Chapter 11
Eleven
Croisé: a position where the legs appear crossed from the perspective of the audience.
Alexander
“You’re late.” Tavio studied me critically as I entered the studio for our scheduled morning rehearsal.
“Never.” I’d sooner walk in naked than be late for any rehearsal, a habit born from years of working with fussy directors. I had, however, dallied finishing up class, waiting until the hallway was sufficiently clear before making my way to the other studio. “On time, perhaps.”
It was Monday of Thanksgiving week, three days after I’d kissed Rudy.
I was rapidly becoming an expert at avoiding him in the halls at the ballet school.
If I missed seeing his face, well, that was on my own stupid self for kissing him.
I could blame the kiss on the moonlit walk or the high of winning at game night or my long dry spell, but in truth, I’d had an inconvenient attraction to Rudy from the start for reasons that baffled me.
He was younger, geekier, and less connected to the professional ballet world than my usual type, yet those dimples and big brown eyes kept drawing me in until I’d been powerless to resist.
And now I was stuck slinking around in a foul mood, best kiss of my life on repeat in my brain, and not nearly focused enough on the upcoming performance.
“We need to discuss your variations.” Tavio pursed his lips as if he could sense my distractibility. He’d blocked out this rehearsal time before Victoria was due to arrive to work on my solo, and my back stiffened in anticipation of his next question, “How is the knee?”
“It’s fine.” We had around two weeks until tech week, and the time had arrived for deciding whether I’d do the standard variation I’d used for years with this choreography or if I’d need to adjust and water down the elements.
According to my medical team, my knee was structurally sound with impressive progress in regaining my strength and mobility.
Zero reason for any doubts at all, yet sweat gathered at the back of my neck.
“Fine? Or good?” Tavio prodded, expression as serious as my tone. It might be a holiday week with the schedule at the ballet school in disarray, but Tavio was elegant as ever in a crispy ivory shirt and black pants. “I’d prefer splendid or never better, honestly, but I’d take good.”
“It’s good.” I discarded my warm-ups—a sweatshirt and track pants—onto a chair in the corner of the studio.
My muscles remained warm and loose from my earlier class, so I easily launched into the choreography.
Each movement felt like an old friend, an intimacy born of years of repetition.
The morning sun streamed in through the window, nature’s own spotlight for my demonstration. “See?”
“I see.” Tavio nodded slowly, but he didn’t sound entirely convinced. “No pain? Even with landing?”
“No pain.” I went into a series of jumps, more old friends, but there was a new distance between me and the movement, the barest of strain.
“Hmmm.” Tavio’s thoughtful noise revealed he’d noticed the same minute hesitation I’d been fighting against for weeks now. “But I can see you thinking, Alexander. Overthinking.”
“Apologies.” My voice turned formal, but my old mentor was having none of my brush-off.
“Don’t apologize.” He shook a long finger at me. “I rehabbed my share of injuries too. If you’re tight, maybe you need a little more time to get your mobility back—”
“I’m not tight.” I shook my head. I wished it were as simple as a few more stretches or exercises added to my routine. “All the therapists at PT rave about my range of motion.”
“Ah.” Tavio put a hand on my shoulder, his knowing tone making me tense. “Doubts then. If you let fear take hold, the performance will suffer.”
“I know.” My long groan reflected the weight of my nearly three decades of dancing experience. “I’m not afraid.”
“Of course you are.” Tavio made a clucking noise, his sympathy almost worse than if he’d turned harsh and demanding. “The risk of reinjury isn’t nothing. Your career is on the line. You’re terrified. Who wouldn’t be? But you can’t let the fear stop you.”
“I’m not.” My tone took on a stubborn edge. I would dance the Cavalier. I would return to Seattle and to the stage.
Fear would not win, even if I did lie awake most nights thinking about reinjury, replaying the initial injury, turning over other, increasingly dire ways I could hurt myself.
But more than all those doubts, more than fear, was my unquenchable desire to get back on stage.
The long layoff had only cemented for me that there was nothing else on earth I’d rather be doing.
Kissing— My brain rudely tried to interrupt, and I shut down that line of thinking with an audible growl that made Tavio frown yet again.
“We would be fine with an easier variation—”
“I would not.” I gave him my most regal stare, the one that dared him to object.
“All right. Again then.” Tavio motioned with his hand. “Make me believe.”
I attacked the variation again, each arabesque and jump, every take-off and landing, no element too small for my attention to perfection.
Distant young laughter sounded from the hallway, and I used the noise as fuel, tapping into my past memory of how easy this choreography could feel, jumps included.
“Closer,” Tavio said as I finished. His praise was scant, but his expression had relaxed considerably, sparkle returning to his eyes and his smile coming more readily. “Take a breather, and we’ll go again.”
I strode to where I’d left my warm-ups, along with my water bottle and phone.
