32. Jolie
32
JOLIE
T hat night at the Summit, I slip my arm through the top of my dress and shuffle to the mirror. My body’s still sore from rehearsal, but I do my stretches between things so I can go into the showcase refreshed.
The nerves continue to thrum through my body. They haven’t stopped all day. I inhale, running my fingers along the creamy chiffon of my dress. Pale blue and gold trim crisscross my chest, looping over my shoulders and supporting a set of delicate, double-layered ruffles in the same material as the skirt that hangs over a matching leotard, falling to just below my knees.
I twist back and forth, and the scars slashed down my shoulder and upper back glint under the buttery dressing room lights.
“Did you want help with your makeup?” Lark asks.
I spot her reflection behind me in an emerald corset with sparkling rhinestones covering the entire bodice. Her attention trails along my scars, not in a way that’s pitying, but one that says she genuinely wants to help me. There are some areas that are very hard to reach, so it’s easier for someone else to do it for me.
Since summer has been focused on conditioning and preparing those of us going to the Ballet World Summit, I haven’t felt the need to cover them up on a daily basis. Not like when I first returned to dancing. I normally had Lark assist with it when Giselle was in performance season, not wanting to stand out from the corps. Right now, though, I’m dancing a solo. There’s no one else I need to match. No one else to be but myself.
“I think I’ll leave them be today,” I tell her with a smile that’s reflected back at me in the mirror.
We stare at each other a moment, then I turn, taking in her full costume. The gem detailing is stunning, trailing down her ensemble and scattering onto the stiff, mint-colored tutu jutting out around her.
“You look incredible.” I give Lark another once-over, admiring the shimmering elements that go all the way up to her emerald-encrusted tiara poised in front of her high bun. “I can totally see why you picked the piece.”
She gives herself a nod of approval. “Right? So worth it.” Lark slips her hands in mine and her tone softens. “You’re going to do amazing tonight. Momma Wilder would be so proud.”
“Thanks,” I rasp. Not wanting to ruin my stage makeup right before the performance. “That means a lot.” It means more than a lot, but I can’t get the words out. It’s a significance that cuts so deep, the only way I can let the emotions out is to let them bleed into my performance where they can’t overwhelm me.
We lace our pointe shoes, Lark spending extra time beating hers up. The green dye makes them stiffer, needing more attention to get them supple. Giving each other a long hug, we part ways and head to meet our respective companies. Everyone is quiet once Mistress Maral and the director go over the order of the showcase, imparting their final words of wisdom.
My heart pounds so wildly, I can’t retain any of it.
Once they finish, we split off into our own pre-performance rituals. I warm up my body a bit more, working through the stretches and exercises Heather gave me. With my earbuds popped in, Juliet’s Variation plays over and over so I can immerse myself before I go on stage.
The next thing I know, they call the show and we are lining up in the wings. Lark waves to me from across the stage, and I wave back, my hand halting when Blake dares to smile in my direction from behind her.
Asshole.
His blond hair is slicked back, and he’s dressed in just a pair of relaxed pants that cuff above his ballet shoes, muscles proudly on display. I don’t return his attention, instead dropping my gaze to focus on the building crescendo in my earbuds. The fact that he can smile at me when I’ve blocked and ignored him for months just solidifies the fact that he’s an arrogant jerk. The prince I once idolized is nothing more than an ant I look forward to crushing beneath my proverbial pointe shoe.
The burble of chatter from the other side of the curtain grows until the instrumental introduction plays over the sound system, hushing the audience. They announce the first piece to kick off the Summit, and the ballet dancer from the Royal Ballet takes his place on the stage.
I go back to listening to my music a few more times before tucking the earbuds into a small bag at the corner of backstage. There are only two more pieces until my routine. I’m grateful I don’t have to wait long. Every passing minute my nerves riot, the routine slipping from memory, as if I haven’t spent weeks preparing. Nausea mixed with the sudden urge to pee—all the usual pre-performance jitters—come out tenfold. Not that I’d expect anything less. This is how it always goes.
Come on, Jolie.
I wiggle out my fingers and toes, bouncing back and forth atop my pointe shoes before pressing them into the pile of rosin, cracking it into shards and dust until the tips are perfectly coated.
Something I love about portraying Juliet is her hopeful grace. This variation is from when she’s dancing at the ball. At first, she moves by herself, showcasing her lightness. Her joy. It’s such a stark difference from where she ends up at the end of the story, joining her lover in death.
This dance comes before all the tragedy, and if only for a moment, when I dance it, I can pretend I’m in the before .
Before my injury.
Before the accident.
Before each shattered piece of me was hacked into existence.
For these few minutes, I’m that young ballerina again and the world is bright and full of possibilities.
The stage manager ushers me over, nodding as she talks into the headset. I gracefully walk out onto the stage, arms carried softly in front of me as I set myself into my starting position. The lights are low, so dim that I know the audience can only make out my silhouette.
It’s time. Everyone’s watching.
Before I can finish one deep breath, the intro begins.
The lights come up, like the first burst of morning sun, and I move.
Each spin atop my toes is light and delicate. Each sweep of my leg reaches the skylights. Each brush of my arms moves through its arc, graceful and smooth.
There’s no ballroom of spectators like in the ballet, so I carry myself around the stage, utilizing its entirety. I gaze over my arm, flirtatiously, admiring each line I perfectly execute. My confidence grows along with the music. It propels me into a grand jeté, and I leap so high that I might collide with the night itself.
I’m spinning and dancing my way to where my invisible Romeo stands. The one Juliet’s been dancing for, hoping to catch his eye. It’s an all too familiar feeling. Both in the weeks leading up to the performance and now. I stare off and extend my arm toward the corner of the room, picturing twin panes of glittering glass in the audience, reaching back for me.
How I wish he was.
I continue to dance for him. Continue to pretend. I strike my final pose, the moment Romeo has found Juliet, and I can’t help but imagine it’s real. That Jax is here, taking the form of the invisible man I’m embracing.
I barely realize the music has stopped. My attention is pinned to the back of the room and those eyes staring back at me.
In a flash, they disappear.
Snap out of it, Jolie. He’s not here.
I don’t have a moment for that to disappoint me, though, because just like magic, the crowd erupts in applause, standing before me in a wave of fancy suits and gowns. My smile widens as it echoes through me, vibrating deep in my soul.
I did it.