21. Ashlynn
21
ASHLYNN
As we leave McCracken Hall, we pass by a few more teachers and students who greet us with smiles and polite nods, their curious glances lingering a little longer on Wynter. It’s clear that she’s left an impression on everyone today.
We exit the building and almost run into Mrs. Janice, who is talking with another student.
“Well, I’ll be,” Mrs Janice calls out to us, her expression genuinely pleased. “Have fun, ladies!”
“We will,” Wynter and I reply in unison, exchanging amused glances.
We’ve both gotten the ‘you need to get a life’ talk from her. She gives that speech to all her overachieving students, knowing it’s futile.
But we understand where she’s coming from. She’s not just a teacher; she’s a mentor who wants us to have a balanced life and not just focus on our studies and dance. I’m only walking out the doors well before 6:00 P.M because I don’t have a private lesson with her today. Even so, because I’m one of Bayard’s honorary fixtures, I have no issues booking any classroom that’s not in use and running through routines. Since I moved in with Gilbert, the studio at home has been getting a lot of use.
It’s a short walk from the academy to my favorite café, a cozy little place with the best lattes in town. Wynter and I fall into step beside each other, the conversation flowing easily.
“You really surprised everyone today,” I say, glancing at her. “Especially me.”
She laughs, the sound light and melodic. “That was the idea. It’s good to shake things up sometimes, to remind everyone why they started dancing in the first place.”
“Speaking of shaking things up, the café changed owners a few years ago, and their menu underwent a complete overhaul.”
“Is it any good?”
“Good? I go there often enough that they keep a running tab for me. If I could live there, I would.”
We reach the café, and its inviting aroma wafts out to meet us. The familiar bell above the door rings as we enter, and the barista behind the counter cheerfully waves to us.
The beauty of being a regular who doesn’t drink coffee is that everyone here is familiar with my preferences. I order the same things every time, depending on the day of the week. Today’s drink choice is a matcha latte. Wynter orders the same, but with a side of espresso.
We find a cozy corner table and settle in with our drinks. The café is comfortably busy, a soft hum of conversation and the occasional clink of cups creating a warm atmosphere.
“This place is lovely,” Wynter says, taking a sip of her espresso. “I can see why you like it here.”
“It’s my little escape,” I admit, smiling as I savor my matcha latte. “A place to unwind and gather my thoughts.”
Before moving in with Gilbert, I dreaded going home — to Dad’s house, that is. It’s not so bad now, going home to a place where you’re actually wanted. I still like my routine, though.
“So, how have you been?” She leans forward with genuine interest, setting both elbows on the table.
“Honestly? Anxious. I’m still waiting to hear back from Bayard. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, but the wait is driving me up a wall.”
“I remember that feeling all too well.” Her face lights up with understanding. “It’s a tough position to be in, but you’ve got to hold on to your passion and let it carry you through.”
“I know, but it’s hard not to think about what might happen if I don’t get in,” I confess, stirring my latte absentmindedly. “And then there’s all the gossip at the academy. I really don’t enjoy being this week’s topic of gossip, not when I already have a giant target on my back. It’s like everyone’s either waiting for me to fail, or making up their own reasons as to why I don’t deserve the things I have.”
If anyone understands, it’s Wynter. She was in the car with me, along with Rose — a former Brookfield student — Mom, and Rachel. Mom and Rachel died on the scene within minutes of each other. Rose ended up in a medically induced coma before succumbing to her injuries months later. As for the lawsuit and subsequent settlement, the trusts, and other provisions? None of that could ever replace the lives that were lost or the lives that have been irrevocably changed due to the actions of one man.
People see the dollar signs and conveniently forget the sequence of events that led up to it. I lost my mother and my best friend. Two men lost their wives, and another lost his niece. Sure, Wynter and I are alive, but at what cost? Anxiety, PTSD, and other complications we have to live with for the rest of our natural lives. But what I don’t do, is go about recounting sop stories to garner sympathy for my situation. I certainly don’t play the dead mom, dead teacher, or dead dad card when things don’t go my way. I keep my head down and work hard for the things I get. The money helps, but if I had to choose between that or Mom, Rachel, and Rose being alive, it’s safe to say I’d choose the latter.
