Chapter 21
OLIVIA
“Why don’t you try the arm position again without the scone in your hand,” I gently suggest.
This girl, Ginny, is adorable. She’s eleven years old and quite the little English spitfire.
She finishes the last bite of her scone.
Her face is half-covered with strawberry jam and cream, but she’s determined to get her fourth-position arms right.
She wipes her fingers on her leotard and raises one arm up, the other out to the side.
I make a little adjustment to her elbows and hands. “Does that feel better?”
She stares at her reflection. “It feels a bit odd.”
“Yes, it will at first. None of the arm or foot positions are natural, but when you get the form right, you know it, and it looks beautiful.”
She lets her arms fall to her sides and slouches. “It’s really hard.”
“I know. That’s why we have to practice. Always and forever. We all do.”
“I do so want to be in The Nutcracker this year because it’s so pretty, but I find ballet class incredibly boring.”
“Why’s that, do you think?”
She rolls her head and throws her hands up into the air. “So many rules! How can you stand it?”
“Oh, I love the rules. The rules might be my favorite part.”
Ginny scrunches her face up at me. “That’s madness.”
“Madness is what I’d feel if I didn’t have ballet and all the rules in my life, I think.
” I kick off my shoes and go over to the ballet barre to do a basic ballet warm-up.
“You know, I was a pretty emotional child. Ballet was kind of like a beautiful container that I could put all my feelings into. When I didn’t know what to do with the sadness or anger or fear that came up, or even all the good feelings, I could put it into movement.
The structure holds everything, so it doesn’t overwhelm me. Do you know what I mean?”
“No.”
Sighing as I do a tendu combination, I say, “It’s like…the rules of ballet tell me where to put my body when my mind doesn’t know where to go. Life doesn’t come with an instruction manual. Neither do feelings or other people. But I always know exactly what to do with my arms and legs and feet.”
I glance over at her, and I think she’s starting to understand.
“Most of the time, feelings don’t make sense.
Right? You think you feel one way about someone or something one minute, and then you feel the opposite about them the next.
You can love someone and be furious with them at the same time.
You can want something and be terrified of it.
It can be chaotic,” I say. “And feelings, they lie to you. They tell you you’re in love when you’re just infatuated.
They tell you you’re fine when you’re falling apart.
But technique doesn’t lie. Either you can do a fouetté, or you can’t.
Either your positions are clean, or they’re not.
There’s honesty in that. Clarity. I don’t have to wonder or guess or hope.
I just have to execute. And when you learn the choreography of a piece—it’s so relaxing.
There’s an order for everything. You do this, and then you do that, and then everyone does this, and it’s beautiful!
” I look over at her. “Know what I mean?”
“Tell me about your husband,” she says.
“Oh, he’s not my husband. He’s my boyfriend.”
Have I said that out loud yet? It’s weird. It’s weird to say it. I can do the things, but saying the things is…weird.
“He’s terribly hot.”
“I know. I let him get away with a lot because of that,” I say. “It’s a problem.”
“Do you let him do things to your bum?”
“What kind of things?”
“Do you let him put his willy in there?”
“Not yet. I’d need a really nice engagement ring first.”
“Well, now,” says George Merrick from outside the open door of the glasshouse. He turns to John and says, “There’s a lovely jewelry shop in Cheltenham if you’re interested.”
John doesn’t speak to me for the entire twelve-minute drive back to the country house.
He doesn’t look at me when he parks or opens the passenger door for me or unlocks the door to the house.
He’s grumpy and huffy, and he blames me for blowing it with Merrick, and I am so mad at him for being mad at me, but mostly I feel horrible, because it felt so good to be able to help him. And I did blow it. I did the wrong kind of BJ—I did a bad job.
I can’t even make a joke, because it doesn’t feel funny.
I find my duffel bag, stomp over to the nearest bathroom, and change into my warm-up gear.
I’m going to put these feelings into my ballet container.
I open the door and stomp over to the dining room, pull a high-back chair away from the dining table, and use it as a makeshift ballet barre.
I start my ballet-conditioning exercises and feel in control by the time I get to the rond de jambe sequence.
When I hear the sound of a phone vibrating in the hallway right outside the dining room, I know that John is out there watching me. I know even before I hear Merrick’s voice through the phone’s speaker that it’s him because of how quickly John answers.
“I’m interested,” I hear Merrick say. “Email me those photos from the facility in London. Come back tomorrow morning at ten. We’ll discuss further.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll send those right away and see you in the morning. Thank you.”
I continue with my rond de jambe en l’air sequence.
Johnny saunters into the room, still holding his phone. He stands five feet away from me and says, “He’s interested.”
Without looking at him, I say, “I heard.”
“Are you mad at me for being mad earlier?”
“I was, but I’m over it.”
He nods. “I’m sorry I was mad. I wasn’t mad at you.”
“Hmmm.” I port de bras for grande rond de jambe, extending my leg to the front and circle to the back.
I can feel him staring at my legs. I feel very much in control of my body and his right now. This feels right.
“Can I make you dinner?” he asks.
“I don’t know. Can you?”
“I’m going to email Merrick, and then I’m going to heat up something from the fridge. And then I will do whatever it is I need to do to make you happy for the rest of our trip.” He taps the side of his phone against the side of his leg. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
I don’t ask him if he plans to make me happy after we return to San Francisco, because I have to do all the movements I just did on the other side.
And because I’m not ready to face what’s on the other side of this summer.