1. Jolie
1
JOLIE
I huff up the metro stairs and out onto the frigid city streets, puffs of white filling the air. The cold whips at my cheeks and bites my nose with each step, but I don’t dare slow my pace. It’s so early that black blankets the sky aside from a handful of stars peeking out.
It’s got to be close.
My gaze drops down to my phone, and I swipe to the map to make sure I’m heading the right way. A few blocks in the wrong direction around here can make the streets shift from luxurious to dangerous—not something I want to worry about before DC traffic picks up. There aren’t many folks out, but I wanted to give myself extra time to navigate a good route this morning.
My legs are nearly numb under my leggings, though the chill doesn’t stifle the pain streaking down the back of my thigh. At least if I arrive early, once I find the darn studio, I can warm up and collect myself. The last thing I want on my first day is to show up red faced and stiff from the cold. I’m sure they’re already theorizing why the famed District Dance Institute didn’t bring me back after my allotted sabbatical. And since they’ll be quietly sizing me up as if I have a scarlet letter pinned to my leotard, I don’t need to draw any additional attention to myself before class even starts.
If that isn’t enough fodder for their gossip, the deep scars along my shoulder and back will no doubt catch their notice once the warm-up layers come off. Eleven months have passed and even I still find it hard to ignore them when I see myself in the mirror.
The alarming swoop of my guts. The screech of tires. The crackling of ice before it splinters—
I shake my head.
Save it for the therapist, Jolie. Not right now.
I need to be on my game. Make the best first impression. Today will set the tone for the rest of the season—and potentially my career.
I push open the door and pass the posters decorating the walls with beautifully poised ballerinas, all principals at Ballet Potomac. There are some I recognize, a handful I don’t. We had similar pictures posted up at the Institute—a lot more of them, in fact, from decades of being the premiere company in the nation’s capital. I used to peer up at them each morning while I ran to class as a reminder of my goal.
Now, they just remind me of how far I’ve fallen.
My stomach ties itself in knots, screaming for me to turn around and run out the door. Maybe coming back to this makes me a masochist, but I refuse to give up on my dream.
You can do this.
The receptionist—a pale woman with a thick, red perm and false lashes—keeps her attention on the computer screen as I approach the desk.
“Hi, I’m Jolie Wilder,” I say, mustering my most friendly smile. A smile that says I’m approachable even though I know you’ve all been judging me since before I stepped through the door.
She nods but doesn’t lift her gaze. I glance behind me to see if I can figure out which room I’m supposed to go into, but the few dancers who’ve arrived this early trickle into different studios.
Guess I need to tweak my definition of early if I want to be one of the first ones here.
My fingers tap nervously against the counter until the receptionist finally looks up.
“Ah, yes. The director told us you’d be coming today, Miss Wilder. Studio B.” She points to the door at the farthest end of the hallway, denoted by the big, bold B painted on it. A poster for this year’s Ballet World Summit is plastered below it. Every year the ballet festival takes place in a different part of the world, showcasing various companies by invitation only. Too bad if Ballet Potomac gets an invitation, I won’t be making the cut. That’s a soloist and principal opportunity. And honestly, as a lesser-known company, the likelihood of them being invited is fairly slim for an international event as big as the Ballet World Summit.
“Thanks,” I say to her, not taking my gaze off the picture of dancers leaping against Sydney’s stunning backdrop.
“Welcome.” Her tone is clipped, attention already back to the computer.
It isn’t exactly the greeting I’d imagined. She didn’t even give me her name, though the golden nameplate across the desk says Ms. McCormick.
Guess that’s it, then.
I turn back toward the lobby. Normally someone shows you the ropes on your first day. But today isn’t technically my first day, is it?
I follow blonde and brunette buns down the hall, passing another room of dancers chatting with each other. Their voices drop once they notice me, and for the first time that I can remember in my dance career, I wish I was invisible.
Scurrying toward studio B’s open door, I peel off my jacket and layers, hanging them on the hooks outside the room before I enter. My gaze darts to the clock, and I suck in a breath. Not as early as I’d planned, but I still have time to get on my shoes and warm up before the ballet mistress arrives.
A few of the other dancers look up from either stretching or chatting among themselves, shooting me curious glances before returning to their pre-practice activities. No one makes a move to introduce themselves. If anything, they seem to retreat further among their fellow company members. This room holds close to twenty other people, and they’re all huddled in little clusters, leaving me starkly alone and standing out.
Exactly what I don’t want.
I grew up dancing with some of these girls, but then we headed off in different directions, some going to college before auditioning for companies, and others, not wanting to waste those precious years at school, looked for work right away. I’d left Virginia to study at NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts before coming back to the area to be closer to my mom. After working my way up the rungs of the District Dance Institute, I thought I’d dance with them until I retired. Maybe teach. Now those plans were gone and here I was, back at square one.