Yet people forget that. They see green and hold out both hands, demanding a handout. Some, like my ‘acquaintances’ at Bluegrass High School and their entitled parents are more blunt and direct about it. Others, like Principal Richardson and Leland Roberson, use more sneaky and underhanded tactics. In the end, their intentions are all the same — they all want a piece of the pie, and I’m not inclined to give it to them. Not now, not ever.
Wynter nods, her expression sympathetic. “Ballet can be incredibly competitive, and not everyone handles it well. Unfortunately, gossip and jealousy are all part of the environment. Perceived injustices are another can of worms to unpack, but you can’t let that get to you. I know that’s easier said than done, but keep in mind that that’s a them issue, not a you issue. Focus on the things you can control — your dancing, your mindset, and your health.”
“How did you deal with it? I don’t just mean the money or the… well, the everything else.”
“Who says I’ve dealt with it?” She tosses back, leaning back in her chair. “On top of everything else, I have to navigate the world of ballet as a biracial woman and its prejudices about what ballerinas are supposed to look like. I’ve accepted that I don’t fit into that neatly packaged box, but I don’t let that stop me.
“When people talk, it’s usually more about their own insecurities than about you. My advice? Surround yourself with supportive people, and keep your eyes on your goals. Every time you feel the negativity creeping in, remind yourself why you started dancing in the first place. And why you keep doing it, despite everything you’ve been though.”
“That makes sense.” I nod, taking in her words. “It’s just hard sometimes, you know.”
“It is,” she agrees. “But you’re strong, Ashlynn. And you’ve already come so far. Remember, every great dancer has faced challenges and doubters. It’s how you handle them that defines your success.
“That, and you know the saying, knock your opponent down a few pegs to make yourself look better in comparison? That strategy doesn’t work when you join a company. Connections are useless if your dancing is sub-par. If you can’t hold your own as a soloist, you’ll never become a principal or hold any major parts. Not even as an alternate. Maybe you’ll have a career as a backup dancer, but that’s about it. The world of ballet is small, and news travels fast. So trust me when I say mediocrity always shows itself. And if a company is willing to stake its reputation on a mediocre principal, they usually don’t last very long either.”
We talk more, catching up on each other’s lives and delving into lighter topics. Wynter tells me about her travels, the cities she’s performed in, and the people she’s met. She also shares stories from her latest performances, the grueling rehearsals, and the exhilarating moments on stage. I tell her about my progress, the routines I’ve mastered, the areas where I’m struggling, my favorite books, and the little joys that keep me going. I also tell her about my recent ‘suspension’, to which — no surprise there — she agrees with Mrs. Janice’s decision to enforce it, and Principal Shirley’s decision to uphold it. And all the extensions after that.
“It’s kinda your fault,” I tell her in jest. “How could you film me?”
“How could I not, when you dance like that, unscripted and unchoreographed?” she asks, her eyes shining with pride. “Do you have any idea how many dancers will kill for a fraction of your talent?”
A warmth spreads through my chest at her words. “Thanks, Wyn. That means a lot coming from you.”
“I just tell it like I see it, but you still shouldn’t do that to your feet. Look at me. I was dancing on an old injury that I should’ve gotten checked months prior. I twisted it during my last performance, and here we are. The doctor gave me three to six months for recovery, and Bayard is enforcing it. I plan on returning much sooner than that, though. I just have to follow my physical therapist’s instructions to the letter.”
“Uh-huh.” I give her a knowing smile. “The Wynter Martin I know could never stay off the dance floor. She’ll either find a way to incorporate it as part of her PT or convince her physical therapist it was their idea.”
“Wow. That’s cold. I’m impressed.”
I shrug. “I just tell it like I see it,” I say, redirecting her words back at her.
“Yes, you are. Give it a few years, and you’ll replace me as the principal dancer at Bayard.”
“I don’t know about that. Don’t I have to get in first?”
She waves a hand dismissively. “I wouldn’t worry too much about that either. I got the video added to your admissions application materials. Of course, I had to disclose why it was filmed at a graveyard, but I got it in.”
Translation: There was a price to pay.
“That’s a huge favor, Wyn. One I didn’t ask you for. What did it cost you?”
She shrugs. “My seat on the advisory board to the admissions committee.”
My brows meet my hairline. “What? Why would you give that up for someone like me?”
