7. Celeste
Chapter 7
Celeste
T he door closes in slow motion, and in my mind, I can see Caleb walking through the building, probably worried his tailored shoes will catch fungus. Which legitimately might happen, but that’s beside the point.
Snobby bastard.
Do you own this place?
Is it the home I always envisioned for myself? No. But it’s what I can afford, and I made it mine.
I drop to sit on my bed and groan.
I’m angry at Saar for blindsiding me, at myself for always acting on impulse around Caleb, and at him for playing the guardian angel.
When was the first time you saw me?
He caught me off guard with that question. Hurt me, even. Why would he ask that? He’s been pretending it never happened, so what’s his angle?
Asshole.
But as I stare at the closed door, restricted by the size of my apartment, the realization crushes me.
My pride has just cost me my career.
Caleb van den Linden might be the only option to fast-track my visa, and I acted on my feelings.
When around him, I can’t stop feeling less . Like I’m not worthy of his attention. Not deserving of his courtesy. Not good enough.
And that’s not who I am. I am enough. I’m more than enough.
I was always too big to be a ballerina like my mom, but she helped me find my own form of dancing. She believed in me, and I carry that belief in her memory.
But that man makes me question everything. The moment he showed up and looked at this place down his nose, something in me snapped.
You’re not very organized.
Fuck him.
Checking my watch, I soar into action and get ready to leave. My second and last night performing at The Pulse Stage.
I wipe a lone tear from my cheek. The makeup artist will have her hands full today.
I lock the door behind me and double-check that it’s secured. This neighborhood is safe enough, but that doesn’t mean I should take chances.
I check my mailbox on the way out, and stop when my foot kicks something. The entrance doorknob rolls across the checkered floor toward the staircase.
Frowning, I look up and, sure enough, the building’s main door is slightly ajar, the doorknob missing.
“I’ve been calling the super to fix that damn thing.” The house gossip master leans her head down the railing. “The man in the pricey suit—was he visiting you, Celeste?—almost ripped the door off its hinges. Now I better keep watch since it doesn’t close.” She steps on to the landing, her arms folded over her chest.
“I’m sure now they’ll come to fix it faster. Thank you for keeping guard.” I smile, and she returns it with so much pretense I barely stifle a cackle. Instead of subjecting myself to further interrogation, I dash outside.
A boring subway ride later, I trudge through the abandoned alley that leads to the back entrance of the theater. I lift my hand to the door, but stall.
Do my colleagues know about my situation?
Has Reinhard told them already?
Or am I going to face inquiries about my absence last night?
Okay, Celeste, don’t be a sissy. You’re here to perform. Give them your best night .
I push the door open and merge into the familiar commotion. People are running around everywhere. The orchestra is rehearsing in the background. A dancer kisses me on the cheek as she dashes past me, whining about a torn bodysuit.
I make it to my dressing room without much fuss. I guess nobody knows yet. That’s good. I can put everything to the side and focus on dancing.
I share the room with two of my colleagues, and they’re already sitting in front of the mirrors.
“Celeste, where were you last night?” Matilde, the makeup artist, asks.
I put my purse down and rush behind the partition to put on my costume. “I’m so sorry.” I stop myself there because I don’t want to lie. But I can’t say the truth either.
“Was there an admirer who drew you away from us?” Matilde continues, and the other dancers hoot with laughter.
I’m glad I’m hiding, because my face is probably an open book, tears welling in my eyes.
The last time I cried was the day I had to close my dancing school. Before that, at my mom’s funeral.
This is hardly an occasion that matches. And yet the loss is like a lead balloon around my esophagus.
Can I even return to France? Nothing and nobody is waiting there for me. Only sad memories .
My life is here. Maybe not in this theater, but in New York. The city that never sleeps. The melting pot of cultures with such a rich tapestry.
The smell of the sewer and constant traffic delays. Theaters and the whole cultural scene. The congestion and the loud beat of the city. Its vibrant nightlife.
If I marry Caleb van den Linden, I can have it all forever. No more visa renewals, no more dependency. Well, if I don’t count depending on him. But we could divorce, and then I could put it all behind me.
Reopen my school and rebuild my life. And perhaps meet a man who will complete me in the most caring and charming manner.
I walk backward from behind the partition and tap my colleague’s shoulder while clutching the corset to my chest. She pulls at the strings and ties me in.
The only problem with that scenario is that Caleb has probably given up. I drove him away. His only motivation was Saar, and even that wasn’t strong enough. I have nothing to offer him.
You carry yourself with a confidence that is so damn attractive I have to tame the fucking animal in me.
Can I lure the animal? Well, I certainly can, but do I want to? How would that make me feel?
He’s clearly attracted to me, but not enough to treat me with respect. Would one night be enough for him to go through with the marriage ?
I sit in front of the mirror, and Matilde gets to work.
Would I be able to erase it afterward? Would that be using my body to advance my life?
