Chapter 1
CURTAIN CALL
Clara
I stand backstage, waiting for my cue to go on, butterflies of anticipation twirling in my stomach. I’m not nervous that something will go wrong, like I used to be when I was young. No, now, I’m just excited, and I know the second I step onto that stage, my performance will take over. It’s the best feeling in the world, one I still pinch myself over. This really is my life. All my childhood dreams came true.
Well, almost.
I worked my way up from the corps de ballet to being a soloist for the American Ballet Company, that much closer to fulfilling my ultimate goal of being a principal. Granted, it hasn’t been easy. The dance world is highly competitive, with a dark edge I wasn’t expecting. Not everything is fair—roles and rank aren’t always based on talent. Sometimes, it’s who a dancer’s family knows or how much money they donate. Then, there are those willing to sleep to the top. It’s awful and I hate it, but unfortunately, it’s the way things are around here.
“You ready, Clara?” my friend Gabby whispers at my side. We met at ABC’s summer intensive when we were in high school, assigned randomly as roommates, and we’ve been best friends ever since. Our careers have been on the same trajectory: we’ve worked our way up together, a shoulder to lean on when I needed to cry and a friendly face when I needed a smile Gabby is one of the most gorgeous humans I’ve ever seen, with creamy brown skin and dark, curly hair. She has these big, bright brown eyes and incredibly long eyelashes I can’t help but enby. She’s making waves for being a successful black ballerina, and I couldn’t be more proud to be her friend.
Tonight, we’re performing together, a variation from the classical ballet Raymonda for the opening of our fall season. It’s a classical Russian ballet based on the medieval tale of a countess torn between her love for a dashing knight and a mysterious chieftain amidst an Arab siege. Gabby and I are in the daydream pas de trois along with another dancer we both cannot stand to be around— Emily. While a talented dancer, Emily doesn’t believe in making friends unless she thinks it’ll help her work her way up. She realized early on that Gabby and I were her competition, so she didn’t bother even pretending. She’s just always been a bitch.
I nod my head to Gabby, my fingers twitching in anticipation. We help each other check our headpieces and make sure our pointe laces are secure. “The audience seems on fire tonight.” There’s nothing better than an electric crowd that gives you back as much energy as you’re pouring out on stage.
“I know, I love nights like this. Have you seen Emily? She should be in place on the other side by now,” Gabby asks.
“No, I haven’t,” I sigh, frantically looking through the sea of dancers for her familiar, platinum blonde hair. “I swear, she does this just to stress us out.” I’ve tried so hard to be nice to Emily despite her attitude, and never once have I felt like she actually cared about anyone other than herself. Her current plan seems to be cozying up to our director, and it’s working. Based on all the company gossip, no one thinks she should have gotten this role, but rumor has it, she’s his new favorite pet. I try to ignore all the petty gossip, but it wouldn’t surprise me if it were true.
“I’ll go see if I can find her. We’ve got about three minutes.”
Gabby nods. “Go quick, but if she’s not there, don’t worry about it. We can rock it without her and show Mr. Ratton she’s not ready for this,” she says with a smirk. I sigh; I wish it was that easy.
I run around behind the back curtain and head to the other side of the stage where Emily should be. She’s not in the side wings, so I head towards the backstage door to check the stairwell. When I open it, I find Emily leaning flush against Mr. Ratton, his arm wrapped around her waist as he leans into the crook of her neck. I can’t tell if he’s kissing her or whispering in her ear, but their intimacy leaves me awkwardly fidgeting.
I should close the door and hope they don’t see me, but it’s almost time for our entrance. So, despite the fact that Emily wouldn’t do the same, I take the high road and clear my throat, getting their attention.
“Emily, it’s almost time,” I say as sweetly as possible. Despite the annoyance I feel bubbling up in my gut, I don’t want to make either of them feel awkward. I know full well it could have negative repercussions for me.
“I know, Clara, I’ll be right there,” she sneers, giving me a dirty look before turning back to Mr. Ratton to whisper something in his ear. He smirks, making her giggle, and I have to stop my eyes from rolling.
“Best of luck Emily, and to you too, Clara,” he says with an aggravating nonchalance, as if seeing them like this is no big deal. I guess it’s not, since it's his MO.
Mr. Ratton isn’t a rarity in the ballet world. He was a famous principal dancer in Russia, and after retiring from dance, he became a choreographer, then a lauded director. His fame is massive, but so is his ego. Apparently, back in Russia, he was quite the playboy, and I don’t think those ways have changed much. Now, he’s just in a position of power, one that has dancers falling at his feet more than ever before. When you hold hundreds of careers in the palm of your hand, they’re going to eat out of it. Emily seems to be licking his hand clean to get what she wants.
“Thank you, sir,” I say before I turn to hurry back as fast as possible to the other side in time for my entry.
When I get back to Gabby, she looks totally panicked–we’re about twenty seconds from our entrance. We both look across the stage to see Emily now in place.
“What took so long to find her?” she whispers-yells as we give our limbs one last shake.
“She was with Mr. Ratton in the stairwell,” I answer quietly, not wanting anyone to overhear.
“I knew it! I knew there was something going on with them.” Gabby wrinkles her nose as she shakes her head slightly. “Gross. He’s so much older than her.”
“He is,” I agree. I hate how lecherously he looks at all of us–it makes my skin crawl whenever I feel his gaze on me. It’s horrible that we have to ignore it if we don’t want to risk being dropped. The only way around behavior like that is to leave the company and try your luck with another. Unfortunately, most of them have male directors with reputations just as bad—or even worse—than Mr. Ratton.
“It’s time. Merde !” Gabby says. I have no idea why we say it, but it goes back generations, like “break a leg” in theater.
“ Merde !” I reply before taking a deep breath to try to clear my thoughts. I can’t help but keep thinking about the encounter with Emily and Mr. Ratton. There’s a sour taste in my mouth–the timing of her cozying up to him oddly coincides with tonight’s announcement of Nutcracker roles. As I step on stage, I force myself to focus on the music, letting go of all the negative thoughts as I pour my heart into dance.