Chapter 7 Arabelle
Arabelle
Los Angeles, California
Three Months Later
“Again, Arabelle!”
The sound of Madame Rostova’s intricately carved walking stick resounds on the concrete floor, perfectly in sync with the music.
Her thick Russian accent fills the air as I catch a fleeting glimpse of her in the mirror.
For the past twenty minutes, she’s been fixated on this section of the performance, her unhappiness apparent in her expression and relentless criticism.
Madame Rostova is an old-school hard ass.
She’s a prima ballerina from the fifties who danced with one of the most elite Russian companies.
I was introduced to her about two years ago through a mutual contact on the ballet circuit, and she’s been my dance instructor ever since.
Almost every day of the week during the offseason, I train at her Los Angeles dance studio.
“Focus on the quality of your movement, Arabelle.” The pounding of her cane echoes again. “Pay attention to details! It’s all in the details! If you aspire to be great, if you aspire to be principal dancer, you need to earn it!”
As I repeat the same motions over and over again, the pressure to meet both her expectations, and my own, becomes overwhelming, causing an intense urge to scream and to rip at my hair.
Earn it! Goddamn it! All I’ve been doing since I was a kid is earning it!
I want to scream, but it would all be in vain.
She’s not here to listen to me complain or argue.
Ever since I started working with her, my dance has seen remarkable improvement.
So, without objection, I push myself, feeling the strain in my muscles.
Harder.
Faster.
Higher.
Perfection is what Madame Rostova wants, and although I know I’m far from perfect, excellence is what I aim for with every jump, with every spin, and with every movement of my body.
While perfection can’t be obtained, in my opinion, it is possible to get close to it.
That’s the story I’ve been telling myself as far back as I can remember.
We’ve been going at it for close to two hours.
I’m okay with practicing because there are always areas I can improve on.
I’m not one of those dancers who believes my ability to captivate an audience comes naturally even though I’ve been told most of my life what I do can only be done by a natural.
A prodigy. But I believe that it only comes through hard work, and it’s something I’ve been working toward since my childhood.
However, no matter how much I love what I do or how much the ability comes naturally, I need a break.
I need a long vacation because, during the offseason, I still have little time to relax.
My mind and body are running on empty, and it’s been that way for a long time, even though I’ve refused to acknowledge it.
I never believed I’d ever get burned out with dance, but I think I’m getting close.
“Keep your core engaged, Arabelle,” Madame Rostova shouts, her frail but stern voice rising above the music. “Yes! Yes! That’s it. Keep going. Sauté.”
Her instructions infiltrate my thoughts. Following her direction, I leap off both feet and gracefully touch down on both feet again before transitioning into a jeté, where I leap from one foot and land on the other.
“Perfect! Beautiful! Beautiful!”
She claps her hands, and then the music comes to an abrupt halt. I come to a standstill as well.
“That is it for today.”
Placing my hands on my hips, I take deliberate, deep breaths, allowing the air to enter my nostrils and exit in long, controlled exhales to calm my racing heart.
I shake out the tension from my legs, feeling a sense of relief washing over me.
They burn along with my lungs, and my body’s drenched in sweat, but I had a pretty good practice. I’m definitely getting better.
“You’re almost there, Arabelle,” Madame Rostova says, her stoic face never changing. “You need a little more work. A little more discipline, and you’ll be there.”
I want to roll my eyes at her statement. Almost there? What the hell do I need to do to get there?
There’s no point in arguing, so I just nod my head in agreement. “Thank you, Madame Rostova. I will keep working on it.”
“Bright and early tomorrow, Arabelle.”
She doesn’t wait for a response as she hobbles out the door of the dance studio toward her office. She knows I’ll be here on time.
Like always.
Since I became a part of the dance company a few years ago, it’s been nonstop for me. Training, rehearsals, photoshoots, and shows. Then I do it all over again. It’s not like I hate it. I actually love it, but it gets tiring and lonely.
Lonely more than anything else.
I walk around the room as I try to decompress. I’ve been going without a break for the last few months, and my calendar is full for the rest of the year except for the couple of days I have lined up to go home. It’s the grueling life I chose. It’s the grueling life I love.
