“He loves to hate me,” I say to no one in particular, throwing my head back over the top of my desk chair, tossing a rubber band ball up into the air. I have held off on paying ballet tuition hoping to use that money for Etta’s college application fees. Then, as soon as all Etta’s college applications were in, I would pay for fall and winter quarters in one lump sum in January. Yes, a lot late for the fall tuition, but only thirty days late for winter. As expensive as college is going to be, and as sad as I will be to see Etta go, I’m looking forward to the day I no longer have to pay ballet school tuition and receive snooty e-mails from a poorly aging primo ballerino or whatever you call an over-the-hill ex-principal dancer holding too tightly to a youth that is looooong gone.
Never, in all my years as a director of admissions, have I made any family feel as lowly as Jean Georges does to me on a biyearly basis. Maybe he’s condescending to all the parents, I’m not sure, but shouldn’t he be kissing up to me for birthing the best dancer who will probably ever come through his school? After a few more songs about justice, fighting for what’s right, and being fed up with the Man, my Macklemore-fueled sense of empowerment rationalizes postponing direction reading for the CRM (it’s a job better suited for Roan anyway), and I lock up my office to drive down to the ballet school to surprise Director Martin with a visit a half hour before pickup.
PLEASE TURN OFF ALL CELL PHONES; THIS IS AN ENVIRONMENT OF ARTISTIC PEACE AND BEAUTY.
Usually a sign like that would make me want to turn my ringtone up, but not wanting to piss off Director Martin more than I already have, I slip my hand into my purse and switch off the ringer. A dab of lipstick wouldn’t hurt the situation, either, so I feel around in the cavern I call a purse for some long-forgotten stick of something or other. I can only hope it isn’t passion plum. Don’t want to relive that nightmare with Jean Georges.
My eyesight adjusts as I walk into the dark theatre. All the students are in the stretching studios, so I know I will spare Etta the embarrassment of begging her master teacher for forgiveness. Then, while I’m in this compromised state, I’ll ask him for an extension for Etta’s fall and winter quarter payments (my take-no-prisoners angry [white man] energy died somewhere around Vallejo Street and Van Ness). While my will is steeled to grovel, my mind betrays me and I start to giggle when I see Jean Georges stride across the stage in a regal purple unitard and black riding boots. The winning touch is the cocked fedora perched on his head and the riding crop he’s whipping through the air. I don’t care how many professional ballets you’ve performed in, a unitard after retirement is never a good idea.
“Excuse me, Director Martin.” I will my facial muscles not to defy me and break into laughter. Objective achieved.
“Well, hello, Ms. Bordelon. I assume you received my e-mail, thus the inappropriate visit during rehearsal time?” I take a giant step to the left over the shade Jean Georges has laid down. “I’m also going to assume you visited the business office first like I asked you to do in the e-mail?”
Damn. I knew I should have reread the whole thing through one more time before charging into Director Martin’s kingdom.
“Well, here’s the thing . . .” I start.
“‘The thing’? The THING? There shouldn’t be a thing if you’ve done as I instructed you to do and paid your bill before paying me a visit.” Jean Georges crosses his arms over his chest and looks at me with zero amusement. This is going to be harder than I imagined, and I’m going to have to eat some serious humble pie.
“Actually, there is a thing. The thing is called college. And Etta will be going next year, and I have had to reserve her dance tuition this quarter for application fees. But the good news is, I’m planning on having her apply early so that means she will find out where she’s going in December and by January I will be able to pay off the fall and winter tuition. Please don’t punish Etta in her last year of dance because I’ve had to make some difficult financial choices for a couple of months.”
“Why would this be her last year of dance?” Jean Georges asks, looking genuinely confused. Did he not just hear me say that Etta’s heading to college next year? Though I think I made myself clear, I don’t allow myself to get annoyed before launching back into my reasoning a second time.
“Jean Georges, Etta is a senior this year. I’m focusing on her applying early admissions to a few Ivies and maybe Pomona and Claremont McKenna. I need to get Etta into college as soon as possible so I can really start to plan our tuition payment strategy. You see, thirteen years of adjusted tuition at Fairchild, crazy rent, and then ten years in the San Francisco Ballet School, without any financial aid, has made planning for college a little more difficult than I anticipated, but I’m trying as best I can.”
I couldn’t help myself; I had to throw in a dig that for ten years the ballet school had refused to help me pay for Etta’s twenty hours of dance a week even though she has been the most promising dancer to come through the school in well over two decades. Consistently, the ballet school has pointed out to me that I hold an important role in the administration at Fairchild Country Day. And continually I point out that I am a single parent in San Francisco and while everyone around me is getting filthy rich off start-ups and mergers and investments, I am working in education where, even at Fairchild, the salaries are paltry compared to the rest of the professional world and the astronomical cost of living here.
At my lowest, I had to ask Aunt Viv to dip into her retirement to help me make dance payments once Etta went from dancing ten hours a week to twenty. To my continued shame, that transition coincided with my leasing the first new car of my life, a backlog of parking tickets to be paid off to avoid collections, and an irresponsible anxiety-induced shopping bender. While I no longer live a glamorous life, my appreciation for expensive clothes never made the shift from my modeling career to a job in education. I blame Maisie Maxwell for that one.
Aunt Viv lent me the money, no questions asked, but my promises to pay her back so she could retire by seventy have not come to fruition and have left me with three a.m. pangs of guilt. The fact that Aunt Viv arrives an hour early to every one of Etta’s performances so she may have the best seat in the house at least assures me she believes in her investment and the choice I’ve made to let Etta pursue ballet through high school. Dance and Fairchild have kept Etta on a steady, trouble-free path, and for that both Aunt Viv and I are forever grateful.
“Ms. Bordelon, I’ve spent more time with your daughter than you have the past ten years.” I open my mouth to refute this pretentious Frenchman, but he closes his eyes, shakes his head no, and puts his index finger to my lips to silence me. “I know every muscle in her body from fingertip to calloused big toe. I know she works harder than any ballerina I have ever had in this school, and I know she comes alive when she is on stage bringing art to life. I know she does well in school, so you will allow her to dance, and I also know she waits all day in school to come here at three-fifteen and do the one thing she loves most in the world. What I don’t know is if she wants to go to college—an Ivy, Pomona, Claremont, or otherwise. Is that a conversation you two have had?”