6. Jolie
6
JOLIE
“ J olie, I’d like you to stay after today,” Mistress Maral says as soon as we finish our révérence. A lump catches in my throat.
After completing barre wobble-free and keeping pace with an especially arduous grand allegro, full of leaps and quick jumps in rapid succession, it was beginning to seem like I could hold my own here. Now the small pile of confidence I amassed is washed away by the stern look on Mistress Maral’s face.
My mind races over any mistakes I could have made. I’ll admit, I’m not a fast learner. It takes me a day or so to get choreography into my body, but I thought I was doing well. Surely it’s not expected that my comprehension is fine-tuned the day we learn the variation?
As soon as I get home, I’ll immediately practice in my room, visualizing the piece with Adolphe Adam’s compositions playing on repeat.
Just as I’m getting carried away with my plans, Evelyn lays a gentle hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “Join us in the recovery room after?”
“See you there,” I reply with a tight nod.
While ice baths are the favorite tradition of the dancers here, I’ll be stretching out my legs on the nearby mats. Evelyn’s been encouraging me to give the frosty plunge a shot, as a way to spend time with her and a few of the other girls in the corps. No, thank you. There’s no way I’ll be submerging myself in an icy tub. As much as I’d love to build some camaraderie, the frozen surface of the basin is enough to send tremors through me.
I used to love the cold. Winter. Now it brings me back to last February. To the night of the accident.
A pair of fractured irises peer at me from the recesses of my mind. My body chills and my eyes dart to the window, half expecting to see the large dog there again. After a minute of scanning, I finally exhale, shaking my head at my own paranoia. It’s just the usual DC hustle.
Add this to my notes for my next session with Dr. Tanner.
The other company members exit the studio while I rummage through my bag. I’m not sure what I’m doing. Killing time? What does she want from me? I could have sworn I did much better in class today. I leave my shoes on just in case Mistress Maral wants me to demonstrate something for her.
My body aches, hips resisting my forward bend as I roll my leg warmers back up my legs. Once the room’s empty, I head to Mistress Maral, who’s standing by the sound system. I swallow thickly, bracing myself for whatever she’s about to say. “You wanted to see me?”
“Yes.” Her thin lips pull into a line, her gaze scanning over me. “I wanted to know how you think things are going.”
“Um…”
Is this some sort of test? I’ve had my share of stern ballet instructors growing up, even one from Russia who always called me Josi, never taking the time to learn my name, but something about the way Mistress Maral scrutinizes me when I dance is like being put under a microscope.
“I think they are going well.” My voice is higher pitched than I intend. When she mutters under her breath, I quickly add, “I know I had a rocky start yesterday and I’m still catching up. Today seemed like an improvement, though.”
I hold my breath, waiting for her to say something. Anything.
When she lets the silence linger between us, I continue, “I’m sure I could be doing more.”
“Yes, you could.”
Air lodges in my throat and I’m frozen in place. My body’s so stiff that I’m certain if I exhale it’ll splinter my ribs.
“That’s why I wanted to talk to you.” Her tone relaxes a bit, but I’m not ready to relax with it.
“Oh.” Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. Maintain professionalism, Jolie.
I need to show her and the rest of Ballet Potomac that I can take criticism. No one wants a prima donna who isn’t open to feedback in their company. While there are many out there, it’s not what you want to be known for in a world as small as ours.
“To be frank, I was hesitant to bring you on when the director told us he’d invited you.”
I blink rapidly, trying to stifle tears. It’s not some great revelation, but it stings, nonetheless.
Mistress Maral crosses her arms, shifting her weight and sticking out her hip. “While the others voted in support of giving you a shot, I did not. And based on your first few days, you are proving my assumptions correct.”
“I don’t understand,” I croak, rubbing my palms on the sides of my leg warmers. “What am I doing wrong? I really want this, Mistress Maral. I don’t expect every instructor to like me or want me here, but I am trying my hardest.”
“That’s the problem, Jolie. You’re trying too hard.” What? “Do you know why I left the Joffrey?”
Her question catches me off guard. I was ready to defend myself. Now I’m filing through what I can recall from the company website and gossip—which, admittedly, I haven’t been here long enough to know much about.
