2. Octavia #2
Mr. Marlins is dressed in that three-piece suit he always dons at the studio.
The additional layers of dark fabric give his form a predatory air.
Similar to Irina, the company’s director had his own illustrious career within these studio halls.
A renowned choreographer, he only spends half the year working in-house with our company.
I wish he’d come back even less than he does.
Ice floods my body, hissing against the hot anger that always lingers in my chest.
Backtrack, Octavia. Apologize.
“M-Mr. Marlins,” Irina stammers, rushing over. Her cane cracks against the marley. “I didn’t know you’d be coming by so—”
“Did you think that was funny?” His cold words cut through the air like a harpoon, landing in my exposed flesh. I shudder through the invisible injury.
“No, sir.”
I try to pull the defiance from my tone, but it clings on like a relentless weed. Eat your pride, Octavia. You know he loves it when you plead.
The director’s head tilts, an animal playing with its prey. His hands fold into loose fists, and I hate myself for the tiny step back I take. I should apologize. I should…
But I don’t.
I might as well have spit on his shiny leather shoe.
“You’ll dance corps tomorrow night.”
Five words. He doesn’t raise his voice, but it crackles in my ears nonetheless.
“Mr. Marlins, with respect,” Irina begins.
“The decision is made. Put her in the back row. Honestly, Octavia, I have no idea what makes you act out like this, but it won’t be rewarded. Not in my company.” He turns to my alternate, hovering just a few steps behind. “You. Purple leotard. You’ll take the principal role tomorrow.”
I look down, focusing on the white rosin scuffs on the floor.
The nausea returns, but my stomach doesn’t realize there’s nothing to throw up.
This can’t be happening. The room rearranges around the new reality.
Leg warmers come off. A fresh-faced girl walks to Connor’s side with a jaunt in her step.
When I finally look up, an old pair of eyes is watching me through the mirror. Irina only crosses over to me when Marlins disappears into the hall. I track her approach in the glass, cane tapping the floor with each step.
We’ve never talked about the report I made all those years ago.
I was so angry when she buried the incident and allowed those men to move on with their lives unscathed.
How dare she protect them, I thought with fury.
She was my teacher, not theirs. We spent more time together than I had with any foster parent or child advocate.
These days, I see the nuance. She was protecting me, too, in her own way.
No one wants to work with a difficult woman.
At the Manhattan Ballet Company, there are none more difficult than I. Once the label is applied, it doesn’t scratch off with a few months of good behavior.
The studious woman probably knows me better than anyone else in my entire life.
What a pathetic sentiment. She was the one who scouted me out in that beginner’s ballet class I snuck into at twelve and brought me to the academy under scholarship.
The rest of the girls had already been studying for years, so she gave me private lessons each week to catch me up to my peers.
Maybe that’s why I bear the shame and wait for her words in the center of the room.
For a moment, I think she might actually say something worth hearing.
“Be here at six,” she informs me. “Corps call is before principals.”
That’s all. She turns away.
I cross to the back of the room and tug off my pointe shoes, fingers working the ribbons on autopilot as the music starts up. I don’t let myself watch. I see my hands instead. The frayed ends of my ribbons. They fall into my bag a moment before the zipper rips shut.
I make it all the way to the stairwell before I stop to press my damp forehead against the cool concrete.
My knee pulses in pain, but the rhythm is so steady, so metronomic, that I find comfort in its consistency.
Every night, people stand and roar when the lead dancer takes her bow.
They don’t see a piece of trash, discarded before it could even form a word.
They see years of discipline. Someone they can respect…
“Excuse me,” a soft, high voice whispers from behind.
I swipe my cheeks, ensuring they’re dry before I turn.
Though I don’t know her name, I recognize the small girl immediately.
She’s been standing behind me at barre for the past few weeks.
One of the new hires for the upcoming season, she couldn’t be more than eighteen.
I nicknamed her Bambi in my head because of her eyes, big and brown and carrying that particular shade of fear that never quite leaves.
“Yes?” I snap, ashamed to allow such a public breakdown through the cracks. She flinches back half a step, retreating toward the door.
“Uh…I’m sorry to bother… n-never mind,” she stammers, shaking her head.
“What is it?” I ask again, softer. I don’t remember exactly when people started avoiding me. It was a gradual effect that began trickling in around the time of the incident.
“Ms. Allen kicked me out of class.” Her voice lowers to a nearly imperceptible whisper. “I’m not allowed back in until my hair meets company standards.”
I glance up, inspecting the frizzy curls escaping her bun. They’re rather cute, but Allen is infamous for her visual critiques. That woman probably goes through a can of hairspray each day.
It’s the girl’s eyes that stop me from muttering an excuse and slipping away. Big, manipulative Bambi eyes that wobble up to me like I’m the final person she’ll ask for help. My hands dig through my bag in silence, pulling free a can of spray and my tin of pins.
It’s difficult to keep track of the new hires during this time of year.
The studio’s revolving door never stops swinging in the winter season, a testament to how fast this atmosphere breaks down our bodies.
The director pays no heed. Why keep around something damaged when they have a veritable cornucopia lined up outside to replace us?
Thinner. Younger. Meeker.
I remove the loose pins from her coarse, brown hair before smoothing it back into the high pony Ms. Allen loves so dearly. The girl stays perfectly still at my feet as I pull and tuck the tendrils.
“I’m looking forward to watching you tomorrow,” she suddenly says. “The role is perfect for you. No one else can move as fast as you without losing control.”
I hum, letting the unfortunately timed compliment wash over me. “You move pretty quick, too, you know,” I murmur back. “You just have to quit looking down so much. They take you for granted because you look so scared all of the time.”
Or maybe they prefer the fear over whatever look I’ve worn on my face for years. I only ever get chosen to play the destroyed heroines.
Odile in Swan Lake.
Nikiya in La Bayadère.
Giselle. Manon. Carmen.
“You’ve been watching me?” She gasps, trying to turn her head back. I hold it steady, securing another pin into her hair.
“I watch everyone,” I respond simply. “It’s good to know which direction the threats are rolling in from.”
She turns, studying me for a moment. I take the opportunity to examine her, as well.
We may all have to weigh the same, but that doesn’t make us uniform, despite the director’s wishes.
Her figure is even lither than most, but her cheeks are round and lovely in a way that betrays her youth.
I don’t want them to thin out like mine.
“You know, I was just thinking you weren’t as crazy as people say. Then you had to go and say something like that.”
I huff out a breath. They might keep their distance, but I’m all too familiar with what names the others call me. She picked the most tame iteration. I do find it curious that she watches me, of all people.
“Crazy is an outfit, Bambi.” I wind the last curl into place with a pin. “I just throw it on when the situation calls for it. I suggest you find your own version if you want to survive this horrible career.”