Chapter 15
Fifteen
“What are you wearing?” I gawk as Sam strolls down the block toward me.
He has on a thin white undershirt, white knee breeches with socks that could pass for tights, a pink pancake tutu, and combat boots.
His face is made up like a camouflaged mime.
There are greens, whites, and blacks acting as a foundation.
His eyes are surrounded with thick eyeliner.
But the strangest of all are the two red circles on his cheeks and the bright ruby-red lipstick.
“What ballerinas wear,” he responds, straight-faced.
I try hard to contain my laughter but can’t help myself.
The cackles escape from my lips and turn into me clutching my belly at the ridiculousness of it all.
It doesn’t help that Sam rises up onto his toes and impersonates a ballet dancer by twirling around in a circle, leaping with horrible form side to side.
I laugh until my body is sore everywhere and tears have pooled out of my eyes.
“You might have a new nickname headed your way, Soldier Boy. Maybe I should start calling you General Odette.”
He slides beside me on to the low stone wall a building over from the dance studio. “Call me whatever you want. Do you feel better?”
“Yes.” I wipe my eye with the back of my hand. “I needed that.” I peck him on the cheek. “Thank you.”
“Then it was worth all the effort.”
“Where did all this come from? Who did your makeup?”
Sam cracks a grin. “The undershirt and breeches are mine. They’re part of my ceremonial uniform.
The tutu is my sister’s. She accidentally left it here last Saturday.
The makeup was donated by Trooper Smith and done by Trooper Mason.
They had a brilliant time transforming me into a combat ballerina. ”
“What did the ride-share driver say when you got in his car?”
“He didn’t bat an eye.”
I snigger again.
“So, where is this famous dance studio?”
I point to the sign suspended in front of the building two doors down.
“What time was this class supposed to be?”
“Six.”
“Well, you’re in luck, it’s only five to six. You can still make it.”
I shake my head.
“What if I did the class with you.”
“Have you ever done a ballet class?”
“With my sister when she was about five.”
I snort. “I mean a real class.”
“No, but if it’s the only thing that will get you inside, I’ll do it.” He stands. “I’m good at twirling.” He performs his best attempt at a pirouette, but it’s more of a jumping up in the air and spinning around. “See? I even stuck the landing.”
“That’s more of a gymnastics thing.”
“Oh well. Still, I nailed it. Admit it.”
“You did.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” He elbows me gently. “Let’s go.”
“You’d really be willing to dance in that outfit with me?”
“Uh-huh.”
If Sam enters a dance studio like that, I suppose I could manage to walk inside. He’s the perfect distraction for me.
I take a deep breath. “Okay. Let’s go.”
The receptionist at the front desk allows Sam into the observation area, but since this is an advanced class, he’s informed he won’t be allowed to participate.
He nods to the brightly light studio. “You sure you’ll be all right on your own in there?”
“Positive.” I press my bag of makeup remover wipes and some micellar water into his hands.
“Take these. I love and appreciate all this”—I wave my hand at the costume—“but I need to be able to focus in there. If you stay like this, every time I see you through the window, I’ll die laughing.
Use the micellar water for anything the wipes won’t remove.
And be careful not to stain your clothing. ”
“Okay, Fashion Guru, I’ll put together a makeup-disappearing act just for you.” He salutes me. “Do you mind if I lose the tutu too? The waistband is cutting off my circulation. My sister is tiny compared to me.”
My hands move to my hips. “I thought you adjusted it to make it fit. Didn’t you remove or adjust the panty briefs?”
His neck and ears turn deep shade of sour-cherry red. “No.”
I face-palm. “Take it off.”
“I’ll be front and center watching you when I get back.” With a hitch in his step, he disappears toward the studio’s locker rooms.
How did he manage to get the tutu on over his legs?
You know what, I’m probably better off not knowing.
It’s going to take some creative movements to get it off.
From experience, I know the tutu is intended to fit snugly so it doesn’t slip when you’re dancing.
He may very well have to cut himself out of it.
No matter what, he’ll probably have to buy his sister a new tutu.
A woman in a black camisole and overskirt, pink shawl, and beige teaching shoes claps her hands together and announces, “Anyone here for the advanced class, please proceed into the main studio and find a place at the barre.”