I kept my phone on silent for rehearsal lest I catch Tavio’s wrath, so unsurprisingly, a stack of new messages greeted me.
My Seattle director wanted to set up a time to talk about my readiness for the Valentine’s weekend performances.
A pit of dread opened in my stomach, but I replied nevertheless.
Too many others were waiting in the wings if I faltered.
My dread only increased as I flipped to a series of messages from my mother about Thanksgiving, culminating in the most dire of warnings.
Just a reminder about the guest list for Thursday, darling. The whole Cole family is joining us because I didn’t want Margie to have to cook this year. I’ll need your help with chairs and setup.
Cole family. That likely included Rudy. Darn it. The one day this week that I was hoping to completely avoid him. I could hardly explain my reluctance to my mother, however, so I replied with a brief of course and left my discomfort for me to deal with privately, later.
I flexed my legs, preparing for the next run-through, but before Tavio could summon me, Kitty burst into the studio.
“My life is over.” She flopped down on the chair next to my things, eyes wide and hair more wild than usual. Unlike her stately father, she wore a mismatch of colors—red sweater, purple-and-yellow leggings, and brown furry legwarmers.
“Good morning to you as well, Katherine,” Tavio greeted her dryly. “Somehow I figured with no school for Thanksgiving week, you might sleep in.”
“No time for sleep.” Kitty waved both hands. “The costume committee needs me. Even if my mortal existence is compromised.”
“I’m sure whatever has arisen is fixable,” her father soothed.
“Marcus asked me to the winter formal.” Kitty delivered this proclamation with the gravity of reporting a power outage.
“I see. He is a friend, yes?” Tavio continued his calm tone. “A good one, I thought?”
Kitty refused to be placated. “Yes, he’s a friend. Exactly. A friend.”
“Why not tell him you would rather go as friends?” I made the suggestion easily, having been in similar pickles before. “He may be a little disappointed, but you can suggest going in a group with other friends.”
“Because I don’t want to go with him.” Leaning all the way back in the chair, she gave a sigh dramatic enough to risk toppling the chair. “I want to go with—”
The chair gave a precipitous wobble as the door opened to admit Victoria, who was wearing warm-ups and carrying her dance bag.
“Victoria.” Tavio greeted her warmly, not trying to hide his obvious relief at her arrival. “Please, console Kitty.”
“What’s wrong?” Victoria hurried to Kitty’s side.
“Nothing.” Expression bleak, Kitty hefted herself out of the chair and strode out of the room. “I should get to work.”
“I need to go after her.” Victoria offered Tavio and me an apologetic look. “I’ll be right back.”
“Take your time,” Tavio said generously. She left the room, and he ran a hand through his hair. “Save me from teen drama. Parenthood is not for the faint-hearted.”
“So I’ve heard.” Eager not to inadvertently end up discussing my single status, I returned to our earlier conversation. “How did you know you were ready?”
“For parenthood?” Tavio frowned, mind evidently still on Kitty’s dilemma. “One is never ready. But we were getting older, a sort of now or never moment, and we chose the now. No regrets.”
“I meant coming back from injury.” Unlike Tavio and Irina, who’d had a clear plan for life after performing, including children, I didn’t like to think about what would come later for me. Retirement was a hazy someday I refused to dwell on.
“That too. Now or never.” Tavio gave a sharp nod. “At a certain point, you either go for it, despite your doubts, or you admit time has finally won.”
“Never.” I made my voice firm, pushing down my own set of fears. If Tavio could do it, so could I.
“Exactly.” The pride in his smile made my shoulders lift as he continued, “And for me, I was determined to go out on my terms. Irina called me stubborn, but I had this vision of us retiring together, dancing off into the sunset.”
“And so you did.”
“And so we did.” His expression softened even more. “No regrets.”
Naturally, the source of my recent regret chose that moment to knock at the door.
“Come in, please.” Tavio waved Rudy into the studio. “What’s one more interruption in our morning?”
“Sorry.” Rudy’s gaze passed over me to land on Tavio, but not before he blushed, as visibly awkward as I felt inside. “I needed to catch you both, and since I saw the girls in the hall, I thought now might be an okay moment.”
“It is not terrible,” Tavio allowed.
“I sent out a press release about the performance. We actually got a nibble from a reporter at a local TV station. She wants to come by Monday and ask some questions, maybe get some rehearsal footage. If she does a piece on us, the exposure could really help ticket sales.”
“I am sure.” Tavio nodded, whipping out his phone to make a note. “Send me the details, and Irina and I will accommodate her visit.”
“Thank you.” Rudy turned back to me. He licked his lower lip, more a nervous gesture than anything seductive, yet the memory of the kiss slammed back into me. “And you? Will you help with the reporter?”
“Of course.” It was the only possible response, even if I’d rather agree to anything but. And Thanksgiving loomed, another forced interaction with the one person I was desperate to avoid. What a mess of my own making.