I take another deep breath and then take a drink of water from my water bottle before I pack up. I slide on my sweatpants, sneakers, and pull my long-sleeve shirt over my head.
In a few hours, I have to do another photoshoot for one of the top African American publications in the country because everyone believes I’ll be named my company’s first Black principal dancer. I’ve been trying not to get my hopes up, but it’s hard not to. It’s a big step in my career.
Despite the excitement for the photoshoot, I want to rest before I have to head to the studio. Then, I’ll have practice for the next few weeks with no events scheduled before I go home to New York for a few days.
I wasn’t looking forward to going home because I know when I get there, I’ll wish I was somewhere else.
My family can be the most draining part of my life.
The only reason I am going back is because memories of my mom help me recharge, and being there helps put everything in perspective, which is what I need at the moment.
With my bag slung over my shoulder, I step out of the dance studio and onto the bustling streets of Los Angeles.
Even though I’m not a fan of crowds, there’s something about this place that I absolutely love.
It’s my home for only a portion of the year, as it serves as my training ground during the offseason.
The rest of the year, when I’m not traveling for work, I live in my New York apartment during the dance season, much to the disappointment of my father.
His insistence that I live under his roof isn’t driven by genuine concern for my well-being as a single woman in the city.
Rather, it stems from his desire to have power over me.
Have control over my financial situation.
Which is why I have my own place and have no financial ties to him.
When my career started to gain momentum, I left my home at fifteen, motivated partly by a desire for distance from my sisters and father. It was the best move I’ve ever made. Even though I still have to deal with them, it would be so much worse if we lived together.
The weather is a balmy seventy degrees, which is one of the reasons I chose Los Angeles over New York during the offseason. I want to be able to relax in the sunshine instead of the cold weather.
I wish I had the time to relish the beautiful day and enjoy the warm sun kissing my skin and the gentle breeze tousling my hair. But duty calls.
Walking from Madame Rostova’s studio to my apartment building takes just around twenty minutes. Earl, my doorman, greets me with a warm smile as he opens the door, and I wave at him in return. Then I make my way to the bank of elevators.
“There are never enough hours in the day,” I mumble as I press the elevator button and wait for the doors to open.
Usually, I opt to take the stairs to give my legs an extra workout, but today, I just don’t have the energy. I wouldn’t make it up the first flight before I would start to cramp up.
Madame Rostova has been demanding more of me during this offseason.
She insists it’s the only way I’ll make principal dancer when the season starts in September.
She’s an expert with over forty years of experience, so I’ll do whatever I have to do to achieve a dream I’ve been chasing since I was a little girl.
The doors to the elevator slide open, and I step in, feeling the cool, smooth surface of the walls against my fingertips as I take a deep breath. I wish I could stay inside for the day, watch TV, or read a book and just relax. But wishing is for fools.
When I reach my floor and the elevator doors open, I toss my bag over my shoulder again and step out. However, as soon as I reach my door, Mrs. O’Donnell’s door creaks open. It’s like she has an Arabelle radar that alerts her, so she knows exactly when I’m coming or going.
With a deep breath in and a long exhale, I gather my composure and plaster a smile on my face as I approach my elderly neighbor. She’s a widower in her late eighties, and her large tabby cat named Gertrude is just as ornery as she is.
I know she doesn’t mean any harm, but she’s incredibly nosy and insists that my boyfriend is secretly coming in and out of my apartment.
She keeps warning me I need to make him stop before she reports it to the apartment manager, concerned that I’m violating the lease agreement.
News flash—I have no boyfriend and haven’t had a boyfriend since high school, and that only lasted a few weeks.
“Mrs. O’Donnell, it’s so nice to see you again. How are you doing today?”
Even though it isn’t nice to see her, I make sure I remain respectful.
“That boyfriend of yours was here again today while you were out, Arabelle.” She grasps Gertrude tighter as Gertrude tries to wiggle out of her arms. “You know if he’s not on the lease, he’s not supposed to have a key.”