Chapter Six Allegra #2
I’ve had an entire lifetime of treating my body like it exists purely for ballet’s sake.
I don’t know how to think any differently.
I don’t know that I want to think any differently.
I’m so close to getting everything I’ve worked my whole life for, it doesn’t seem like now is the time to switch off that part of my brain.
Still, I am nothing if not a good student, so I spend most of my Tuesday morning company class thinking of something quick and easy I could do to find a moment of pleasure, something I can accomplish before meeting Cord tonight.
A bath is out since my apartment isn’t big enough for a tub. And I know myself well enough to know I have a lot more work to do on my mind before I can think about food as anything other than fuel for dancing.
I could go get a pedicure, but my feet are a mess and I know I would spend the entire time apologizing to the nail technician for having to deal with my battle-worn toes.
Lucy and I sit together over lunch and I decide to ask her for her input, as she seems like the kind of person who lets herself feel joy whenever she damn well pleases.
“If you had to do something this afternoon solely for the sake of finding pleasure in it, what would you do?”
Her hand freezes, fork full of pasta halfway to her mouth. “Are you asking me about getting myself off? I’m not opposed to sharing secrets, but I didn’t know we were that kind of friends, Allegra.”
“Haha.” I wad up my napkin and throw it at her. “That’s not what I mean at all. I just mean something simple. Something not dance related. Something to just bring yourself some joy.”
She shrugs. “I’d probably get myself a latte and stroll around one of my favorite bookstores.”
“Hmm. That could work.” I don’t really like reading, never really had the time for it outside of finishing whatever books were required for my homeschool credits, but it doesn’t sound like such a terrible way to spend the afternoon.
Lucy sets down her fork on her plate. “What do you mean that could work? Work for what?”
My cheeks flush because the last thing I want to do is tell one of my colleagues that I’m being tutored by a stripper to prep for an audition.
On the other hand, I need to tell someone, and Lucy is not the kind of person who would judge me.
“So the other night I went to see that Six Pact show, for my sister’s bachelorette party. ”
Her eyes light up. “Fuck yes, I love that show! Ohmygod please tell me you got a lap dance from one of those superhot hunks and it led to you exchanging numbers and now you’re meeting up to have a torrid affair.”
“Um, no. Not exactly.”
“Darn it. I was hoping to live vicariously.” She goes back to eating her pasta. “Okay, so you went to Six Pact and…?”
I cut up my grilled chicken breast into tiny pieces so I don’t have to make eye contact. “Well, I did talk to one of the dancers after the show, but not for hookup purposes. I asked him if he would help me work on some things I need to improve before the auditions.”
“What is a dancer from Six Pact going to teach you that you aren’t learning in class here, or don’t already know?”
“How to be sexy,” I mumble, shoving a bite in my mouth in the hopes the words get lost.
She sets her fork down again, this time with purpose. “Who the hell gave you the impression that you aren’t sexy already?”
“Who do you think?” I can see Lucy is building up to go on a tirade, so I keep talking before she gets the chance to butt in. “Anyway, one of the things he told me to do was to stop thinking about my body as merely a tool for ballet and start thinking about it like a vessel for pleasure.”
“Did he use those exact words, vessel for pleasure?” She waggles her eyebrows.
“Lucy, you are not helping.” I pick at my chicken, wishing it had an ounce of flavor to make it even slightly palatable.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. So you need to find something that brings you pleasure and has nothing to do with dance?”
I nod, wondering if I look as hopeless as I feel.
“Well, what are your other hobbies?”
“I don’t have any hobbies. Ballet is my whole life.”
Lucy closes her eyes in exasperation. “That is the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” She pats my hand. “Okay, if hobbies are out, is there some place you like to go and visit? Some place that brings you peace?”
I spear a piece of spinach from my salad. “You’re going to laugh at me.”
“Highly likely.” At least she’s honest.
“I love to go to Times Square.”
Lucy visibly gags, and I can’t really blame her. Lucy moved to New York as a teen, but I’ve been here my whole life and I should know better.
“I know, I know. It’s gross. It’s full of tourists and reeks of capitalism and it’s everything that’s wrong with the city.”
“Yes, and?”
I shrug. “There’s just something about it. I go there when I feel lonely. You never have to be alone in Times Square.”
