso, per favore. ’ “You think
she’ll get a solo?”
Karla bites her lip. “There are only four to go around.”
“You’ll take one,” I say. Karla doesn’t
disagree. It’s not ego, it’s simple fact: she’s one
of the best dancers in the company. I wish I could be as fearless as
her, in life as well as dance.
“So that leaves three...” I glance around the bus at the
other members, making sure to keep my voice low. “Julia had
that sprain,” I murmur hopefully, seeing one of the other best
dancers chat with some friends up front.
“But she’s better now,” Karla gives me a
sympathetic smile. “I saw her in rehearsal before we left. The
Director said she was promising.”
I inhale a breath. Coming from the Director, that’s lavish
praise.
We both fall silent for the rest of the journey, all our earlier
joking forgotten. When it comes to ballet, there’s no room to
play around. Out of the full company of eighty dancers, we all know,
only a small handful will ever graduate to be principals, dancing the
big roles, and of them, maybe one or two in a generation will become prima ballerinas , the best of the best, praised and adored by
all.
My mom’s words echo again. She’s right, when she was
nineteen, she was already a rising star in the company, wowing
audiences with her solos and perfect form. Sometimes I feel lucky,
having a mother who can understand my passion so well. She doesn’t
ask why I spend three hours a night practicing my arabesque lines, or tell me they looked fine to her, like some of the other
dancers’ families. They just shrug and smile in a bemused way,
and applaud everything their kids do, but Mom will stay up with me in
our converted home studio, critiquing me again and again until I’m
perfect.
But then, other times, the weight of her legacy feels like it’s
crushing me, bearing down so heavily I can barely breathe. How am I
ever supposed to live up to her? To even match her skill and talent,
let alone find some way to develop my own style?
I used to be certain, so sure I would succeed, but more and more, I
hear the whispers rising, taunting me with my own limitations. The
fact is, a dancer’s professional life is short. Most peak in
their late teens or early twenties, and by the time they’re
over twenty-five, their bodies can’t keep it up any longer.
It’s a short window and I’m already into mine, with
barely anything to show for it.
“Hey, you’ll be OK.”
My worries must show, because Karla squeezes my arm. “Julia has
no musicality, and Lucia can do the leaps, but her toe-work gets
sloppy after a while. You’ve got a solo locked.”
“Thanks.” I manage a weak smile. “But
Rosalie laughs. “Thanks, I’ll take it.” Then, as if
she has a sixth sense, Rosalie turns to the front of the bus. Two
seconds later, Mademoiselle’s voice rings out.
“Rosalie? Where are you?”
“Back to work,” she says with a rueful smile. “Some
of us aren’t lucky enough to get the day off.”
“Rosalie!”
She makes her way obediently to the front of the bus, just as the
engine starts, and the bus pulls away. Rosalie loses her balance at
the sudden motion, and goes flying into the nearest person’s
lap.
“It’s obvious who isn’t a dancer here.” The
girl, Lucia, shoves Rosalie upright, scowling. “Maybe you
should sit in on a class, learn something about being graceful.”
“You can talk,” Karla yells down the aisle. “Didn’t
you get so dizzy turning fouettes you puked all over the
Director?”
Lucia glares. Rosalie blushes, and scurries on up front.
“She’s such a bitch,” Karla murmurs.
“Yes, but her grand jetés put us all to shame.”
I watch Lucia plug in her iPod and slouch lower in her seat,
pointedly ignoring the beautiful city passing by outside the windows.
She’s Italian, and hasn’t missed a chance to remind us,
heaping scorn on our halting accents and halfhearted requests for
‘ uno espresso, per favore. ’ “You think
she’ll get a solo?”
Karla bites her lip. “There are only four to go around.”
“You’ll take one,” I say. Karla doesn’t
disagree. It’s not ego, it’s simple fact: she’s one
of the best dancers in the company. I wish I could be as fearless as
her, in life as well as dance.
“So that leaves three...” I glance around the bus at the
other members, making sure to keep my voice low. “Julia had
that sprain,” I murmur hopefully, seeing one of the other best
dancers chat with some friends up front.
“But she’s better now,” Karla gives me a
sympathetic smile. “I saw her in rehearsal before we left. The
Director said she was promising.”
I inhale a breath. Coming from the Director, that’s lavish
praise.
We both fall silent for the rest of the journey, all our earlier
joking forgotten. When it comes to ballet, there’s no room to
play around. Out of the full company of eighty dancers, we all know,
only a small handful will ever graduate to be principals, dancing the
big roles, and of them, maybe one or two in a generation will become prima ballerinas , the best of the best, praised and adored by
all.
My mom’s words echo again. She’s right, when she was
nineteen, she was already a rising star in the company, wowing
audiences with her solos and perfect form. Sometimes I feel lucky,
having a mother who can understand my passion so well. She doesn’t
ask why I spend three hours a night practicing my arabesque lines, or tell me they looked fine to her, like some of the other
dancers’ families. They just shrug and smile in a bemused way,
and applaud everything their kids do, but Mom will stay up with me in
our converted home studio, critiquing me again and again until I’m
perfect.
But then, other times, the weight of her legacy feels like it’s
crushing me, bearing down so heavily I can barely breathe. How am I
ever supposed to live up to her? To even match her skill and talent,
let alone find some way to develop my own style?
I used to be certain, so sure I would succeed, but more and more, I
hear the whispers rising, taunting me with my own limitations. The
fact is, a dancer’s professional life is short. Most peak in
their late teens or early twenties, and by the time they’re
over twenty-five, their bodies can’t keep it up any longer.
It’s a short window and I’m already into mine, with
barely anything to show for it.
“Hey, you’ll be OK.”
My worries must show, because Karla squeezes my arm. “Julia has
no musicality, and Lucia can do the leaps, but her toe-work gets
sloppy after a while. You’ve got a solo locked.”
“Thanks.” I manage a weak smile. “But
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