“Because I believe in you.” She reaches across the table and takes both my hands in hers, giving them a reassuring squeeze. “And also, because it’s what Rachel would’ve wanted. As a legacy, she also had a seat on Bayard’s advisory board for the admissions committee. So, too, did your mother. Either one of them would’ve done the same thing, and I’m willing to stake my reputation on that. Besides, it’s only for one season. I’ll get it back next year. I just can’t weigh in on this year’s decisions in the interest of fairness.”
Her kind words threaten to break the dam inside me, and the tears prickle at my eyelids. They are a balm to my soul, a reminder that despite everything, I am not alone. I manage a small smile, feeling the weight of her words, and she gives me another reassuring squeeze.
“How are you doing, personally?” she asks, changing the subject. “Outside of ballet, that is.”
“It’s been a rollercoaster.”
“I’ll bet.” She nods, taking another sip of her espresso. “What’s it like living with Gilbert?”
I pause, considering the question. “It’s, umm…” Nice. Warm. Comfortable. Confusing. Frustrating. My cheeks flame as the emotions cycle through me, and I settle on, “Different.”
Her head tilts to the side, studying me. “Don’t sugarcoat it on my account.”
I sigh. “It’s, umm… complicated. But I’m trying to take it one day at a time.”
“Ah.” Her expression shifts to that of understanding. “You like living there full-time because it’s a much better home environment than your dad’s place ever was. But you still see it as Rachel’s house, even though she’s gone. The fact that you like him makes you feel even more guilty, like you’re betraying her memory or something. The thought alone has you feeling a type of way about the situation.”
I agree with all of it, up until the last part. “I don’t?—”
“Please.” She lifts a hand. “You’re handling it better than you realize. And remember, it’s okay to lean on others when you need to. Also, you need not worry about what Rachel would or wouldn’t do. Nor should it make a difference. She’s dead, you’re alive.”
I shake my head. “It’s not a switch I can simply flick on and off.”
“I know.” She gives me a warm smile. “She loved you, you know? Rachel did. You were like a daughter to her.”
“You mean I was one of her favorite students.”
Wynter laughs at that. “No, I was one of her favorite students. You were so much more than that. You had your own room at her house.”
“So did you.”
“I had a room. That’s not the same thing. And that only happened because my mom wanted to test out the whole ‘living apart while she was on assignment’ thing and see how I handled it. She trusted Rachel to help ease me into that transition. So did I. Believe me when I say that she would want you to be happy. And she would want Gilbert to be happy too, like she was.”
“‘Like she was?’ What does that mean?”
She cocks her head. A beat passes. “You really have no idea, do you?” She studies me with a quizzical expression on her face. “How’s that possible? You were right there. They were discreet, of course. They had to be, all things considered. Still, I assumed you knew about them.”
I lift a questioning brow. “Knew about who?”
The color drains from her face. “Oh dear.”
“What?”
She lifts both hands in mock surrender. “It’s not my secret to share. You should ask Gilbert about it. It was their relationship.”
“I don’t know. Why open up old wounds for my own curiosity? Seems unnecessarily cruel.”
She nods, her expression sympathetic. “Didn’t you wonder why your dad punched him at their funeral?”
All the time. “My Aunt Bonnie said it’s ancient history.
“That’s one way to look at it,” she says with an amused chuckle. “Start by asking him that. Or jump him. I endorse either one.”
“That’s easy for you to say. Rumor has it, you’re married.”
She shrugs and picks up her tea cup. “In name only.”
“Right,” I drawl. “The way Vivian Bertolucci tells it, you stole her fiancé.”
“Vivi says a lot of things, and most of it is just her blowing hot air.”
That sounds like a non-answer. “So you didn’t marry her fiancé?”
“Hey,” she objects hotly. “For the record, he married me. Not the other way around.”
“Splitting hairs, aren’t we?”
“The marriage is in name only.”
It’s my turn to cock my head to the side, studying her. “Please, don’t sugarcoat it on my account.”
That draws a dark chuckle from her. I can’t help my own answering smile.
We sit there, talking and laughing, the weight of the afternoon’s tension melting away. I realize how much I’ve missed this: just being with someone who understands and who’s been through similar struggles and triumphs. The hours slip by unnoticed, and I feel more at peace than I have in a long time.