Alec takes my hand. “Come on.” He pulls me toward the stage.
This is it.
I take a deep breath and follow.
It feels like the first time. The lights, the rose of my cheeks, the scratchy tights and tulle—the magic. It’s all there, it’s all back. The warmth of the stage lights at Lincoln Center hit my shoulders.
Thirty seconds till my solo in the coda. Two lines of swans edge both sides of the stage. It’s just me in the middle. I lift my legs and stretch them into long, sharp lines. I present soft delicate hands. I fold into the slow melodies.
I finish. The audience claps, and I bask in every second of it, knowing how fleeting this joy might be. I bow and slip to the wings to catch my breath before my next entrance. I drink a little water. A stage mom helps towel me off and blot my face. I’m so out of breath I can’t thank them.
The scene backdrop changes to the ballroom. Henri, as Rothbart, presents Bette. The music shifts, and the light turns to dark as Bette takes the stage. She smiles all teeth. Each lift of her leg and every piqué turn is perfect. The audience applause is thunderous.
All this time they’ve been calling me the comeback kid, but in that moment, I know that title should really belong to her. She was gone half the year, but it doesn’t show.
Alec dances his solo. He leaps high in the air. I hear gasping from the crowd. His motions and his smile all show his love for Odile. Alec finishes his turns, and Bette spins forward, beginning those thirty-two fouettés en tournant.
I hold my breath, not realizing I’m counting until she hits the very last one and the audience bursts. From the wings, I spot some people in the front row up on their feet—a standing ovation. One that’s well deserved. She’s perfect, flawless, the black swan with an edge.
The one, in the end, who makes the story worth reading, the ballet worth watching.
It’s inching toward midnight, but the evening is far from over. Tonight, fresh off the Lincoln Center stage, one more female American Ballet Conservatory dancer will become the company’s newest apprentice, alongside the two male picks. I stand before the panel in the upstairs studio, holding my breath, praying she might be me.
I knit my fingers and nibble at my bottom lip as I wait for Damien Leger to give me his decision. I feel transported back to the very first cast list at the conservatory when we were all huddled together in the lobby and waiting for Mr. K to dole out our fates. I feel like I should be back in that space and with him in front of me. I can’t process the words coming out of the mouths of Morkie, Mr. Leger, and Mr. K. I catch bits and pieces of them in the fuzzy haze over my brain.
“Flawless.”
“Strong technique.”
“Nearly back to your old self.”
“You have a flame.”
But. But. But.
“Do you still love it?” Madame Dorokhova asks. Her deep Russian voice cuts through the cloud in my head, booming like thunder.
“Excuse me?”
“Do you love ballet?” she says.
I think back to that argument with my mother, of telling her I’ll be dancing, with or without her support. “I don’t know how to do anything else,” I say, not sure if that answers her question. “I don’t want to do anything else. This is my dream.”
“You’ve come back from a very dark place,” Mr. K says. “You’ve almost got it all back, but you’re missing something.” He pauses for effect. “The thing I loved about seeing you dance the most in that very first audition.”
I’m speechless. The thing he saw in me—the thing he said set me apart. Probably the only thing that’s really keeping me here.
“Gigi, while we think you are a talented and charismatic young woman, the talent pool this year was so stellar—beyond all our expectations,” Madame Dorokhova says. “We do see something in you, but you’ve suffered a rough patch. Maybe with some time—” She must see my shattered expression and her face softens. “You remind me so much of myself when I was dancing at the Bolshoi. Yes, that’s it. You dance like the old me used to.”
Damien speaks then, and his face is pained. “Gigi, we see something grand in you. But I feel that you need more time to focus on your recovery—physically and mentally.” He scribbles something on a paper. “That said, I’d love to follow your progress—and for you to check in with us before you accept any other offers.”
His words don’t quite register. I don’t have any other offers. I didn’t audition anywhere else. All I’m hearing is that I failed.
“Can you do that for me?” he’s saying, quiet, concerned.
“So does this mean I didn’t make it?”
“Not at this time, I’m afraid.” Damien adds a sad smile.
I nod, and walk out, without looking at any of them again.
I failed. They don’t want me. The weight of it is crushing, and I nearly stagger as I slip through the door. I press my back against the wall and slide down it. My head finds my knees. My heart races to the sound of Damien’s words: Not at this time, I’m afraid.
41.
Bette
I STAND OUTSIDE THE LINCOLN Center studio where Damien, Madame Dorokhova, and Mr. K are having their meetings. Everyone else has gone through, the boys celebrating, the girls weeping. First there was June, Sei-Jin, and then the rest of that crew. They’re long gone, all pink faces and lots of tears. But Gigi hasn’t returned yet.
I whisper to one of the crying girls. “Is Gigi still in there?” She’s sprawled out on the floor, her head tucked into her knees, and she looks up at me. Tears run like rivers through the powder on her cheeks, hot and fresh and humiliating. Her mascara is spiderwebbing in intricate patterns, making her look edgy.
“No, she left already.” She sniffles out the words. I want to ask her if Gigi was happy or crying. But she transforms into another puddle, gets up, and darts out.
I press my hands against the door. A mix of English and Russian voices slip from behind it. I can’t make out anything. I start to pace and think through my performance. The whole time I was up there, I heard Adele’s voice in my head. I spun for every wrong thing I did, every accusation used against me. I spun for every snub—from Will, from Alec, from Mr. K even. I spun for every triumph missed, for Adele, for Eleanor, for Gigi, for June—and for myself.
Whatever else happens tonight, I’ll have that. A moment of perfection I can go back to over and over again, a memory that will stay with me. That I was more than good enough. That I was perfect.
The door opens. The sound makes me jump. Damien’s assistant steps outside. “Bette Abney,” she says, her voice sweet. “They’re ready to see you now.”
All in a row, behind a table, sit Damien, Mr. K, Morkie, and Dorokhova. It feels just like when I was six and first auditioning for the conservatory, a petit rat in scratchy pink tights and a leotard. Back then, it didn’t matter. I already had a spot before walking into the studio. I was an Abney. But now, that might not be enough.
It feels like there are a thousand steps to take before I reach them. As I walk behind Mr. K’s assistant, I watch her movements, flowery, elegant. I wonder if she’s a failed dancer. Someone who had high hopes and big dreams, just like me, and didn’t quite make the cut.