“You moved here with your husband. I assumed he had a job here or something,” I reply with a shrug.
“He did. But that’s not all.” She waves me over to sit on her chair. I hesitate, but at the end of the day, I’m too intimidated by this woman not to listen to her. “I retired because I couldn’t dance any longer. About five years into my career, I injured my ankle. Back then, injuries were seen as a weakness—an easy way to be replaced. I didn’t tell anyone, worked my ass off, and that ultimately ended my career.”
“I’m sorry.” My heart breaks for her. The idea of my career ending has been an all-too-close reality. One I’m doing everything to avoid. At least I thought I was…
“Don’t be sorry. Take the lesson.” She bends down and inspects my right hip. “I know about your injury.” She continues to assess me, scrutinizing my leg as if drawing a line of my pain down the back of it. Like she can see it. “When you dance, I notice every wince. I asked around about you before you arrived, about why you weren’t invited back to the Institute. The real reason.”
My body stills, pinned under her attention. “And what did you learn?”
“They also knew of your injury. The one you were trying to hide before the accident.”
“I—”
“Let me finish.”
Shit.
I’m not sure where this is going but if I stay in this room much longer, I won’t be able to hold the tears at bay. They prick at the backs of my eyes, making me blink rapidly.
“Being injured isn’t a weakness, but being careless with your wellbeing is. I expect you to be in PT tomorrow with Heather after class and follow whatever course of action she prescribes. I will be keeping personal tabs on your progress. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.” It’s all I can get out as I sit in shock. I’m bare. Exposed. Seeing my scars when I’m in just my leotard is one thing, something I mentally prepared for knowing I could only hide beneath makeup and ballet shrugs for so long… Spotting the pain underneath that, an injury that’s only worsened from my lack of care, it’s too much.
Now I’ll have PT and therapy appointments. Being prodded from every direction with everyone’s attention on what I lack. Viewed as broken on the outside as I am on the inside.
“You miss one appointment and I will go to the director with what I know and get you pulled from performing.”
“I understand.” My fists ball at my sides.
“Good.”
“Thank you, Mistress Maral,” I manage to toss out before I stand up.
“Don’t thank me… And don’t mistake this for generosity—you will find none of that in my class.” She walks over to my dance bag and brings it to the door, silently dismissing me. “Your lack of self-preservation is a liability to this company. Get yourself together or you’ll find yourself starting over again somewhere else.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She opens the door and taps my shoulder as I move to exit the studio. “Don’t forget that Heather will be giving me regular reports.”
“Of course.” I keep my gaze trained to the Marley floor, following each gray streak along its grain. “See you tomorrow, Mistress Maral.”
When I get to the dressing room, I take my time, mulling over the conversation. I need to get out of my own head before I have to be social with the others in the recovery room. There’s no doubt in my mind that they’ll be curious as to why I had to stay after to talk to Mistress Maral. If she’s been able to spot my injury, have they?
People underestimate how cutthroat the ballet world can be. They see graceful, delicate, poised dancers. In reality, there is always someone waiting in the wings, calculating if your failure is their next opportunity. There are girls in the company who are understudying for ensemble positions in Giselle , the ballet we will be performing. They could easily see my injury as their chance to swoop in and snag a spot in the corps.
My pulse eventually slows, and I exit the back of the dressing area that’s connected to the recovery room. There are three ice baths set in a line across a tiled area in the corner. On the floor, oversized mats are situated with bins full of stretchy bands, foam and textured rollers, and various sized balls for getting out knots and working through tense spots with trigger point massage.
“Hey!” Evelyn calls over to me. She’s wrapped in a towel with tiny water droplets scattered across her shoulders. “Just finished up in the ice bath, but if you give me five, I’ll come back out and stretch with you.”
“Sounds great.” Relief washes through me. At least now I can chat with her without feeling bad about turning down her ice bath offer again, making myself more of an outsider to the rest of the company.
