3. Celeste
Chapter 3
Celeste
T he cone of warm light hugs my body and isolates me in the dense darkness. My chest heaves with exertion and exhilaration. And a dash of anxiety.
My legs scream as I hold myself sideways on a chair, my heels in the air, the final notes of the sultry music fading.
It’s premiere night, but before I let the worry set in, I enjoy the adrenaline from my performance pulsing through my veins.
Lingering in the pose, I surrender to the silence that cloaks the stage for a beat.
The familiar beat when the hard work of the past months culminates in the reward of performing in front of an audience. The beat just before we, on the stage, find out if all the pain, sweat, hard work, fun, creativity, and endless hours of rehearsals paid off.
I close my eyes, my head hanging backward in the sensual pose. In the still moment, the world feels paused, heavy with anticipation. I let out a shaky breath, inhaling the musk of the theater.
And just as a sliver of fear envelops the frantic rhythm of my heart against my ribcage, the applause erupts, washing over me with the audience’s energy.
I jump to my feet, the pain forgotten, as my colleagues join me, and we bow to the people who graced us with their reception and accolades.
“You fucking killed it, darling.” Jose, the male lead, hugs me as we rush to the edge of the stage and bow again.
The applause is deafening and electrifying. I continue the rehearsed curtain call in a daze, while Jose holds my hand, both of us beaming.
Merde, this feels good.
It’s been a year since I almost packed it in and returned to France because I couldn’t get a job. And then, out of nowhere, The Pulse Stage, a small off-Broadway theater, offered me a position, and shortly after, a lead role.
The standing ovations continue for what feels like another half of the night, but eventually we end up backstage .
“I booked the entire bar across the street. Let’s celebrate!” Leon, the lead choreographer, hugs me with a suffocating force.
The changing rooms are a riot, all of us riding on the wave of our success. And as much as I love the spotlight, I also know how important it is to take care of myself after the performance and come down gently.
Because the highs of being on stage need to be managed carefully if I want to avoid addiction, or mental health issues.
But tonight, I might say yes and party to prolong the buzz. To enjoy it. To bask in it.
For once, I can be reckless and revel in my success with abandon.
“The first round of drinks is on me,” Leon shouts from the hallway, and I laugh.
“You must come,” Jose warns.
“Well then, get out of here so I can get changed.” I shoo him away, laughing.
It takes me another hour to shower and change, since backup dancers and other colleagues keep coming up to me, and we hug, laugh, and congratulate each other.
I finally slide into an off-the-shoulder royal blue jumpsuit that falls down my legs in a heap of fabric, resembling a skirt. Most of my female colleagues are in comfy leggings, but that has never been my style .
Combing my still-damp hair, I fasten it into a tight bun and apply some lip gloss.
I’m exhausted, but I can’t skip the party. Bonding with the rest of the crew is important.
And right now, I feel like celebrating. With tonight’s success, my contract here will surely get renewed.
Perhaps over the next few months, I can reopen my dancing studio. Not that I’d be able to teach much with my current rehearsal schedule.
Still, I miss that connection with women who’d come full of doubt, with low self-esteem, who I helped to blossom through dancing. They’d find their confidence, and love their bodies and themselves, and on some level, that’s more rewarding than the spotlight.
The hallway is almost deserted by the time I finally leave my dressing room. Instead of heading for the exit, I can’t help but return to the stage.
The house is empty, the echoes of the night only a ghost now. I love the silence that swallows the theater after everyone leaves.
When I was a little girl, I used to sit in the pulsating darkness while my mom got changed after performing.
I dash across the wooden floor and jump down to sit in a velvet seat in the first row.
Closing my eyes, I let the events of the night settle inside me.
“I miss you, Mom. I wish you could have seen me tonight,” I whisper, tears prickling my eyes.
I give myself a moment to reminisce, and then I leave the sacred place behind me so I can join the festivities across the street.
“Celeste, you’re still here.”
I freeze, groaning internally, but turn with a smile. “Mr. Reinhard, I was just leaving.” And so close to the back door.
The theater director looks at me down his long, crooked nose. He regards me with suspicion, like I’m trespassing here.
The man is a bitter creature as it is, but he’s taken a particular dislike to me ever since I joined the group.
I’m not sure why, and I never tried to investigate. Nobody likes him much, so I’ve never felt like I’m being singled out by his cold behavior.
He approaches me, his hands in his pockets, his lanky legs striding forward with a slight limp.
My heart hammers in my chest as I try to figure out why he’s paying me any attention. He’s been downright annoyed by my existence, so I stayed away, but it’s not like I can turn and run now.
The silence I enjoyed just a minute ago spreads eerily now. We’re probably the only two people still here. The realization coils around my spine, and I step back.
Goddammit. I square my shoulders and raise my chin, hiding my internal freak-out.
“Celeste, you know we’re a small house, and a lot of admin work is on my shoulders,” he says before he stops.
I swallow around the dryness in my mouth, but also to keep the words locked. Because if he didn’t insist on a lot of unnecessary paperwork, he wouldn’t need to complain.
Squashing my remark, I rake my brain for what I might have forgotten to log or sign.
“I still found time to fill out all the tedious paperwork to renew your visa, but I was too late, and you missed the deadline. As of tomorrow, your old visa expires.”
I blink, my shoulders sagging slightly, but I quickly regain my composure and face him with a straight spine.
While my body is trained to perform on demand, my mind is misfiring in many directions.
“But I killed it tonight.”
Yes, that’s what I come up with. Amid losing my job, my ability to stay in Manhattan, my friends, the dream of reopening my school, I point out how well I danced tonight .
The irony of the situation is that I’ve been here already. After Charles van den Linden, Saar’s father, got me blacklisted from work in New York, I almost lost my visa.
This gig saved me. I reminded Reinhard to fill out the paperwork on several occasions. Every single time, he made me feel like I was a nuisance. Merde, I shouldn’t have trusted him.
“That’s beside the point and, frankly, a loss to me that I really don’t appreciate. But the situation stands. I can’t employ you illegally.”
I remain standing like a queen in front of him, forcing myself to postpone my breakdown. I can cry later, when I’m alone. When I can afford to be vulnerable. When I can lose it safely.
“What does that mean?” I really wish my voice came out with the confidence I fake in front of him. Instead, I rasp the words around the desert in my throat.
He huffs, annoyed with me or the situation, I’m not sure which. “Your understudy will have to take over quickly after tomorrow. At least the success of tonight might hopefully secure a sold-out house.”
I blink.
I swallow.
I clear my throat.
None of it delivers any helpful thoughts .
“But I’m sure we can appeal. They must give me a visa if I’m employed here.”
He shrugs. “Look, Celeste, I don’t have time for all the red tape and paperwork, and you’ve been around long enough to know everyone is replaceable. By the time your visa is fixed, we’ll be halfway through this season.”
“But—”
“Spare me.” He raises his hand to silence me. “Come back tomorrow, but you can’t work here afterward.”