Chapter 8 #2
We didn’t choose seats at the very front of the auditorium.
Firstly, because the front row was never as good as it seemed.
The seats were so close to the stage that our eyes would have been in line with the performers’ feet, and we would have had to spend the entire performance staring upward just to see what was going on.
Secondly, with my size, sitting in front of everyone else felt like an asshole thing to do.
I’d be blocking everyone else’s view and would inevitably piss some people off.
Instead, we choose seats solidly in the middle of the theater, far enough back that my height wouldn’t block too many people and leave plenty of opportunities for others to move in front of us if necessary, but still close enough for us to see the stage clearly.
Once, the time before a performance used to be my favorite part.
Whether it was a movie, a play, or an orchestra, sitting in the audience with nothing to do but talk to each other felt like an intimate moment.
But that was before, when conversation with Chantal was natural and easy.
Now, although we’d managed to find a new equilibrium for our roles as co-parents, spending long periods of time together still felt awkward.
I never knew what to say to her. Part of me still wanted to apologize, although the time for apologies had passed years ago. I was even half-tempted to ask if she was dating anyone, but there was no way to phrase such a question without sounding jealous.
A few years ago, when the divorce was fresh, I might have been.
Now, however, the thought of her dating someone else didn’t bother me anymore.
Our divorce had become a part of me. It sat quietly in my heart, like a stone so settled in the dirt it was nearly completely buried.
Digging it up would only hurt more. It was better to simply use it as a foundation and build on top of it.
However, Chantal was a wonderful woman. That was why I’d married her in the first place, and I hated to think that I’d ruined the prospect of dating for her. She didn’t deserve to be alone.
In the end, I didn’t say any of that. Instead, I merely asked about her business, and she asked about my job. We discussed my new apartment, and she gave me tips on how to decorate the place. It was a pleasant conversation. Pleasant, but shallow. The kind of conversation that wouldn’t upset anyone.
When the theater lights dimmed and the performance finally started, I breathed a silent sigh of relief.
The ballet company putting on the performance had a variety of classes, each of which had their own routine to display.
It started with the oldest age group first, teenagers on the cusp of adulthood who’d clearly been practicing for years.
I was no expert on ballet, but some of them looked almost professional.
Chantal had dragged me to several ballets before—well, I’d pretended to be dragged but I actually had enjoyed the performances—so I’d seen several professional productions, and the teens onstage currently dancing to Esmerelda were amazingly talented.
Throughout the night, each class danced to selections from different ballets.
As the age ranges got younger, the routines had to be modified to match their abilities, but they would still be recognizable to anyone who knew anything about ballet.
Surprisingly, I was one of those people.
I’d never considered myself a connoisseur of the arts, but maybe I knew more than I thought I did.
Finally, toward the end of the performance, was the routine I was waiting for.
The five-year-olds’ class.
A line of nervous little children stood on the stage, with their teacher just off to the side to coach them. Melody was positioned slightly left of center, with her arms held stiffly but precisely in the opening pose as she shifted to get her feet into place.
Her ballet shoes were different than the other kids. I remembered Chantal telling me about it over the phone, but I hadn’t really understood what she meant until I saw it for myself.
As I’d recently learned, ballet shoes weren’t pink just because girls like pink.
There was a purpose for that color. Way back in the fifteenth century an exact shade of pink was chosen for ballet shoes in order to best blend in with all skin tones so it would look like an extension of the dancer’s leg.
Considering the rampant racism of earlier centuries, it’s no surprise that only white skin tones were taken into account for this decision. The idea of a ballet dancer with darker skin tones probably seemed preposterous back then, but the same shouldn’t be true today.
Looking at the browny-beige satin shoes on my daughter’s feet, a rush of shame followed by pride threatened to choke me.
Chantal had fought with the dance studio for weeks to let Melody wear shoes that better matched her skin tone.
I hadn’t understood why she fought so hard at the time.
Wouldn’t different shoes just make our daughter stand out more and ostracize her from the class?
Seeing all the kids lined up now, I finally got it.
The costume chosen for this performance included a blue and white tutu, with thin tights that showed the skin tone through.