There is a flurry of activity as twelve or so adults ranging from teenagers to middle-aged women rush inside.
Everyone seems to know one another. There is a sense of camaraderie among them.
It’s a very different vibe than what I grew up with and am used to.
At LABT, the environment was serious. We were there to work, not chitchat.
If I end up surviving the class and returning, it would be nice to have a group of acquaintances who enjoy ballet for the love of dance. Walking to the back of the room, I take up a spot at the farthest barre from the front, away from everyone, next to a mirror.
Admittedly, I feel self-conscious and a little intimidated. It’s one thing to do ballet at home and another to be in a room with strangers. My eyes travel up to the observation area. Sam isn’t there yet. However, knowing he’s here offers me some comfort. I’m trying hard to keep my nerves at bay.
I strip off my zip-up fleece vest and drape it over the barre. I’m wearing a black cami, leggings, and a pair of canvas soft shoes. Clothing in ballet is normally form fitting so it doesn’t get in the way when a dancer moves, and allows them to see their lines and positions clearly.
I haven’t owned any leotards or ballet attire since LABT. When I didn’t have a need for them any longer, I donated to the school attached to the company. I wanted them to go to a good cause.
The instructor claps her hands, and all conversations stop. She has the room’s undivided attention. “Has everyone had a good week so far?”
“Yes!” most of the ladies shout back.
“Lovely.” She places her hand on the barre. “We’ll begin this evening with pliés in first, second, third, and fifth.” She demonstrates the combination and counts. A live pianist plays a few chords from a Rachmaninoff piece.
I mark the movements and listen carefully. The sound of feet brushing against the studio’s wooden floor fills the silence.
“Brilliant. Does everyone have it?”
“Yes,” we say.
“Maestro, take it away.”
I press my heels forward, tuck in my ribs, and imagine a long string pulling me up from the ceiling.
As I bend my knees, I let the muscles in my hips spiral out and take a deep plié.
I focus on my breathing and filling each note of music.
As I bend, my joints crack. I make a mental note to make an effort to warm up properly if there is a next time.
The teacher walks behind me and taps my arm. “Keep your shoulders down. More energy in your fingers.” I make the correction. “Yes, better.”
As class progresses, I find my rhythm and relax.
The nervous energy fades by the time we are on to the next set of combinations.
The teacher is here to offer me guidance.
She wants me to succeed. There are no directors taking notes, judging me, figuring out who to cast in a role.
There are no company members glaring at me for invading their space.
I am my own critic. Everyone in this room is here because they want to be.
It’s a positive environment full of smiles, and everyone giving a hundred and ten percent effort.
When we stop to change into pointe shoes for center work, I am pleasantly surprised to see half of the women en pointe.
I brought shoes with me just in case, but I tell myself to take it easy.
It’s been a long while since I’ve worked on my toes, and my ankle strength isn’t yet back to where it needs to be to do too many skills.
I glance in Sam’s direction, and he give me two big thumbs-up.
I smile and nod to him, then take my place in the back of the room with the others.
“You are all improving exponentially. I am so proud of the work you’ve put in. We’ll finish today with Kitri’s solo entry sequence from Don Q.”
Applause breaks out.
“Is it the solo from the grand pas?” someone asks.
“It is indeed. Are there any other questions?”
When no one responds, we’re asked to move to the back of the room.
“We’ll skip over the bit involving the fan and focus on the footwork.
The steps are basic, but the phrasing with the music can be tricky.
You’ll begin up in fifth position and take a step with your left foot forward into an arabesque, like so.
Hold it for one count, then step forward onto your right leg and bring the left up to a high passe. ”
We complete the sequence by ballet running in a half circle, hitting another fifth position, then striking the opening pose. The room is filled with the sound of clunky pointe shoes hitting the ground. The instructor takes us through the steps twice more, adding in the counts.
I never personally performed Kitri’s solo with LABT, but I did learn it as a student.
It was one of the solos I competed a few times with the International Youth Grand Prix of Ballet competition.
The choreography rises to the forefront of my mind.
Without much thought, I automatically begin to layer in the movements involving an invisible folding fan.
“Let’s try it to the music in groups of four. Have fun with it and make it your own. Remember, you are a sassy young woman. Flirt with your audience.”