But that’s what I’ve always done. Dancing. Using my body. This would be different, but what would be the downside?
It’s a stupid idea, anyway. Why am I even considering it? As petty as it might be, I can’t stand the fact that he had the last word. That he made the decision not to go through with it.
“You’re quiet tonight. Are we not getting any scoop from last night?” Matilde shoves a pin into my hair, my head jerking to the side.
“Why don’t you tell me how the party was?”
She sprays my hair, then purses her lips while she dabs makeup on my skin. “You should have come. Leon was looking all over for you. It seems the lead choreographer has a little crush on his star.”
I snort. “Was he drinking?” He’ll be losing his star soon.
“Close your eyes.” She expertly smooths eyeliner over my eyelid. “Of course he was, but he was still disappointed by your no-show.”
“Ten minutes,” Leon’s voice carries down the corridor.
“Shit.” Matilde rummages through her makeup case and stops talking, fully focused on the task at hand now.
She finishes with my lips at the same time as Leon’s voice bellows, “Showtime.”
The word has its magical effect, and in the midst of organized chaos, we all lean into our talents and skills and dive into the opening act.
The lights blind me as the first tones fill the house. And just like so many times before, I forget the ordinary to fully immerse myself in my art.
On the stage, there is no visa, no Caleb, no sadness. Only me, the music, and the freedom of movement. Full surrender.
Here, I can be someone else. Not better or worse than in real life. Just me, stripped down to the raw feelings while I portray someone else.
Without words. Without thoughts. Without censorship.
Just my legs and body, moving around with all I’ve got in me. For the audience. For my mom. But mostly for me.
Because every performance is a form of rebirth, the stage pointing a mirror at me, so I can bare my soul and rediscover pieces of myself.
The playful. The broken. The rebellious. The free.
When the curtain comes down, Jose pulls me to him and hugs me tight. “Fuck, we did it again. Even better than last night, chica.”
I swallow around the lump in my throat, tears of joy and regret pooling in my eyes.
The celebration backstage is even louder than the night before, despite yawns from the party or just from general exhaustion.
Leon knocks on the doorframe of our open dressing room. “You were magnificent, but let’s not get over ourselves. Take a break, and let’s meet at rehearsal tomorrow.” His eyes meet mine, and I can’t form a word through the loud echo of my heart in my temples.
“Celeste, don’t forget to pack your things.” Reinhard steps behind Leon, who jumps and pivots so quickly, the theater director almost topples.
“What do you mean, she should pack her things?” Leon’s eyes dart between me and Reinhard.
Reinhard shrugs. “Today was her last day.”
My face heats with the communal gasp that leads to complete silence.
Leon’s gaze stops ping-ponging and lands on me. Fisting my clammy hands, I nod and look down. I can’t bear the disappointment on everyone’s faces. Or relief.
Whatever my colleagues might feel about me leaving, I have enough of my own emotions to bring me down, so I choose to stare at the linoleum as if it’s the most interesting piece of art in the world .
“That makes no sense,” Leon huffs.
Reinhard’s voice makes shivers crawl across my skin. “I can’t employ people illegally.”
“What?” Leon snaps, a confused murmur in the background.
I look up, because hiding in plain sight is not going to fix the situation. I’m letting these people down, and I feel like shit about that, but I summon all my strength to own the fuck-up.
“My visa expired.”
Leon jerks his head. “How is that possible? Have it renewed!”
I hug my arms around my waist. “We missed the deadline.” I glance at Reinhard.
Leon whips his head to the manager, who looks completely unimpressed by all the drama.
“Are you kidding me?” Leon’s words boom around us. He turns to me. “How could you?”
I flinch. “I didn’t realize—”
“You didn’t realize?” Leon flails his arms in the air. “You practiced with us for months, and didn’t care enough to make sure you could actually deliver?”
“Hey, Leon, shut the fuck up.” Jose steps around him. “Obviously she didn’t do it on purpose.”
I look at Reinhard, but he takes no responsibility, even though it belongs to him as much as me, if not more .
The muttering around me is soft, but I still catch the “how could she,” “letting us down like this,” “who will replace her,” and “so irresponsible” comments swirling around.
“Our next performance is in a week. I’ll have it fixed by then. You can terminate my contract officially, so I’m not an employee. Just let me rehearse in the meantime.”
All heads turn to Reinhard. “I doubt you can manage that.”
“I’ll quit if you don’t let her rehearse with us till next Wednesday.” Jose folds his arms across his chest.
“Me too.” Matilda steps forward.
“Me too.”
“Me too.”
Other dancers join in. I stifle a sob. What is happening? I spent months with these people, but never have I expected them to show up for me like this.
Everyone is staring at Leon, who says nothing, but looks at Reinhard.
The theater manager fidgets, his lips in a narrow line as he grinds his teeth. He pins me with an annoyed glare. “You better have a visa next Wednesday.”