Chapter 68 Sonya
SONYA
It’s the day of the audition.
After stretching, I—along with twelve other dancers—tape our toes, turning them into little mummies. Gel-filled burn pads cushion toe knuckles. Moleskin stiffened with glue goes under the balls of our feet. Pointe shoes are pulled on and tested as we rise to our tips.
A two-person video crew films us, live-streaming for the rest of the world. Whatever happens on the stage today, it’s going to be shown.
Doors to the theatre open up. Bob Pepita’s assistants call us inside. He’s set up, sitting front row with his notebook out, ready to judge.
We file down the corridor and wait in a line to get on stage. I’m near the middle of the group. Nina Hart and Robert Chang are near the front. Today, they’ll be dancing together.
When it’s their turn on stage, I brace myself.
Five minutes later, the hair on the back of my neck rises.
Their pas de deux is gorgeous, somber, and traps all focus on them. It’s breathtaking, their depiction of loneliness that takes shelter in love.
Around me, other dancers are inhaling sharply.
All of us are floored.
The final move is a simple pirouette from Nina, her body flowing into the fluid turn, as if the story is one swing of a pendulum, finished but not over.
It seems impossible to beat. If she gets cast in this ballet as a principal dancer, she’ll have earned it.
Six dancers later, it’s my turn.
Have I done enough? Are my yips fully gone?
I don’t know.
My heart is racing a million-mile marathon as I walk onto the stage, and my palms are sweaty. So is my back, and my knees. Ballet has consumed my life—my entire being. Now that I’m here, it strikes me that I might not get a chance like this again.
I close my eyes and try to center myself.
You’re okay. You can do this, Sonya.
At first, it’s my own voice I hear in my head, but quickly, another voice chimes in. One that’s always inside me now.
You’re the best ballerina in this world!
Watching you is like watching magic, darling!
Give it everything you’ve got, and you’ll be unstoppable, baby!
His husky voice layers on top of mine, pouring confidence into my body. It doesn’t matter what’s strictly true or not, my chest expands and I find myself able to move again. I round my arms and hold them low in front of my body. My back is straight and feet are turned away from my hips.
Perfectly aligned, I should be casting my eyes downward. I don’t have a lot of time before the music starts, but something tugs at me. It pulls my gaze forward, past the judges. Past their intimidating blank stares.
I don’t know what I expect to see.
It’s a closed audition.
It doesn’t matter what I want, there’s no way he can be here. It’s impossible for him to be in one of those empty chairs, and yet I’m scanning and scanning, compelled as if pulled by an invisible thread.
The absolute corner of the audience to the right. My eyes go wide and I inhale soundlessly. I don’t think he expected me to notice him. That’s how small and unobtrusive he’s made himself to avoid getting caught.
Across a great distance, he notices me looking. Our eyes connect. A flash of his shocked grin. Then I watch him subtly, yet no less frantically make a series of gestures: an exuberant wave, insistent double thumbs-up, and this small, energetic fist pump.
My muscles unknot.
A deep drag of air expands my lungs.
Only Adrian could make me want to laugh and remind me that whatever happens next won’t define me.
Yes, I’m going to give this performance everything I’ve got and see what happens.
But then, once the dust settles, I’ll keep going.
I’ll find a way to keep pursuing my dream, whatever it evolves into afterwards.
This isn’t my last chance.
It’s a doorway.
Raw notes of music trill out of speakers signaling my start.
My arms raise and I move. There is no warm-up or soft crescendo of rhythm.
Uninhibited by rules, of only following the ballet I was taught for so many years, I strike out with my limbs.
This is me on the stage, who I want to be, a fusion of tradition with feral.
Long arabesques, aggressive fouetté turns, grand jetés starting from the ground up.
It’s messy but also powerful. I’m twisting my classical technique into a rougher organic movement, the ligaments of my back and thighs burning as I crouch and throw myself around. I’m making a statement that if this is the last performance I’ll ever do at this level—this is what they get.
Unencumbered, high-octane thrusting from one step to another, dizzying turns, jarring leaps. I’m baring my teeth as much as I’m scowling, as much as I’m smiling. A gambit of emotions, nothing tidy.
My leg to the roof, I’m spinning endlessly. Then more back and forth, my spine undulating. Leaps upon leaps. Renversé. Pirouette. Piqué turn.
