Chapter Nine
Sweat clings to my white T-shirt, and I maintain my balance despite everything screaming for mercy. This is what desperation looks like when it puts on black ballet slippers.
Petra moves in front of me with predatory focus, studying my stance with unwavering intensity. “Alright,” she says, clapping her hands. The sound echoes through the studio. “Let’s go through the positions again. First position.”
Over the last week, my body has been taking notes even as my mind has struggled to keep up. I slide into first position, then move into second with a smoothness that surprises both of us. Then third, fourth, fifth—each transition feels like muscle memory I shouldn’t have yet.
I hold fifth position. Petra stops moving. Her arms fold across her chest. “Someone’s been doing his homework.”
“I can occasionally follow instructions.”
Her lips twitch. “Occasionally?”
“Okay, rarely.” I straighten a little, ignoring the burn in my hamstrings. “Admit it though. I’m your star pupil now, aren’t I?”
She lets out a subtle laugh. “If by star pupil you mean the only adult in the room who still can’t tell fourth position from fifth without looking down at his feet…”
“Semantics,” I shoot back. “History will remember me kindly.”
“History,” she says dryly, circling behind me, “is already laughing.”
I take a break, reaching for my towel. “All I know is I’ve got a month to convince my body we’re still friends. No time for the scenic route.”
“A month?”
“Five weeks if we’re being technical,” I clarify. “Five weeks before I either get traded or get back on the ice game ready.”
Petra tilts her head. “And you think ballet is going to magically fix everything that’s broken?”
“If I’ve learned anything, it’s that miracles hide in the hardest work. So push me until I either break or become something better.”
“You sure about that? Because I don’t do gentle encouragement. I do brutal honesty.” She starts circling me again, cataloging every flaw in my posture, every tremor in muscles that have clearly been slacking.
“Gentle encouragement is for people who have time to waste.”
She stops and studies my face. “Alright, LeClerc. You want the full ballet boot camp experience?”
“I haven’t cried since I was five when I learned that tears don’t change the scoreboard.”
Petra laughs. She backs away, gesturing for me to follow. “Let’s see how long you can hold a plié.”
“I won’t wobble,” I protest, sinking into position.
“Really? Because last week I’m pretty sure you invented an entirely new category of plié—the hockey player special, featuring knees with commitment issues.”
“That was experimental choreography,” I shoot back, thighs already staging a mutiny. “Very avant-garde. You probably just weren’t ready for it.”
She smirks. “Oh, I was ready. I just didn’t realize it came with sound effects.”
“Those were battle cries,” I grunt. “Completely intentional.”
“Chest up, core engaged. You’re hunching over in the penalty box.”
I adjust my posture, breathing through the fire in my legs. “Got it. Chest up, core locked and loaded. Any other wisdom?”
“Yeah,” she says, continuing her slow patrol around me. “Stop staring at the floor. You’re supposed to own this space.”
I lift my gaze until it meets hers. “Like this?”
She pauses, and a smile flashes across her face. “Better. You might actually survive this.”
What follows can only be described as an hour-long negotiation between my body and the concept of suffering. Petra escalates the intensity—jumps, extensions, and combinations requiring increasing coordination and strength.
When she finally calls for a water break, I collapse onto the bench. Half my water bottle disappears in one gulp. “You weren’t kidding about the ‘no easy’ thing.”
“I’ll admit you’re exceeding my very low expectations.”
“Careful,” I say. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“Don’t get comfortable with it,” she shoots back. “There’s still a slew of things that need addressing.”
I grin as my eyes drift to a camera tucked in the top corner of the studio, its red light illuminated. “What’s the surveillance situation about?”
Petra follows my gaze. “Documentation. A bunch of our choreographers improvise when they create ballets, so we film everything. Otherwise, genius gets lost between inspiration and memory.”
I frown. “So, my attempts at not humiliating myself are now part of the record?”
“Not permanent,” Petra says. “Just archived. You know, for future instructional videos about what not to do.”
I laugh, the sound bouncing off the mirrors. “Happy to contribute to education.”
“I think we’ve tortured you enough for one day,” Petra announces.
As I slip out of my ballet slippers and gather my stuff, the post-workout high squashes any inhibitions I harbor, allowing my thoughts to immediately turn into an invitation.
“Want to grab food? My body’s going to need fuel to repair whatever you just did to it,” I say.
Petra considers this, her index finger tapping her pursed lips. I tense as the silence stretches—one beat, two beats.
