Chapter 12 Sonya
SONYA
After leaving Hughes, it takes me a while to find my dance mistress. But when I do, Madame Kozlova’s fuming in the stairwell beside her office.
“I can explain,” I start.
I can’t. I have no idea what happened to me on stage.
She shakes her head. “Don’t bother. Just be glad there’s one more chance left. I’ll figure out how to convince Bob Pepita to see you one more time at his general auditions, but you can’t embarrass me again.”
I nod and pretend not to be fazed, even though it takes everything inside me not to clutch the wall with relief. Because my dream isn’t over yet.
“Go practice,” says my dance mistress. “You have a month.”
I head back to the studio. I know she expects me to stay late, so what happened earlier today won’t happen ever again.
I agree with her. It’s the right plan.
For the rest of the day, I book out one of our smallest studios, so nobody can watch me. Before I get started, I turn the temperature up high, so my muscles can warm up quickly. I’m already sweating.
It’s not nerves, I tell myself. It can’t be.
I’ve done this routine a thousand times already. The steps are carved into my memory. Arms up. Leg lifted. I smile politely and falsely at myself in the mirror.
Suddenly, I’m moving across the floor, spinning, and stepping on the balls of my feet. Getting ready to prepare for my grand allegro combination. The one I messed up on stage in front of Bob Pepita. The choreographer who holds my fate in his hands.
I should build up to it for longer, but I can’t wait.
Three, two, one…
I fall again.
My knee thumps against the floor.
Snapping my head up, I look at myself in the mirror. My eyes have turned into saucers. Scrambling back to my feet, I get up and go again. And again.
I don’t understand.
I’m blanking and losing control in the middle of my steps as if my mind and body are running in opposite directions and have stopped listening to each other. Lifting my hand up to my mouth, I muffle a scream.
Then I go again.
Instead of landing like I should, I stagger to the ground, lost and confused. It’s reflexive disorientation, lasting maybe one second—which doesn’t sound like a lot, but in a methodical profession like ballet, that’s all it takes to derail the whole move.
The heels of my palms grind against my eyes as I sink to the floor. My throat is closing. I want to crumble and cry because what is going on? It makes no sense.
“You know how to do it,” I mutter through clenched teeth. “Why are you doing this?”
I channel whatever I’m feeling into more dancing.
That doesn’t work. I keep falling, and after a few more hours I forced myself to leave, scared that if I don’t stop, I might actually injure myself.
On my way home, I stop to grab my usual Mexican takeout for dinner again. Gabriela, the owner, doesn’t sense anything is off.
Later, Farim, the doorman of my apartment building, happily waves me inside.
“Are your kids driving you up the wall?” I ask, passing him the extra burrito I picked up.
“The answer to that is always, Miss Sonya.”
We chat for a minute, then I wave him goodbye.
On the eighth floor, first door to the right, my apartment is a cozy shoebox. The kitchen is within reaching distance to a thrifted, three-legged desk, which in turn, is within reaching distance to a squished velvet couch that is next to my Murphy bed and across from my utilitarian bathroom.
I strip off my clothes and head into the shower. My forehead presses against the steamy wall.
I’m going to be okay.
I’ll forget what happened today. I’m erasing the last twenty-four hours from my mind.
Ten minutes later, I’m in a robe and stretching.
I’m okay.
A glass of wine is poured in front of the TV.
I’m okay.
On screen, a drag queen does a gravity-defying drop on the runway, winning the final prize.
I’m okay.
The TV is turned off and I crawl into bed.
I’m okay.
My mouth tips down.
I’m…okay…
But then a blond hair and a goofy smile pops into my head, and fresh humiliation burns my throat.
I pull on the covers until they swallow half my face.
Then I turn on my side and scrunch my eyes together.
Why was he there? He wasn’t supposed to be watching and to see me fall like that.
Why did he have to be there? Then to run onto the stage to try and help me?
And stick around afterwards, acting all concerned?
And how many times did I shut his questions down?
I curl into myself deeper as my stomach starts to churn.
I have to remind myself that everyone should know by now that I’m not a bubbly person.
I’m distant. Cantankerous. Grumpiness is a victory over my past. I’m safe and confident now, free enough to make whatever displeasing noise I want.
Every moment of frustration is vocalized.
I’m no longer that scared, obedient girl afraid of disrupting what little she got as a foster kid.
Now I’m a woman who doesn’t owe anyone pleasantries, not as a prerequisite for existing and taking up space, especially to those who aren’t pleasant themselves.
(And maybe even to people who are pleasant, as a way to keep them away, so my walls stay strong.)
The back of my neck heats up. And this other spot on my abdomen. The one his arm pressed across when he was blocking my path. It thrums.
Sonya darling.
I battle a shiver, fighting not to remember more.
Those two words, and the energy skittering down my spine when his face was the first thing I saw while I was lying on that stage…
That bizarre, serious look on his face that didn’t belong, like a puzzle piece went missing because he wasn’t smiling at first…
And then when he said he missed me…
My eyes clench shut, and I press a hand against the flushed skin at my neck.
He was joking. Obviously. Not that it matters.
I have no right to even be thinking about him.
I’ve been avoiding him for so long and succeeding at it, except for that one time on the park bench.
So why do I still feel this way? This topsy-turvy, stomach-flipping, butterfly-type thing whenever I see him.
I curse. Do I need to do it again? To remember more lessons my past has taught me? The biggest one being, don’t hand your problems to someone else to carry. Become strong enough to face them yourself. It’s my favorite reminder. Every time I recite it, my back straightens.
I don’t want—or need—to bother anyone.
That’s why, later at night when I eventually call Quinn and Kavi back, I reassure them that nothing was wrong and apologize for not communicating better.
“I was worried,” he says.
“I know. I’m a shitty sister—”
“Hey,” he interrupts. “Don’t call my sister any names.”
Kavi’s there, too. He passes her the phone.
“Am I being a bad friend? I don’t mean to.” I ask her.
“Never,” she promised. “Are you okay? How’s ballet going?”
“Great,” I lie. “We’ll catch up when you’re back, I promise.”
They don’t push for more details, because they don’t know about my fall. Hughes didn’t tell them.
I’m glad.
Because earlier today was just a fluke.
Because it has to be.
Tomorrow, everything will go back to normal.