Finding a spot on the large mat, I pull out a textured roller with jagged edges, rolling it up and down the backs of my legs between stretches. Evelyn and two of the other girls from the corps, Sara and Veronique, grab their recovery toys of choice and plop down next to me. My chest clenches, trying to decide what I’ll say if they ask about why I was kept after class. It’s Veronique who kicks off the conversation, only it’s not in the way I expect.
“You know, I saw your Lilac Fairy performance a few years ago.” A smile peels across her lips. “It was stunning.”
Veronique is one of the youngest in the corps and came straight from Ballet Potomac’s training program. Her father is a French diplomat who works at the embassy. I don’t think she’s even twenty yet. Her thick raven hair is pinned up in a messy bun, her big, brown eyes conveying something akin to admiration. It surprises me, along with her compliment.
My cheeks heat. “Thank you.”
“I bet you were amazing,” Evelyn adds. “What was it like being a soloist? If you don’t mind us asking.”
I think back to the piece, how many hours I spent honing the control and flexibility to get my lines to where I wanted. It was after those rehearsals I’d started to feel the stiff twinge of pain at my hip, the one that later began to radiate down my leg. The beginnings of my injury. I’d smiled my way through the Lilac Fairy’s variation, earning a riotous applause from the audience.
I craved it. Devoured it.
But the moment I got backstage, I found a dark corner, sobs racking my body as the ache surged through me. Lark scooped me up after she realized I hadn’t come back to our dressing room, stretching out my leg and sitting with me until I could gather myself up for the rest of the performance. She’s the only one I’ve ever talked to about it, other than my mom.
“Do you have a recording of it?” asks Sara. She seems…genuinely excited.
It’s odd how they are staring at me. It’s how I stare at Blake and the other principals at the Institute.
While some of these dancers might be threatened by my very presence, seeing me as the competition, there are also dancers who want to be friends. Dancers who respect what I’ve done through my career thus far. The three women in front of me remind me of myself when I started years ago. They’re hungry for their moment to shine, when the spotlight will shower them in its intoxicating glow, even if only for a few minutes. Where all eyes are on them and their craft.
“I can shoot you the link later if you really want.”
“Yes, please!”
My chest warms, chin lifting. “And it felt absolutely incredible. I definitely miss it.”
We continue to chat about each other’s backgrounds as we finish stretching. While their questions about my career press on a past that stings like an open wound, there’s a satisfaction that’s layered on top. A balm to my soul.
For the first time since I put my ballet career on pause, maybe there’s a place for me. Somewhere I’m a little less alone and ashamed of what I’ve lost.
After an hour of recovery and grabbing tea with the other girls, I head five blocks to the metro and ride it home. There’s a coat hanging on the hook and a dance bag tucked into the corner of the room. Lark is home.
I press my ear to the door and the sound of her showering spills from the other side. After removing the layers and layers of winter gear clinging to my frigid body like a wooly second skin, I wobble on sore legs down the hallway to my room.
After the chilly metro ride and trek home, I’m more than eager to warm up in the shower. I turn it on, then head back into my bedroom. Steam billows out from the bathroom, mist spreading next to the bed. I pull out my phone to jot down the notes into my journal and send Sara the recording of my Lilac Fairy performance from Sleeping Beauty .
I watch the video three times. The nostalgia is bittersweet and I can’t help but reminisce over what my body was capable of only a few years ago. A time when it was at its prime, thirsting to be pushed and challenged. I could dance for hours, then come home and rehearse in my bedroom or in my head until I passed out, before starting the routine all over. I can’t move like that now. But if I take PT seriously, like Mistress Maral wants, and keep working hard, maybe I can get back to that point again.
I strip off my dance clothes and toss them into the hamper. I spot my journal still out on the desk. Odd. I’m normally pretty careful about not leaving it out, but I was in a hurry earlier.
Two eyes peer up at me from the page, striking deep in my soul, along with the words that accompany them.
Where did you go?
Something I’ve wondered countless times. I sigh, shutting it and sticking it back into the drawer before I head into the bathroom. Thick streaks on the mirror catch my attention, and I cross my arms over my naked body before I rip the towel from its hook. I wrap it around myself, glancing into the bedroom. A chill spins down my spine. My heart races. I manage to take a deep breath and turn my gaze back to the big letters outlined in fog.
I’m here.