Luckily, one of Ballet Potomac’s benefactors is the spouse of one of my former instructors, and they were nice enough to put in a word with the director. While I’ve been demoted back to the corps, the ballet company’s ensemble, at least I have the opportunity to dance again.
Dragging my bag over to me, I unzip it, grabbing out my pointe shoes and setting my pads in place. They’ve barely been touched in months and the boxes are chilly and stiff.
I take my time tying up the ribbons, flexing and pointing my feet to ensure they aren’t too tight or too loose. This used to be second nature, like putting on a second skin. Now my fingers are clumsy, fumbling over the ribbons.
Once I finish lacing my shoes, I stand, adjusting my warm-ups over my leotard. I leave my shrug on, checking the other dancers to see if they still have on their layers. Most do and I exhale for what feels like the first time since I walked through Ballet Potomac’s doors.
At least they won’t have to see my scars yet.
I spent more time than I should’ve concealing them with makeup this morning, uncertain if they had rules about leaving on layers for class. It’s not like they’re a secret, though. If I had to guess from the way the other dancers are scrutinizing me, some of them already know what happened. The accident was in the papers, after all.
Plus, in a world as small as ours, there’s always gossip.
The other company members have already managed to space themselves out along the edges of the studio with five in the center on a metal barre. I scan along the barres for an empty space. Silently, a petite blonde with a cream-colored leotard and a blue boat neck sweater waves me over, stepping back to make room for me next to her.
“Thank you,” I whisper and shuffle to snatch the open spot. “I’m Jolie.”
“Evelyn. I recognized you from ABT’s summer intensive.” She had looked familiar, but I couldn’t place from where. She turns toward the barre, putting her leg up on the top one and shifting her hips back to stretch her hamstring. “Welcome to Ballet Potomac.”
Before I can thank her for making me feel less other on my first day, the door clicks and the room hushes. Mistress Maral, whom I recognize from the company’s website, enters. Tall and slender with chestnut hair tucked into a perfect twist pinned at the back of her head, she wears a loose, wine-colored sweater over a black ballet skirt with leggings and appears to be in her mid-forties. After retiring as a principal with the Joffrey, she’d moved with her husband to instruct at the newly opened Ballet Potomac.
Everyone remains silent, but instead of addressing the class, she turns away from us, setting up the sound system.
“First position,” she begins, marking through the plié combination. We all adjust into place at the barre and follow along in time with her. The movements flow smoothly from everyone. Everyone except me. This must be some pre-choreographed barre they’re accustomed to and I’m expected to keep up. When we get to tendus and I’m struggling to memorize the combination, Mistress Maral lets out a sigh, seemingly annoyed that I’m holding up the class by forcing her to actually instruct. When my eyes meet Evelyn’s, she gives an apologetic grimace.
Alright, Jolie. Time to sink or swim.
As soon as the music comes on, and the other company members hit each brush and stroke of their foot in time to the beat, it’s clear I’m firmly in the sinking category.
Sinking. Sinking. Sinking—
My throat dries and I can’t seem to suck in air as memories threaten to drag me down.
Focus, Jolie!
I grip the barre tightly to center myself in the present. I can’t afford to be distracted. This opportunity is my only life raft. One I’m desperately clinging to. If I want to keep my place in the corps and be promoted back to soloist, I need to be flawless. There are dancers poised at these barres vying for the same spots. Ballerinas who’ve spent years working their way up here, just like I had done at the Institute. They don’t want their promotions going to a newcomer, no matter how illustrious my previous company was.
With a flick of the ballet mistress’s finger, the intro to the instrumental comes on, and I follow along, grateful it’s slow and there are bodies moving seamlessly through the combination around me. Mimicking the other dancers out of my peripheral, I brace my core. My knees bend into my grand plié, and I grit my teeth into a frozen smile to conceal the pain slicing up my left thigh as I come back up from the floor. Mistress Maral eyes me with hawk-like scrutiny.
They may know about the accident and that I wasn’t asked back to the Institute, but they don’t need to know about this. Never about this. Not even this injury can hold me back from making the most of this second chance at my ballet career.
Pressing up onto the balls of my feet into my highest relevé, I find my balance and then glance at the mirror, checking my alignment as I release the barre. My shrug accentuates the curved line of my arms floating through the port de bras. I follow my fingers with my focus—
A flash of movement from outside the window snags my attention.
Two prismatic eyes watch me intently.
A silver-and-white wolf peers over some park bushes across the street. The more I look, the less I believe it’s a wolf. It couldn’t be, could it? Must be a large dog. A very, very large dog. Maybe some sort of husky mix? Whatever it is, its intense stare pinches between my ribs. Wobbling, I nearly lose my balance, recovering at the same time Mistress Maral exhales a disgruntled huff.
Shit on a snowflake.
Flashing an apologetic smile, I blink away the distraction. When the music ends and we move into the next combination, I sneak a glance at the window, only to find swirls of delicate frost creeping along its edge.
The beast is nowhere in sight.