Chapter 47 Sonya
SONYA
A few hours after I fly back home, I’m drained on the floor of a dance studio I’m renting by the hour and watching a video on my phone for my “break.”
It was posted this morning on the Vancouver Wings’ social media account. It’s five minutes long, and this is my third rewatch.
This is pathetic, don’t you dare restart it again, Sonya.
I do.
He’s in shorts and a muscle T-shirt that dips low enough on the sides to flash taut obliques, which shouldn’t be a sexy part of the body—but are.
His baseball cap is turned backwards, constraining sweat-dampened blonde hair.
And he’s skipping rope, but not leisurely.
The rope blurs in the air as he faces a few of his teammates.
“Push harder,” orders Adrian. “Come on, you can do anything for thirty seconds.”
He’s training players. Familiar faces and names weave in my mind, coming from memories of games I’ve seen in the past. There’s Jai and Raghr, and rookies, Waris, O’Brian, and Jung.
Shirts are plastered to bodies. Faces are red. Breathing is thick. Clearly, they’ve been going at it for a while.
Adrian’s pace doesn’t slow as he goes backward with the rope. My mouth falls open. His footwork is unreal. I can’t track it.
“If you don’t test your limits,” Adrian reminds them, “your limits never change.”
His team curses him, but they don’t stop lifting weights and doing jumping jacks. Maybe because their drill sergeant is also doing the work, while having enough breath control to give them feedback.
“Jai, tuck your elbows in.”
“Waris, I know you can squat lower, dude.”
“Look at O’Brian. He’s killing it!”
“Jung, those extensions are way better. You’ve obviously been doing your homework.”
We’ve only been apart for a few measly days, but my heart does a slow-motion acrobatic flip. This is another instance where I look at him and think Captain.
He’s commanding the room.
But I’m also wrinkling my brow, and my muscles have gone stiff.
That’s because I see the cracks. Invisible ones, fracturing him.
It’s so obvious in the way his shoulders are tighter than usual, the slight tremor in his hands on the skipping rope, how every thirty seconds he’s blinking and shaking himself to more alertness.
Has he slept?
Annoyance flares inside me. Why isn’t anyone mentioning anything? They should do something. Tell him to rest. Take a break. If they don’t, I’ll have to—I don’t know—find him, confront him, and proclaim something ridiculous like, give me some of your stress.
I groan and curse and muffle a scream. My eyes close—just for a second. I’m forcing them open just as quickly, because every time I shut them, I can’t stop thinking about the club.
It’s a distraction that keeps plaguing me.
Ask me when the last time I had sex was, Sonya.
Ask me who I think about, the only person I think about when I touch myself.
Did you like me on my knees?
I get up and pace around the studio.
Now is not the time for this! I can’t afford to lose focus, to be wondering about Adrian nonstop since we separated. I go back to the center of the studio and dance.
It works…for twenty minutes. Then suddenly I’m stopping, chewing my bottom lip, and sighing? What a disturbing little sound.
What’s even more disturbing is how I want to watch that video of him again.
I grab my bag from the ground, ready to stuff my phone into an inner pocket where I can’t easily access it, when it starts vibrating. I almost drop it. It’s a call from an unknown number.
“Hello?”
“This is Bob Pepita’s assistant. Is Sonya available?”
I do drop the phone, then scramble to pick it up.
“Speaking,” I choke out. “This is Sonya.”
“Hey, I wanted to reach out because the audition has been moved up. It’s going to be in two weeks instead of three. Will you be ready?”
My shoulders hitch. I’m sweating again. The solo I’m putting together is very technical, designed to meet the highest standards of classical ballet. As long as I pull it off, I have a shot…as long as these yips stop…
My performance has gotten marginally better. But the yips haven’t gone away.
There’s a brutally tense pause. I realize I haven’t answered his question.
Before I can, Mr. Pepita’s assistant tells me.
“Your competition is flying in from Paris Opera Ballet, The Royal Ballet in London, and Estonian National Ballet. They have no problem with the change and are excited to be filmed.”
My gut clenches. I’m confused. “Filmed? I didn’t realize…”
“Oh, yes. This is the last ballet Mr. Pepita will ever choreograph, so there will be a film crew recording everything. The footage will be turned into a documentary. To kick-off interest and get more funding, your auditions will be live-streamed on the internet.”
