Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
Istudy my tablet. Sam’s face stares back at me, but something isn’t quite right. I can’t put my finger on what it is. I pinch my fingers over the screen and study the shading.
“Is it the jawline? The cheekbones? Hmm . . .” I mutter to myself. “This is why I don’t draw guys. At least the horse looks right.”
“If you ask me, it looks good. You just need more practice,” Sam’s gruff voice mumbles into my ear.
I turn my head. Sam leans over the couch and plants a soft kiss on my forehead. “You’re up early. Couldn’t sleep any longer?”
“No. My body is hardwired to wake up at five.”
I move the blanket off my legs, stand, and stretch. “Do you want a shower? I think I have a shirt and some basketball shorts that’ll fit you.”
“Should I be worried you have men’s clothing sitting around your house?”
“Nope. I buy men’s shirts and shorts for pajamas. They’re cheaper and comfier.”
“Ah. As amazing as a hot shower would be, I think I’ll pass. If you don’t mind, what I’d like to do is run back to the barracks, take care of a few things, then come back for Celine. I doubt she’ll be up before nine or ten. I’ll be back before you have to leave for work.”
“Of course.” I enter the kitchen and locate a coffee mug. “Coffee for the road? I made a fresh pot.”
“That’s an offer I will take you up on.” He grins. “What time do you need to head out to work?”
“The latest I can swing is nine.”
Sam nods in confirmation. “I’ll be back well before that.” He rubs the back of his neck. A light pink blush creeps over his cheeks. “Can you write down what clothes and sizes Celine might need? I’ll also pop into M and S when it opens and see if I can pick up some basics for her.”
“Celine’s about my size. She can borrow from me when she wakes up.”
“Is that all right? You’ve already done so much for us.”
“I wouldn’t offer if it wasn’t.”
“If there is anything I can do to repay your hospitality, please let me know.”
“Well, there is one thing.”
“Yes?”
“That beard. It needs to go. It hides your handsome jawline and it scratches horribly when you kiss me.”
“Celine said something similar. She hates it too.” He rubs a hand over his jaw. “I probably shouldn’t have let it go so long. I’ve been too lazy to shave. It’ll be gone when I return.”
We spend a few more minutes chatting, then I send him on his way. My flat is back to being quiet and all I hear is the sound of traffic on the street below. My limbs ache. I’m beginning to feel the effects of sitting on the couch sketching for the last few hours. My eyes rake over the apartment.
I could watch TV, continue to draw, or cook, but I think my heart is set on doing a light barre.
I need to clear my mind. I slide the carpet and coffee table out of the center of the living room to the side and move my portable barre in their place.
This has to be one of the best purchases of the year.
I don’t know why I waited so long to pull the trigger and order it.
I locate my soft slippers, shove my earbuds into my ears, and crank up the classical music. I imagine my legs spiraling from my hips, pull up in my spine, and focus on slow, controlled breaths as I warm up with some basic pliés.
The music fills my body and I lose myself to dance.
Others might dread the monotony of doing the same exercises thousands of times over the years, but that isn’t at all how we dancers see it.
For us, barre represents the building blocks of everything we do.
All of the flashy moves, turns, and leaps that are performed on stage are rooted in deep knee bends, brushing our feet against the floor, and knowing how to lift and turnout.
It’s not especially sexy, but it’s a necessary evil, and one I find comforting.
I know that when I’m standing at the barre with other adults or professionals, we are all equals.
We are all trying our utmost to perfect the basics.
But as any ballet teacher will be quick to tell you, there is no such thing as perfection. There is always room for improvement.
When I reach the battements and try my best to whack myself in the face, I notice that I have an audience. Celine is standing in the doorway, watching with rapt attention. I see her hands and feet marking my timing.
I remove an earbud. “Hey, Celine. Good morning. I hope I wasn’t too noisy and woke you.”
“No. I had to use the loo.”
“Do you want to join me?”
She nods.
“Let’s get you something a little easier to move around in.” I signal with my head for her to follow me. “Are you a leotard and tights girl, or the type of girl who wishes she could wear what she wants in class?”
“I’m Team Leotards.”
We enter my bedroom. I shouldn’t be surprised, but my bed is made up tightly and looks like it was put together by a hotel maid. If I hadn’t known Sam was in the military, I’d be able to tell after seeing how he makes a bed.
“Do you have a favorite brand? I was a Yumiko or Cloud and Victory girl.”
“I’ll wear anything with flowers or pastel colors.”