“Shit, it’s kind of poetic when you put it like that.” She wipes her mouth daintily with her napkin. “Sounds like you’ve got your after-rehearsal plans then.”
“I guess so.”
And so, even though I’m not totally sold on the idea, once ballet obligations are done for the day, I hop on the crowded subway, get off at 42nd Street, and make my way into the throngs of people clogging Times Square.
It’s evening, dinnertime, right before the night’s shows are set to begin, so the streets are teeming with tourists.
There’s lots of pointing and posing with creepy characters and guys asking if I want to go to a free comedy show.
It’s some New Yorkers’ version of hell, but I can’t help but feed off the frenetic energy.
I treat myself to a nonfat decaf latte and find a spot at one of the spindly red tables in the center of the action, where I settle in to play my favorite game: tourist or New Yorker.
For the New Yorkers, how long have they been here—less than five years, five to ten years, or lifers?
Particularly in this location, it’s usually an easy game to win. But sometimes people surprise you.
I take a photo of my latte sitting on the table, the bright lights of Times Square in the background, a kaleidoscope of colors competing with the sunset. First, I send it to Cord, then I post it on my Instagram while I wait for his response, sure that it’s going to be ninety percent mocking.
Cord: Cutting it a little close, aren’t we?
Okay, so mocking, but not in the way I expected it to be.
Me: My schedule isn’t exactly filled with free time. And besides, I got it in before the deadline, that’s all that matters.
Cord: See you in a couple hours, Slippers.
I send him the pointe shoes emoji.
Checking the time on my phone, I make a plan for the best use of the two hours until my lesson with Cord.
I’m closer to his neighborhood than I am to mine, which means it wouldn’t make sense to go all the way home, only to turn around and head right back.
I had planned on showering and changing, but what would be the point of that if I’m just going to be dancing more?
Surely I don’t need to make myself pretty and fresh for Cord Donovan.
So going home is out.
But as much as I’m enjoying my little New York City respite, I don’t want to stay here for two more hours.
I send the text before I let myself think on it too much.
Me: Since I’m already in your neck of the woods, did you want to go grab dinner somewhere?
I immediately regret it, mostly because who under the age of forty says “neck of the woods”? Also because there’s a good chance he’ll read that and take it the wrong way, like I’m asking him out on a date, which I definitely am not.
Cord: I would love to, but I’m actually in a rehearsal right now. Got a new guy joining the show this weekend.
Cord: You’re welcome to come to the theater if you want. We can walk over to the studio together after.
Me: Are you going to make him give me a lap dance?
Not that it matters, I’m already hoisting my dance bag over my shoulder and tossing my empty coffee cup in a nearby trash can.
Cord: Probably.
Cord: Don’t worry. It won’t be as good as mine.
Me: I’ll be the judge of that.
I’m already a couple of blocks closer to the Six Pact performance space when my phone rings. I answer it without looking at the screen and immediately regret it.
“Sweetheart. Did I see that you’re in Times Square?”
I hold back the sigh, but just barely. “Yes, Mom. I just stopped for a quick cup of coffee.”
“What are you doing all the way downtown? Shouldn’t you be in rehearsal?”
Forget it. I let the sigh free. “Rehearsals are done for the day. I’m actually taking some extra classes to help me prepare for an upcoming audition and the studio’s in Hell’s Kitchen.”
She perks up. “Extra classes? That’s what I like to hear. As long as nothing you’re doing is going to interfere with David’s methods.”
David’s methods can go fuck themselves, I think, but would never dare dream of saying, especially not to her.
“It’s not interfering with anything, Mom. In fact, I’m just arriving at the studio. I’ll call you later.”
“Okay, sweetie. Let us know if you need help paying for these new classes. You know your father and I are happy to give you whatever you need for ballet.”
It’s a generous offer, and one I’ll probably need to take her up on, but for the moment, I shrug it off.
I lie to her and tell her I don’t need money before disconnecting the call and shoving my phone in my jacket pocket.
I’m still in the clothes I pulled on before leaving the ballet studio, sweatpants pulled over my tights and a light jacket blocking out the early-spring evening chill, and I’m starting to rethink my choice not to go home and change.
But it’s too late now. Besides, it’s not like I need to impress Cord Donovan. I don’t care what he thinks anyway.
I keep repeating the lie to myself, over and over, until I reach the theater, my stomach fluttering as I pull open the heavy door, knowing Cord waits on the other side.