Chapter 3
Three
Ronds de jambe: to go around the leg.
Rudy: November
“Miss Margie, look at me!” A kindergartner with lopsided pigtails tugged at the hem of my mom’s cardigan with red apples appliqued on the pockets as we walked through the hall at Hollyberry Ballet School.
The wide hallway was lined with worn wooden chairs for beleaguered parents to wait opposite the large glass windows for each of the studios.
Above the chairs hung rows of photos from prior decades in the school’s storied history.
“Miss Margie, I have a new leotard!” Another pint-sized girl joined the familiar chorus. Everywhere my mother went in this building, adoring children followed.
“Miss Margie, we have a new baby brother at our house!” A taller girl, this one missing a front tooth, stopped us near the front office, accepting a congratulatory hug from my mother before scampering on to class.
“You sure are loved,” I said as I followed her into the office.
A good portion of my childhood had been spent here as well, in strollers and playpens, and later, with stacks of books and games while my mother taught and attended to school business.
The school and ballet company were overseen by a nonprofit foundation committed to keeping ballet alive in Hollyberry, and my mother was as passionate about their mission as ever.
“And I love them all back.” My mom smiled broadly.
It was entirely possible that she’d spent more hours in this building than in the home where she and my dad had lived for thirty years.
The school and ballet company’s older three-story building was part of Hollyberry’s flagging downtown area, opposite the historic theater and near the train station that led into Philadelphia.
An ever-rotating assortment of restaurants and small shops rounded out downtown, which, like the school, had seen shinier, busier decades.
My mother’s love for the school and area, however, was undying.
Expression turning more serious, she leaned against her large, old oak desk.
“In fact, I wouldn’t mind if the halls were fuller. ”
“They will be.” I nodded encouragingly.
My own work area was a newer black particle board desk in the corner.
I picked up a folder from the colorful stack on the edge of my desk.
Withdrawing one of my sample flyers, I handed it to my mom.
“With my plan to involve the public schools in The Nutcracker, more kids will want to take classes in the winter session. In fact, all of the flyers I’m designing for students to take home have information on learning more about classes. You’ll see.”
“I hope.” Mom handed the flyer back to me. She’d continue to fret over enrollment, and I’d continue to do what I could to mitigate that stress. We’d been doing this dance for months, and I was hardly surprised when she added, “And I hope we can fill the seats for the three main shows as well.”
“We will.” I grabbed a different folder and opened it to a shiny pamphlet.
“I’m working on another idea for mailing regular supporters.
I want to sell a limited number of Donor’s Circle tickets for premium seats with extras, including a director’s talk with Tavio and some of the company dancers. Tavio already agreed.”
“Excellent.” Her smile widened, and the tension she’d had as we entered the office seemed to lessen as she took a seat in her padded office chair. “Have you asked Alexander about participating in that, as well as the lecture demonstrations at the schools?”
“Uh. Not yet.” I kept my voice upbeat and not like I was avoiding the guy.
I’d need to talk to him eventually, of course, but I was in no hurry after our awkward meeting at his father’s party.
In contrast to the polite-yet-hurting guy he’d been on the patio, he’d been chilly and aloof, almost hostile, in our formal introduction.
“You should.” My mother sounded exactly like when she was encouraging a reluctant new dancer. “His rehab has progressed, and he’s been giving himself classes in one of the studios, so he’s been around.”
I wasn’t surprised to hear that Alexander was giving himself classes because class was a foundational part of ballet, a daily routine for beginner dancers all the way up to world-famous dancers like Alexander.
“That’s good.” I nodded without committing to a firm plan to contact Alexander.
“I’m sure he’d be happy to help.” My mother was nothing if not persistent.
“I’m sure.” I grabbed the laptop off my desk, snapping it open.
“Have I shown you my spreadsheet for managing all the volunteers this year?” I wasn’t exactly subtle about needing a change in topic, but I was hopeful all my colorful columns would suitably distract her.
“I’ll be sending out a sign-up form to parents, and the form will automatically fill in the spreadsheet. ”
“Brilliant.” Mom was back to that tone she used with the littlest dancers. “Did Helen teach you how to do spreadsheets? She’s such an organizational wiz.”
“No, Mom.” I groaned at the mention of my sister, who had two master’s degrees and worked as a historic preservation architect. She and Waylon had been a tough act to follow. “Four years of college and a half-dozen internships taught me more than a few spreadsheet tricks.”
“Sorry, sometimes I forget you’re a professional now too.” Mom reached up to pat my arm.
“It’s okay,” I said, even though it really wasn’t. But at this point, I was used to my overachieving siblings getting all the credit.