“Pastels, you say?” I slide open the closet door. There are five new leotards hanging, organized from light to dark. “I have a pink and a baby blue. Which will it be?”
“Oh, can I borrow the blue one? It reminds me of Odette.”
I hand her the hanger. “I’ll let you in on a little secret—that’s why I bought it.”
I leave Celine to change and ask her to join me in the living room when she’s ready.
Odette was one of the roles I’d always wanted to perform with LABT.
While that chance died a long time ago, when I put this on in the Gloucester Gate Dance Studio, I can still live out that dream as an adult.
The adult class has talked about putting together a small performance group, and I’ve been giving it some serious consideration.
Doing ballet as an adult has given me a new respect, appreciation, and outlook on it.
For one, I’m not taking for granted how much work I’ve had to put in to get some of my flexibility back.
And two, being in a supportive and friendly environment has made it so I want to be there and perform.
It’s not a job. I’m there because I chose to be.
“Minerva, I’m ready.”
“I should’ve told you earlier to call me Min,” I joke. She relaxes and joins me at the barre. “How about we do a few pliés, tendus, and ronde de jambes, then have a go with the Leeds of London pointes.”
We discuss the tempo and combinations before I pick an upbeat Disney song from Tangled for us. I make it through the end of the tendus before my body decides it’s had enough.
“I’m going to have to call it quits here, but don’t let that stop you.” Celine nods and continues to finish the last combination. “Really stretch the foot. Good. Just like that. Eyes up here. Relaxed hand. Taller posture.”
“Was that a little better?”
“Much. You have beautiful turnout and banana feet. I’m jealous.”
She leans against the barre. “They’re a blessing and a curse.”
She’s right about that. I’ve known quite a number of people who have banana feet, which as the name implies, are feet that look like a banana when pointed. They’re your stereotypical ballerina feet.
“I bet. You have to be extra careful when you’re balancing en pointe. Do you jet glue and darn your shoes?”
“Yes, but it doesn’t matter. They still die within two or three days.”
No, she’s not literally killing the shoes.
What Celine means is that her shoes don’t have enough support left to safely keep her on her toes.
They’re too soft. Aka they’re dead. Sometimes a dancer will use jet glue to try and reinforce the areas of a shoe that are prone to go first. It normally prolongs the shoe an extra day or two.
“If you like these shoes, they may solve a lot of problems.”
“That would be nice. I hate having to ring my brother every few weeks asking for more funds for the shoes.”
I hand her a plastic bag containing the shoes. She takes them out and turns them over in her hands. “They’re ultra-light.”
“Uh-huh. Here’s the shanks. I’d start with the hardest if I were you.” I show her the internal compartment where she can insert the plastic supports. “Oh, I should’ve asked. What do you use for padding? Lambswool? Toe pads?”
“I don’t use anything.”
My eyes widen. “You’re brave.”
Celine shrugs. “I’m lucky, the rubbing of the shoes has never bothered my feet.” Once they’re on, she places her hands on the barre and rolls up onto her toes. “Blimey. These feel . . . different.”
“It’s a strange sensation. The shank conforms to your foot.”
“Yeah. It feels like the shoe has already been broken in.” She pops down to a flat.
“Do you want to sew on the ribbons and elastic while I start breakfast?”
“Yes, please.”
Spending time with Celine, I’m able to gain a little inside dirt on Sam. The overwhelming picture she paints is that he’s not just her older brother. He’s a super brother.
“. . . and Sam walked in with so many flowers for me that one of my teachers had to ask him to sit in the back row because he kept poking Ellie’s mum, who was sitting next to him.
“This other time, he took the train from London to Nottingham to pick up Sarah, then rented a car and drove them three hours to Newcastle upon Tyne for a gymnastics camp. Sarah said they should’ve taken the train, but Sam insisted on a direct route. He didn’t want her to get caught in any delays.”
At about half past eight, a knock sounds on the front door. “It’s open,” I shout.
Sam enters, shaved and looking dapper in a pair of charcoal trousers and crisp white dress shirt. “How are two of my favorite ladies?”
“Good. Especially now that your ugly beard is gone,” Celine says.
“I’m surprised to see you up this early, Celine.” He walks over to hug her.
“She’s been up since about six.”
“Has she now?” He gives her an inquisitive stare.
“Uh-huh. I told Minerva all about how you’re the best brother there is.”
Sam relaxes and takes up an empty bar stool. “Have you been telling her all my secrets?”