I want to be watched. I want to be understood. My limbs cut through the air, raw and unrelenting, like if I move hard enough, I’ll be seen for what I really am.
And finally, the pulsing drumbeat stops, almost as abruptly as it started. In the last moments, I melt to the ground. As if what was once angrily alive has blinked into a wordless rest. Being imperfect is as important as vulnerability, as hoping to be held.
Silence.
Air whooshes out of my lungs. My routine is over, so I rise back to my feet and walk offstage, trembling and dazed. A look over my shoulder confirms Bob Pepita and his assistants have their heads tucked together and are talking animatedly.
A surreal shock passes through me. Whatever the case, I’ve made an impression. Bad or good, time will tell. My heart is still pounding, but I walk taller now. I left everything I had out there, and nothing else matters.
I’m led to a cooldown area where I can change out of my pointe shoes, drink some water, and layer up again with more clothes.
Other dancers mill around me, but I only chat with them for a few minutes, too impatient to stick around.
My part of the audition is over. I duck outside of the theater and head towards the exit.
Outside the building, my neck cranes, limbs unable to stay still as I search, my feet pushing me forward. At first I’m walking, but then I see him in the distance, having had to exit another way, running towards me, and now I’m running towards him, too.
Somewhere, haphazardly in the middle, we meet, and I’ve already jumped into his arms. One-armed, Adrian catches me and lifts me up, and my legs wrap around his waist.
“Fuck. Sonya—fuck. You were…” He grins. “I couldn’t breathe watching you. I couldn’t look away. And now I can’t even talk right about it—but, baby, it was unreal.”
His voice is strangled and tells me everything I need to know.
I kiss him.
He kisses me and keeps his eyes open the whole time, as if awestruck. I glide my hand through his hair about to slant my mouth even deeper, when I hear my name being yelled by multiple people.
Pulling back I see the crowd coming towards us. I’m in disbelief. Kavi, Quinn, Lokhov, and a few more of the Wings players are holding balloons. Adrian’s family are carrying posters. The one Sid is holding makes my throat stick. It says ‘Barre none, Sonya is the best!’
Adrian puts me back on my feet, so I can be swept up in so many hugs and words of congratulations that I lose track of who is giving them to me.
The back of my eyes prickle, and I’m sighing, this soft almost inaudible sigh as my knees wobble.
I think I might collapse with how much support is flowing around me.
The whole time Adrian stands back and watches, beaming with pride. He’s brimming with it, unable to contain his dimples or stop his eyes from creasing into rainbow shapes or his grin from going full-wattage.
After pulling away from the last hug, my hands are full of balloons, and I go back to stand beside him. His lips brush my temple, and he’s inhaling deeply as if he can’t get enough of me.
I whisper in his ear, “Did you organize this?”
“Everyone wanted to be here, darling,” he says, voice warm and proud. “Because we’re so excited to celebrate you. Hope that’s okay?” His nose brushes along my jaw like he can’t help himself.
My fingers slide into the hair at the nape of his neck. “More than okay.”
“What are you two whispering about?” Kavi asks, winking at me.
“Nothing,” I deny automatically.
Adrian chuckles. At the same time, Quinn steps forward.
“We were watching the live-stream, and I kept thinking to myself that my sister is going to make history. She’s going to be the first South Asian ballerina picked as a principal dancer.
” His hands go up. “No pressure, of course! But that’s how good you were! ”
“You are so cool!” Sid hugs me again.
His sisters and Mom agree, adding in their excitement about my performance.
“How do you feel?” wonders Lokhov, contributing a whopping four words to the conversation as per usual.
My nerves are tingling. I’m sore and basically rendered speechless with all these balloons and posters and words of encouragement and the visible awe. “Good…”
“Say more,” urges Kavi. “We know you don’t love getting emotional, but just a little bit more. Please?”
I glance around, my chest fluttering at how many people are genuinely here for me. “I guess I could say that oddly, I’ve already won, no matter what happens next. That I never thought I would feel this way, but I’m glad I’m here. With all of you.”
“I’m going to cry,” claims Adrian. He’s pulling me against his side, kissing the side of my head repeatedly. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said, Sonya darling.”
I run my fingers over the dark blond stubble across his jaw. “I can’t believe you snuck in to watch.”