“This looks great.” Mom’s too-optimistic tone made my back tense. “You’ve taken on so much here that there’s not much for me to worry about.”
“That would be the whole point.” I gave her a stern look. Her treatment was over, and the latest scans were promising, putting her squarely in the recovery portion of her journey, but my protectiveness remained.
“Thank you, darling.” She reached up to pat my cheek right as one of the instructors poked her head in the doorway.
“Miss Margie, there’s a light out in the Baryshnikov Studio.
” Angela, the teacher, had a high-pitched voice that went even higher when agitated.
All of our studios were named after famous dancers and figures in the ballet world, and fittingly, Baryshnikov was the largest studio that housed some of the bigger classes.
“My next class is due to arrive any minute.”
“I’m on it,” I said quickly before my mother could volunteer. I set my laptop back on my desk before shaking a finger at her. “And you head on home. I’ve got things here.”
“Don’t you dare say my least favorite four-letter word.” Mom narrowed her eyes.
“You still need rest.” I had no issues telling her to rest, and we’d worked out a schedule where I locked up most nights, allowing her to head home and hopefully relax or at least put her feet up. “Go on. I’ve got a light bulb to change.”
I kissed her cheek on my way to retrieve a new bulb and the long stick gadget we used to change the recessed lights in the ceilings of the various studios.
The building’s age meant generously tall ceilings, especially in the ballet studios, which required twelve-foot ceilings for all the jumps.
Unfortunately, the spacious feeling also meant high heating bills and difficult maintenance.
The gadget we used to change bulbs was fiddly, and it took me a few tries to get the old one out. I was in the middle of attempt three at screwing in the new one when the door opened, and I jumped, nearly dropping the whole apparatus as Alexander Dasher strode into the room.
“Oh sorry.” He looked genuinely contrite, hands up and blue eyes wide. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought the room was empty.”
“Not quite.” I sounded snappy, so I took a breath before trying again. “I’m trying to change this light bulb before the next class.”
“Here, let me help.” Alexander reached for the stick, but I dodged his attempt to take it.
“I’ve got it.” I couldn’t dance on Alexander’s level and lacked his innate charm, poise, and direction, but I could change a darn light bulb.
“All right.” Alexander left me to my work, walking over to the ledge that housed the sound system.
“I accidentally left my headphones here this morning.” He pocketed a high-end brand of wireless earbuds before turning back to me.
“I suppose I should apologize for the misunderstanding the night of my father’s party. ”
“You were hardly the only one to think I was part of the catering staff.” I finally got the new light bulb screwed in and stepped back to admire my work.
“Even so. Apologies.” There was something just this side of flippant to Alexander’s tone that gave me pause. Was he seriously irked that I hadn’t been able to correct him at the time?
“Thank you.” Good manners prevented me from matching his tone. Instead, I stole my mother’s favorite trick of smiling serenely and ignoring potential negativity in favor of relentless positivity and praise. “And we’re lucky to have you for this show. My mom just told me your rehab is going well.”
“I’ll be ready.” Alexander’s voice turned terse, but I refused to let my smile dip.
“I’m sure.” If he could be flip, I could be brightly patronizing. “And as you prepare, I’ve got some additional opportunities for you.”
“Why do I have a feeling it’s more like obligations?” Alexander sighed heavily. “I’m rather busy with my PT regimen, classes, and gearing up for rehearsals with both Cheryl and Victoria.”
“It’s nothing too time-consuming.” I discreetly crossed my fingers around the bulb-changing gadget. “A few lecture demonstrations for area schools to talk about ballet and The Nutcracker. Some promo. A couple of extras the weekend of the performance, like a director’s talk with Tavio.”
“That doesn’t sound like nothing.” Alexander narrowed his eyes, but he wasn’t flat-out refusing.
“I’ll make it as painless as possible.” I widened my smile.
I might lack his charm, but I could be my own brand of convincing when needed.
“And all the extras benefit the school. It’s been a lean few years.
It was a stretch just to sell the board on hiring me to help my mother.
This school is part of her legacy. I—we all—need this show to be a success. ”
The mention of my mother landed as intended. Alexander lost some of his prickliness and nodded curtly. “Send me a text with details.”
“Thank you.” I beamed like he was far more enthusiastic as the door opened to admit Angela and a stream of ten-year-olds. “You won’t regret helping.”
“Here’s hoping.” Alexander stepped closer to the door.
Deciding to take my win, I let him exit. I was indeed hoping for both Alexander’s help and that we could get past whatever weird tension continued to linger between us.