Chapter Five
“And plié, two, three, four…and up, two, three, four.”
Petra Montgomery’s voice carries through the studio like a gentle metronome, her movements flowing with grace.
Hidden behind the door, I peek my head in just enough to see her move through the rows of tiny ballerinas, her discerning eye catching every wobbling knee, protruding backside, and crooked elbow like a master craftsman inspecting her work.
I’m witnessing a pastel fever dream where six-year-olds in mismatched leotards are attempting to defy gravity under the guidance of someone who seems to have figured out how to make the impossible look possible.
“Keep that back straight, Emma,” Petra says, gently tapping a shoulder.
“Remember we want to make a diamond shape with our knees…Clara, point those toes! And back to first position, everyone. Imagine you’re drawing a perfect line with your foot— heel starts the tendu and toes lead back in. And one more time.”
The girls giggle as they adjust their stances, their enthusiasm undimmed by their obvious struggles with coordination.
There’s something charming about their clumsy determination, something that reminds me of my own relationship with perfection, perpetually just out of reach but worth chasing anyway.
“Alright, my little stars,” Petra says, clapping her hands softly to draw their focus. “Now, let’s practice our relevés. Straight knees, strong tummies, and stay nice and tall like a Central Park tree. Remember, no tipping like trees in a storm.”
“Yes, Miss Petra!” they chorus, their high-pitched voices echoing through the studio.
I’ve been standing here for over three minutes, 185 seconds to be exact, working up the courage to enter what feels like a sacred space I don’t belong.
But watching Petra demonstrate, rising angelically onto the balls of her feet with a controlled power that makes it look like she’s floating, I’m reminded why I’m here.
“Like this,” she instructs. “Up, hold…down slowly. Let’s try it together. Ready?” She circles the studio full of little ballerinas. “And relevé, two, three, hold…”
The girls follow her lead, their tiny feet wobbling as they attempt to balance.
A few topple sideways and collapse into giggles, grabbing each other like tipsy bridesmaids on a dance floor.
Their joy in the attempt, regardless of the outcome, strikes me as something I’ve lost somewhere along the way—the ability to find delight in the process rather than the result.
“Let’s try again, but this time, pretend there’s a crown on your head and lift really tall, tall, tall,” Petra says.
This is it. Time to either commit to this experiment or retreat back to the familiar territory of ice rinks and locker rooms where I understand the rules but am unable to participate. I take a breath and push open the studio door, the creak announcing my presence like a blasting trumpet.
Petra glances over her shoulder, and I watch her rhythm falter when she sees me.
I must look ridiculous, like a refrigerator someone accidentally wheeled into a jewelry store.
My shoulders crowd the doorway while my jeans strain against thighs that were built for power skating, not pliés.
My sweatshirt only adds to the effect, making me resemble a bouncer who’s lost track of his nightclub and stumbled into a pastel kingdom of tulle and dreams.
Her eyes widen, and I catch what might be suppressed laughter dancing behind her blue eyes. I’m not just out of place. I’m a cautionary tale about what happens when quads meet couture.
“Mr. LeClerc,” Petra says, tilting her head with curiosity. “Lila is just in time for our jumps at center.”
My stomach drops. This is the part where I have to explain that my grand gesture was actually a spectacular miscalculation.
“Yeah, about that…” I say, already reaching for the back of my neck in what’s become my signature gesture of defeat. “She’s not here. She had to fly back home early.”
Petra’s brow lifts, and I watch my words settle in her mind like puzzle pieces that don’t quite fit together. “So, you came alone?”
“I didn’t want to waste the spot,” I say, hearing how thin my excuse sounds even to my own ears.
Petra blinks, processing this unexpected development.
The girls, sensing drama with the keen awareness that children have for anything more interesting than their assigned activities, have stopped their relevés to watch our exchange.
They stare at us with the rapt attention usually reserved for Saturday morning cartoons and birthday cake.
“Miss Petra,” one of the bolder ballerinas says, “who’s the giant?”
Petra bites the inside of her cheek, and I can see her fighting back a smile. “This,” she says, turning to address the class, “is Mr. LeClerc. He’s…observing today.”
“Observing what?” another girl asks, her nose scrunching in confusion that mirrors my own internal state. “Does he want to be a ballerina?”