Then she looks up and responds. “I know a place that won’t judge your current state.”
After we slip out of Lincoln Center, Petra sets a pace that’s brisk but unhurried, like she’s guiding me through her version of the city.
Broadway is still buzzing with tourists clutching playbills, while the smell of burnt sugar from a nut cart wafts under neon marquees.
A man on the corner sells knockoff handbags while bobbing his head to music.
We cut west, and the scene changes. The bright theater glow gives way to quieter streets where the sidewalks are uneven, and brownstone stoops wear chipped paint like badges.
By the time we reach Chelsea, the city feels like it’s exhaled.
Petra ushers me to a pelmeni shop wedged between a neighborhood bodega and a dry cleaner.
Inside the pelmeni shop stands a hand-lettered specials board featuring today’s menu: Pork & Beef Pelmeni, Lamb Pelmeni, Chicken Pelmeni with Onion and Dill, Short Rib Pelmeni.
It’s the kind of place that doesn’t care what Instagram thinks, and it smells delicious.
I take in the mismatched chairs and crooked picture frames as we enter. Petra moves through the space with familiarity, and when an older man emerges from the kitchen, his face lights up at the sight of her.
“Петра! Как дела?” he calls out.
“That’s Yuri. He owns the place,” Petra says to me as she approaches him.
“Здравствуйте, Юрий,” she responds, slipping into Russian with ease. She leans against the counter, completely relaxed. “На этот раз я привела друга.”
Yuri grins, his eyes bouncing between us with amusement. “Твой друг любит пельмени?”
Petra turns to me. “He wants to know if you like pelmeni.”
“I’ve never met a dumpling I didn’t want to be friends with,” I say.
She spins back to Yuri, Russian flowing from her lips. “Два набора пельменей. одна классическая с картошкой и сыром, другая с капустой и грибами. И, пожалуйста, компот.”
Yuri nods, scribbling our order. “Всё будет готово скоро.”
“Спасибо,” Petra says before leading me to a corner booth.
I slide into my seat as we both get settled. “That was…impressive.”
“What, ordering dinner?” she teases.
“You know what I mean,” I say.
Petra shrugs, but her smile softens. “My dad’s legacy.
He was determined that we wouldn’t lose the connection to where he came from.
Our house was this mishmash of languages.
Russian weaving through Alabama drawl. When I was little, I resented the Russian part.
All I wanted was to sound exactly like everyone else.
But now…” Her words drift off. “It’s one of the few pieces of him I get to keep. ”
Her confession settles between us as I marvel at the woman in front of me.
Yuri appears with our food, setting down steaming plates. “Приятного аппетита!” he announces.
“Спасибо,” Petra responds.
“Thank you,” I say to Yuri.
I stare at my plate. “Alright, what’s my strategy here?”
“Start with the classic—potato and cheese,” Petra suggests. “It’s impossible to go wrong with comfort food in its purest form.”
The first bite is revelation. “Okay,” I say, nodding more vigorously with each chew. “This is transcendent.”
“I told you so,” Petra says, grinning.
As we eat, our conversation starts shedding its casual clothes. When Petra talks about ballet, her voice changes. Her hands start moving, painting pictures in the air, and her eyes become windows into a world I’m eager to understand.
“Balanchine,” she says, and the way she says his name sounds sacrosanct.
“He completely revolutionized everything. His choreography is so original and revolutionary. He knew how to strip away everything unnecessary until only the essential truth remained.” She leans forward, fork forgotten. “Have you ever seen Serenade?”
I shake my head, suddenly aware of how much beauty I’ve been walking past. “Ballet hasn’t really made it into my life up until now.”
Her smile carries secrets. “Serenade is magic pretending to be choreography. It’s set to Tchaikovsky’s ‘Serenade for Strings,’ and every movement feels woven into the melody. It starts gentle, then builds until you’re drowning in beauty.”
I nod slowly, my brain trying to process this. “Sounds like it rewrites your entire existence.”
“Exactly,” she says, eyes going distant.
“That’s what I love about Tchaikovsky’s music.
It refuses to let you stay comfortable. Take the pas de deux from The Nutcracker.
It’s delicate, but there’s this yearning underneath it all, grasping for something just out of reach.
I’ve actually read Tchaikovsky’s sister died shortly before he composed the adagio of the “pas” which is why it has this beautiful melancholy melody.
And Swan Lake…” her voice brightens. “Those strings hit you like beautiful violence. Tragic and gorgeous at once.”