Alarm races through me. Whatever happens to me on that stage, everyone will know about it. If I publicly fall in the middle of a routine, my credibility will tank. No one else will want me.
“The filming is non-negotiable,” he reiterates, likely interpreting my silence for what it is. Sheer panic. “Can the team still expect you to audition?”
The reality is, I don’t know how many more years I have left to dance at this level. This might be my only chance at becoming a principal dancer. No matter what, no ballerina would ever pass this kind of opportunity up.
“Yes.”
The call ends. I stumble to the middle of the studio and raise my leg. I have to get back to practicing right away. But I’m not moving. I can’t seem to.
Now is not the time for this!
Especially when now I only have two weeks left. I can’t afford to lose focus, to not put my everything into this routine. My hands are on my hips as I lecture myself. “Get it together and fix yourself.”
My phone pings.
Apparently, I’ve manifested right on time because Team Nutcracker has sent me their report. Everything seems to be happening chaotically, and all at once.
It takes a few attempts to open the email, the pads of my fingers are too clammy.
When I’m finally reading it, I sink to sit-crossed legged on the floor. “This makes no sense.”
I was expecting recommendations about what muscles I need to strengthen or what moves I’m not executing correctly or what other external factors keep making me fall.
But this report…
It used the word psychological a lot, talking about the emotional and mental nature of the performance blocks, that I need additional therapeutic steps to untangle all that.
At the bottom of the report is bolded text.
I’m sweating from reading it.
The team recommends a few months as a more realistic timeline for improvement. They’ve also included a list of strategies they think will help me.
It’s instructional information about visualizations, journaling, trusting someone with my past, and this emotional freedom technique, or EFT, where I tap on my body while focusing on personal fears…
My brow scrunches.
It’s not at all what I thought it would be. I’m annoyed, confused, and quietly going haywire with the idea that if I ignore expert advice, nothing changes. I’ll have the yips forever.
What the hell? I don’t know what to do!
Actually, I do. As soon as I opened the report up, his face popped into my head.
Because I need to talk to someone about this, and yeah, Team Nutcracker will have the most helpful answers, but they aren’t who I want to confront.
I want to see him and talk (maybe snarl) through all of these new waves of stress, and also poke him and figure out if he’s been sleeping.
Again…we’ve only been apart for a few days. None of these actions make sense and my priorities are skewed. I’m frowning as my heart races, and I can’t stop myself from going to our text thread, reading the message I got this morning.
ADRIAN
I hope you got home safely!
ME
I did, thanks
Neither of us has mentioned the club, as if we’re afraid to touch the topic and…jinx something. I don’t know. Who knows? I’m not myself.
Especially not right now. Warmth floods my neck as I go to my Notes app and put together a message.
I’m wondering how you’ve been…
I’ve been thinking about…
Hey!
Ew, I don’t use exclamation points.
I settle on:
ME
Hey, I got the report. Did you read it?
He replies. Almost instantly.
ADRIAN
I haven’t, but they sent it to me.
There’s three dots, indicating he’s writing more.
This butterfly sensation stirs inside me.
I stare at those dots and see them disappear. Then reappear again. As if he also doesn’t know what to write.
Eventually, he settles on something.
ADRIAN
Can I see you?
I’m busy. That should be my answer.
But those butterflies inside me? They’re incensed for how much they swirl in my belly.
ME
I have to stay at the studio
ADRIAN
Ok, darling
He thinks I’m rejecting him. I start typing. Erase it. Start over. Then send my message fast, before I can take it back.
ME
Can you come over later tonight?
My phone buzzes. He hasn’t sent a text message, but a video response. It’s him nodding so happily with a smile that’s big enough to reveal both his dimples. It’s as if he’s been told he’s won the lottery.
The kind of outward expression that perfectly matches how I feel on the inside, at the thought that we’re going to see each other again. Tonight. At my place.
I try to pull back and tell myself it’s no big deal.
Even if, for the rest of my practice, I keep making those lost little sighs as I repeat my ballet routine over and over again, not resting until it’s time to go home. (Fuck…I think it might be a big deal.)