surprisingly comforted to see my ballet instructor. I’ve known her since I was in preschool, yet she never seems to change or age, and the French accent, which is authentic, never goes away. I think even her perfume is the same—an airy citrus aroma.
“I am so sorry I could not make her funeral.” She shakes her head. “I had lessons that morning.” She taps her chest. “But my heart was with you.”
“Thanks.”
“She was a wonderful, wonderful woman.” Madame Reginald tucks a loose strand of my hair back into the sloppy bun I made in the dressing room and takes a bobby pin from her own hair to secure it. She sighs sadly. “She will be so very missed!”
“I know.”
“So, how are you doing, cheri?” She takes my face in both of her cool hands, looking directly into my eyes. “You are so sad. I know.”
“Yeah...”
“But dancing is like medicine. It is how you will recover from this heartache. Your mother so loved to watch you dance, Cleo. She will be with you in spirit whenever you dance. Don’t you think so, too?”
“I hope so.”
“Good.” She nods firmly, then points to the barre. “Now, warm up, s’il vous plait”
I go through the paces, stretching and warming up, doing plies, fouettes, jetes, and pirouettes. But my heart is not in it. And then we begin to actually dance, rehearsing our numbers for the June recital, and the steps come automatically to me, but my movements are without life. We are doing Cinderella this year, and although I was thrilled to win the lead, there is no passion in my steps as I dance. No one says anything, but I know they are aware of this. Even the janitor who is beginning to sweep on the far side of the room probably knows I have lost the ability to dance.
As we finish the dance where the stepsisters tear up Cinderella’s dress, I can see the wheels turning in Amanda’s head. And then she begins showing off, doing one perfect fouette after another, spinning so fast that I feel dizzy, and then just like that she stops.
“How was that?” she asks Madame Reginald.
“Very good.” Madame smiles and nods.
“I’ve been practicing.”
“I can see that.”
I’m sure Amanda is already planning to replace me as Cinderella—she hates that Madame Reginald picked her to be a stepsister as well as the fairy godmother. For years Amanda and I have competed, and she would love to see me fail at holding on to the lead. That alone should motivate me to try harder. And yet I don’t really care.
Madame Reginald says something to the pianist, then instructs Faith and Amanda to begin their stepsister number. She turns to me, asking me to come speak privately with her at her desk.
I follow her, noticing not for the first time how she walks like a real ballerina—straight spine, head high, smooth arms, graceful legs, feet turned out. I try to imitate her.
She sits on the edge of her desk, looking intently at me, as if she’d like to push a magic button that would fix me. Oh, how I wish she could.
“I know you are so sad, cheri.”
I bite my lip, feeling the edge of tears, feeling the need for Vicodin.
“How could you not be? But you must use your pain to reach that place in your heart.” She taps my sternum with her forefinger. “That secret place where the true dancer lives. You bring her out and you allow her to dance from the depths of your emotion.” She strokes my hair. “And you will get well again. I promise.”
I wish it were that simple. Not wanting to argue, I simply nod. “I’ll try to remember that. My inner dancer.”
“And you must practice,” she tells me, as if she knows I haven’t been.
“Yes.”
We do one last number, and I actually try to heed her advice, try to call on my inner dancer; to my surprise, I almost find her. Almost.
“Much better! See, you can do this, cheri.” Now she turns to Faith and Amanda. “And you girls were lovely, too. See you all on Tuesday.” Then she blows kisses, and we head back to the
“I am so sorry I could not make her funeral.” She shakes her head. “I had lessons that morning.” She taps her chest. “But my heart was with you.”
“Thanks.”
“She was a wonderful, wonderful woman.” Madame Reginald tucks a loose strand of my hair back into the sloppy bun I made in the dressing room and takes a bobby pin from her own hair to secure it. She sighs sadly. “She will be so very missed!”
“I know.”
“So, how are you doing, cheri?” She takes my face in both of her cool hands, looking directly into my eyes. “You are so sad. I know.”
“Yeah...”
“But dancing is like medicine. It is how you will recover from this heartache. Your mother so loved to watch you dance, Cleo. She will be with you in spirit whenever you dance. Don’t you think so, too?”
“I hope so.”
“Good.” She nods firmly, then points to the barre. “Now, warm up, s’il vous plait”
I go through the paces, stretching and warming up, doing plies, fouettes, jetes, and pirouettes. But my heart is not in it. And then we begin to actually dance, rehearsing our numbers for the June recital, and the steps come automatically to me, but my movements are without life. We are doing Cinderella this year, and although I was thrilled to win the lead, there is no passion in my steps as I dance. No one says anything, but I know they are aware of this. Even the janitor who is beginning to sweep on the far side of the room probably knows I have lost the ability to dance.
As we finish the dance where the stepsisters tear up Cinderella’s dress, I can see the wheels turning in Amanda’s head. And then she begins showing off, doing one perfect fouette after another, spinning so fast that I feel dizzy, and then just like that she stops.
“How was that?” she asks Madame Reginald.
“Very good.” Madame smiles and nods.
“I’ve been practicing.”
“I can see that.”
I’m sure Amanda is already planning to replace me as Cinderella—she hates that Madame Reginald picked her to be a stepsister as well as the fairy godmother. For years Amanda and I have competed, and she would love to see me fail at holding on to the lead. That alone should motivate me to try harder. And yet I don’t really care.
Madame Reginald says something to the pianist, then instructs Faith and Amanda to begin their stepsister number. She turns to me, asking me to come speak privately with her at her desk.
I follow her, noticing not for the first time how she walks like a real ballerina—straight spine, head high, smooth arms, graceful legs, feet turned out. I try to imitate her.
She sits on the edge of her desk, looking intently at me, as if she’d like to push a magic button that would fix me. Oh, how I wish she could.
“I know you are so sad, cheri.”
I bite my lip, feeling the edge of tears, feeling the need for Vicodin.
“How could you not be? But you must use your pain to reach that place in your heart.” She taps my sternum with her forefinger. “That secret place where the true dancer lives. You bring her out and you allow her to dance from the depths of your emotion.” She strokes my hair. “And you will get well again. I promise.”
I wish it were that simple. Not wanting to argue, I simply nod. “I’ll try to remember that. My inner dancer.”
“And you must practice,” she tells me, as if she knows I haven’t been.
“Yes.”
We do one last number, and I actually try to heed her advice, try to call on my inner dancer; to my surprise, I almost find her. Almost.
“Much better! See, you can do this, cheri.” Now she turns to Faith and Amanda. “And you girls were lovely, too. See you all on Tuesday.” Then she blows kisses, and we head back to the
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