Ballet shoes were supposed to be invisible, like they were simply a part of the dancer’s leg.
On lighter skin, the pale pink worked just fine, but that same color would have stood out like a pair of beacons on Melody’s feet.
By wearing a different color shoe from the other dancers, she actually blended in better.
The music started. Even with just the first few notes I recognized the Nutcracker. Someone who’d never been to the ballet in their life could probably recognize the Nutcracker, though I wasn’t an expert enough to know exactly which song from the performance they were doing.
With a group of a dozen five-year-olds, it was a miracle for them all to move in sync, let alone actually pull off the choreographed moves.
Arms were raised and feet were kicked, though they were only on beat about half the time.
One of the kids fell down mid-way through, but to their credit, they got back up and kept going.
Whether or not they were in time with the music didn’t matter. The kids could have hopped around in circles for all I cared. The thing that stole my attention was the smile on my daughter’s face. It was as adorably cute expression, pushing up her cheeks and turning her eyes into happy crescents.
The song ended. All the children were still on their feet, and about half of them were striking what looked like it was supposed to be the ending pose.
Melody had one leg extended so that the pointed toes of her foot barely touched the floor, putting most of her weight on her other leg.
She wobbled for a moment but regained her balance as the last note of the song faded.
I clapped along with the other parents, careful not to knock anyone with my elbows in my enthusiasm. Chantal would understand, she was clapping just as hard, but the other woman next to me was a stranger and may not be as forgiving.
The five-year-olds had been the last performance, so with them done, the other groups were brought back on stage for an encore bow.
It took ten minutes for the clapping to end, and then another ten minutes for everyone to file out of the audience so we could go pick up Melody backstage. She was waiting for us with a group of her friends, still in her costume, but ran to us as soon as she saw us.
“Do you see me? Did you see me?” she babbled as she crashed into my legs, hugging both my knees with her little arms. “I remembered all the steps, and I didn’t fall over.”
“I saw,” I assured her, patting her head where her hair was tied up into a poofy little bun. “You did great. And you know what great girls get?”
Before she could even ask, I held out the bouquet of flowers that I had been hiding behind my back.
Melody squealed with glee as she grabbed them, bouncing up and down hard enough to make several petals fall off. The bouquet was nearly as big as she was, and the way she held it in her arms made it look like she was waltzing with it.
Chantal put a steadying hand on Melody’s shoulder to keep her from falling over.
“All right. Let’s hurry up and get you changed out of your costume. Then we can go out for ice cream. Sound good?”
“Ice cream?” Somehow, impossibly, Melody’s eyes managed to get even bigger as she stared up at us. “But it’s not the weekend.”
As a way to restrict junk food, Chantal and I had made a rule when Melody was first born that desserts could only be eaten on the weekend.
It had seemed like a good way to encourage healthy snacks while still letting her have sweets every now and then, though now Melody believed there was some sort of dessert law enforced by dessert police.
“We got special permission for today to celebrate your performance,” I told her. “But… there’s a time limit. So, you better go get changed quickly before it runs out.”
Without another word, she shoved her bouquet back into my hands, then ran as fast as her little legs could carry her over to her stuff waiting in a pile in the corner of the room.
Chantal patted my arm. “Wait here while I go help her get out of that costume. It’ll probably take us a few minutes. For something made for kids, they sure made it complicated to get in and out of.”
Then she left to help our daughter without a backward glance.
A few years ago, I would have kissed her on the cheek before parting. Even if we were only going to be separated for a few minutes, I tried to always make sure our last interaction was an affectionate one.
Now, we parted as easily as a frayed thread.
It was strange how quickly things could change.
With the signing of a single piece of paper I went from married to unmarried, and in the passing of a few years, I went from grieving my divorce to barely noticing it.
Everyone was as happy as I could hope for.
Melody and Chantal were both doing well.
I was settling into my new life here in the same city as them.
This wasn’t the life I had originally planned, but it wasn’t a bad one either.
It was good. Peaceful. I could live every day like this and be content.
Maybe wishing for more than that would just be selfish.