I open my mouth to answer, then close it again, realizing there’s no way to salvage my dignity here. This is my reality now: being cross-examined by miniature ballerinas about my career aspirations while I stand here like a tourist who got lost and boarded a bus to humiliation.
Meanwhile, Petra is clearly enjoying my discomfort, and somehow that makes this situation both worse and better.
“Alright, everyone,” Petra says, clapping her hands to redirect the class. “Let’s give Mr. LeClerc some space to observe. Back to our relevés! And up, two, three, hold.…”
I shuffle to the far wall, leaning against it as though I might be able to disappear into the background. The wall is cool against my back, solid and reassuring in a room where everything else feels completely unsolid and un-reassuring.
After the next pause in the class, Petra glances over her shoulder at me. “Feeling comfortable yet?” she asks.
“Not even close,” I respond, keeping my voice low enough that only she can hear, though in a room full of children, whispered conversations tend to be not as private as we’d like.
“Good,” Petra says lightly. Then her lips form a subtle smile. “You look like someone who could use a little humility.”
Humility. As if I needed more of that. I’ve been marinating in humility for the past eight months, ever since my hamstring decided to stage a rebellion against my career.
But watching her move through the class with such natural charisma, I’m beginning to think that maybe humility is something I could use more of.
I settle in to watch. This isn’t just about teaching little girls to point their toes. There’s something more happening here, something about developing strength that doesn’t announce itself with noise and aggression.
Maybe Rocky was right. Maybe I do owe him for those ballet tickets.
The last notes of the piano fade as Petra claps her hands twice.
“Well done, everyone!” she says, her voice carrying a blend of warmth and authority.
“You all worked so hard today. Don’t forget to practice your pliés at home, and make sure you move any of mom and dad’s important lamps out of the way first, just in case. ”
The girls chatter excitedly as they gather their water bottles and bags. Parents begin filtering in, exchanging waves and polite smiles with Petra as their tiny ballerinas skip out.
I stay plastered to the far wall, arms crossed, trying to pass for drywall. When the last of the tutu brigade bounces out, the room feels cavernous and eerily quiet.
Petra turns, one eyebrow arched like she’s been waiting for this moment. “You stayed.”
“Didn’t want to spark a stampede on my way out,” I say, pushing off the wall. “Figured it was safer to let the real talent clear the floor first.”
Petra smirks. “Good instincts. So, Mr. LeClerc, what’s this really about? Because something tells me you didn’t come here to critique my six-year-olds’ relevés.”
“Here’s the deal,” I say, exhaling as I try to find the right words.
“I’m a hockey player, and for the last eight months, I’ve been stuck in this Groundhog Day loop, battling a serious hamstring tear that gets aggravated over and over, keeping me from playing.
” The words come out in a rush, like I’m afraid if I slow down, I’ll lose my nerve.
“My doctor says I need to find something that promotes flexibility and mobility. I’ve tried everything: endless rehab, yoga, stretching, epidural shots, more epidural shots.
None of it works. Not long-term anyway. The injury just keeps nagging me, coming back right when I think I’m healed. ”
As I speak, I watch Petra’s expression. Her brow furrows slightly, and I see her mind working, processing this information.
“Right or left side?” she asks. The clinical nature of her question catches me off guard.
“Right,” I say, surprised by her immediate focus on specifics. “Tore it twice. Scar tissue’s a nightmare. And now, no matter what I do, it feels like it’s just…stuck. I can’t skate without pain, and the longer this goes on, the worse it gets.”
Petra leans back against the barre. “So…naturally, you thought: ballet. That’s the missing piece,” she says. I can’t tell if she’s mocking me or genuinely trying to understand my logic.
“Not exactly,” I say, giving her a look that I hope conveys I’m aware of how insane this sounds.
“My doctor said I needed something unconventional. Something that forces me to use muscles I don’t normally activate.
And after watching you and your colleagues the other night…
well, I figured if anyone knows how to move with control, it’s you. ”
She blinks, momentarily thrown by the directness of the compliment.
“Look, I’m desperate,” I continue, trying to project more confidence than I feel. “I know I’m not your usual student, but I’ll work hard. I need to fix this, or I’m done. Hockey’s all I’ve got.”