He grins, a bit sheepishly. “I didn’t think you’d see me. I didn’t want to be a distraction.”
“You weren’t,” I say confidently. “I wanted you there.”
Our arms are pressed together, so I feel the shiver going through him. “Now, that is the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Not true.” I frown. “I say nice things all the time.” (Maybe not.)
“Tell them to me later, darling.” He waves an arm at everyone. “Alright, compliments for Sonya! I’ve got a hundred locked and loaded, but I’ll let you all go first.”
To my horror, they actually do it. One by one, my friends and family start chiming in. And maybe it’s not so bad because it’s actually sweet, funny, and embarrassingly kind things. Stuff about my strength, my performance, how proud they are.
Pretty soon, Quinn is shouting to save the speeches for his house because he’s planned a whole celebration there. Everyone agrees and starts heading toward their cars.
Adrian and I hang back, going slower, because I’m busy swatting at him. “I can’t believe you started that. You’re impossible.”
He just grins wider, fingers finding mine and lacing them together before I can cross my arms. “You love it.”
We’re still teasing, still bickering, but my body leans toward him without thinking. And in the quiet that settles between one breath and the next, I hear the words in my head like a soft, steady truth.
I love him.
They settle into place.
There’s no resistance. No fear. Just this strange, beautiful calm. Like something in me has stopped fighting and finally said yes.
“Hey,” he says gently. “What’s that face for?”
“Actually…” My voice catches. “I have something to say.”
He straightens, instantly alert, like he can sense this isn’t teasing anymore.
“I think I…” I shake my head. “No, I know I miss you when you aren’t with me.” I take a shaky breath. “And I can’t go a day without thinking about you, which should be insufferable and annoying, but somehow it’s not.”
More words tumble out of me fast. I thought doing this was going to be difficult like it always is, but this time, it’s not.
“You make everything louder, and brighter, and that even if you can’t see it—” I tap my straight mouth.
“Around you, I’m glowing on the inside. Enough to explain why suddenly I’m thinking about hockey and wanting to go to every hockey game I can.
Not that I wasn’t watching you before, because I was.
You’re so happy when you play, and I’m selfish, because I want to be there and watch you be happy. ”
He’s staring at me, absolutely still.
“I want to wear your jersey even if I only prefer the color black. I want you to know I believe in your dreams as if they’re also mine, because now they feel like mine, too.
I want naps on the couch. With Diana because we have a secret relationship, and I can’t wait for me and her to gang up on you.
I want to cook for you even if my food is never going to be as good as yours—” I pause, my hand fluttering against my throat, which is moving up and down so slowly.
“You’ve taken care of everyone in so many different ways, and I want to be there, and find ways that I know I can do to… take care of you.”
He still hasn’t moved. His hands are frozen mid-air, fingers flexing like he’s afraid to touch me and break whatever this is. His body is locked and his eyes are round and overwhelmed.
I cross my arms finally, with determination. “It’s because…” I take a breath. “It’s because I love you. And I know you probably guessed all that already, but I want to be brave enough to say it. So, yeah. I love you.”
Adrian makes a thunderstruck sound. “You love me?”
“Yeah, baby.”
He chokes. “I can’t get over you calling me baby, Sonya.”
A rough, shuddering exhale. The corners of his eyes are pinched as if he’s in pain or so happy that it physically hurts.
“I love you,” I softly repeat. Surprised at how obvious it is, and how little resistance is left inside me. It’s all gone. This is what I was afraid of admitting?
It’s the simplest truth inside me.
A flush deepens across his cheeks as he swallows, still disoriented and blown, like he’s been knocked over by the words. But not for long, because his eyes are darkening and he’s—
Lifts me back into his arms.
Sandalwood, soap, mint.
His scent is intoxicating as it surrounds me, and I’m pressing my face into his neck.
“I love you, Adrian Hughes,” I say again as if he needs to hear it. “And you don’t have to say it back…”
“I’m absolutely in love with you, Sonya.”
I lift my head and press my forehead against Adrian’s, and I use my hands as a shield, so no one else in the world can see, and then I grin at Adrian. He’s grinning back at me, and we stay like that for a full minute before heading to Quinn’s house, so we can join everyone else.
Later, when we’re alone again, Adrian asks me to please say it again.
I do, over and over again. Easily.
I love you.