Damien gives us barre combinations in rapid-fire succession from pliés to tendus to ronds de jambe and turns at the barres. We do twenty minutes of exercises, then he comes around to inspect each one of us on the last combination. “Tendu front. Demi-plié. Then, tendu back. Turn away from the barre, arabesque.”
I can feel him getting closer, but I try to focus on pointing my toe and working through the positions fully. I try to center myself in the here and now, knowing every second counts. Damien gazes at me for a moment, but he doesn’t say anything. He gives us twelve more barre combinations, and we work until our feet are warmed up and sweat drips down our backs. I try not to watch the company members in the mirror, but their faces are distracting. So I focus on my breathing, listening to the rhythm it makes. I tell my heart to be strong. I remind myself it has to be all effortless turns, soft fingers, and the cleanest positions.
Damien motions to the pianist to stop. “Please remove the barres. Put them in the far corners. Change into pointe shoes.”
I quickly change shoes, take a gulp of water, then warm up my feet.
Madame Dorokhova shows us the adagio routine she’d like to see. It’s based on one of Odette’s Swan Lake solos from Act Two. She goes through the complicated series of arm lifts, combinations, glissades, and turns. We mark it twice with the music. Then she splits us into small groups of three. I’m up first, with Eleanor and Cassie and a few others. I don’t make eye contact with Eleanor. I haven’t been able to apologize to her yet—and maybe after a month, it’s too late. Guilt creeps up every time I see her, and I have to work to push it down. June’s among girls in the second group, left to wait in their pool of anxiety and panic. I can feel her eyes boring into me, nearly throwing me off-balance.
Focus, I tell myself. Relax. I know I’ve got this. I position myself in front. I close my eyes until the third chord beat and I let myself forget that anyone else is in the room. I sink into the melodies. Madame Dorokhova’s adagio is sad and slow and we have to hold poses for long stretches. I explode out of my stance with big leaps and sweeping arms, catching everyone by surprise. I dance long after the adagio has ended and the other girls have stopped. I build on to Madame Dorokhova’s beautiful choreography, and the company pianist gives me another full chord to finish.
When I’m done, no one looks particularly pleased. I know I shouldn’t have done that, but I smile, curtsy, move out of the center for the next group of dancers. I should go, but I need a minute to just revel in the flush of heat inside me and my labored breaths.
That was just for me, and for Mama.
21.
June
FOCUS. THAT’S WHAT I KEEP telling myself. In thirty more minutes, this will all be over, and my fate will be decided, for better or worse.
“Out of the center,” Madame Dorokhova tells Gigi. I wish I could be like Gigi in that moment, just happy to be here, embracing the journey as much as the destination. But it’s not about that for me. I need to do well here. It’s now or never.
“Next batch,” Dorokhova shouts, and I leap forward.
Eight of us shift from the studio’s edges into the center. My legs are steady and strong, even as my heart thumps so hard and fast I feel like the whole studio must hear it. I look at the familiar faces all around me, some wrecked with nerves, others calm and determined. I wonder where I fall on the spectrum.
Dorokhova positions all of us, putting Sei-Jin, Riho, Isabela, and me at the very front.
“Ready?” she says.
I take a deep breath and steel myself. Eyes stare in from behind the glass and the ballet masters and mistresses sit right in front of us, taking notes, whispering assessments. The light in here is so bright you would think it was the sun. I arch my back. I flicker my hands out so they look soft and delicate.
The music starts. My heart drums alongside the syncopated beats from the piano.
You deserve this, June, I tell myself. You’ve worked hard to be here.
I step up on pointe and into glissade and arabesque and then piqué turns. The music builds into a series of crescendos. I turn, lift, and glide; turn, lift, and glide. I hear Bette’s voice in my head, reminding me to relax, to smile, to enjoy myself, all while keeping my lines lean and endless, my jumps graceful and controlled. Her advice anchors me. I take a moment to listen to music as we move, letting it envelop me, letting myself forget that Damien, Dorokhova, and the others are here. I imagine myself basking under the bright lights of Lincoln Center, the warmth of the audience’s applause as they celebrate my movements, fluid and flawless.
At the same time, I concentrate on lengthening, showing how far I can stretch my legs and arms in these movements. When I was little, I used to wish I’d been made of gum so I could bend myself into impossible shapes. Ballerina shapes.
I buzz with adrenaline. The rush leaves me breathless and flushed, a pretty ballerina pink. I beam outwardly, embracing the final thrums of the music as I spin into the final, impeccable pirouette. As we all curtsy into deep révérences, I’m still smiling.
No one claps or comments or even looks up. They’re too busy scribbling notes in their files as if we’re strangers—as if they hadn’t spent the last decade grooming us.
“Company dancers, cast list shortly!” Damien Leger shouts, and we’re escorted off center. Just like that, it’s all over.
As we exit the room, Sei-Jin and her gaggle embrace one another in a relieved, exhausted group-hug thing. For just one second, I want to join them, wrapping my sweaty, shaky arms around the pack. Instead, I take a seat on the floor near the door, not far from where Adele and the other company members are settling in. Their cast list is about to go up, and my curiosity won’t let me leave this space, this moment, its gravity.
I watch the company apprentices gather, their excitement heady and sweet. They’re all beautiful, stunning in their easy grace. There’s Russian import Katarina Plotkin, with her dark eyes and hair framing snow-white skin, lithe and elegant. She’s whispering with all-American Becca Thomas, who looks like she stepped out of Dance magazine, all long, lean lines and bright green eyes. Then there’s Ting Wu, a Chinese-born Cali girl, an inspiration to Sei-Jin and her crew. And to me, I guess, if I let myself admit it. She gives me hope.
If she can make it to the American Ballet Company stage, maybe I can, too. I imagine Damien looking at these beautiful dancers and picking them apart—putting together the perfect ballerina, piece by piece. He’d pair Ting’s strong legs and Katarina’s flawless feet, and add Becca’s corn silk crown. They all fly now toward a flushed, happy Adele, who throws her head back laughing.
“Odette and Odile, can you believe it?” she says, and the others wrap her into a warm, congratulatory huddle. “It hasn’t hit me yet!”
Damien made a great choice in casting her. She’s a melding of form and technique, of beauty and charisma. It’s a rare thing she has. I see a raw version of it in Bette.
My phone buzzes once, twice, three times, an endless stream of texts from my mom, ranting about the fact that I’ve missed yesterday’s appointment with Taylor, the therapist.
That’s three in a row.
You need to get better.
This is costing me money.