Chapter Twenty
Isleep better that night, in that massive bed under the velvet duvet, than I have in months. But when I wake up, the first thing I remember is the mystery text.
Don’t trust him.
Who would send it? I can only assume it’s in regard to Alistair. Who else?
My first thought is Arabella, but it can’t be. If she didn’t think I should trust him, she would have just let me into the flat last night. I could hear her inside, I know she heard me. It would have been one thing if she was just passed out. But she was in there. She was laughing. You don’t do that and then turn around to send a text like that.
Cynthia?
No, that girl barely likes me.
And I honestly don’t know any of the other girls at the company well enough for them to send it. First of all, no one knows me yet, especially not well enough to care or to have my number. Although I’m sure someone could find a way to get it. Second of all, ballerinas only rarely look out for each other—I should have known Arabella wasn’t as nice as she seemed. Third, no one knows about Alistair being my donor yet. As far as I know. Though news travels fast in this world.
Does it travel fast enough to someone who might be trying to look out for me?
There’s also always the chance that it was someone fucking with me to get me to mess this donor situation up or just literally getting the wrong number.
All I can do, besides text back who is this , which I already did, is wait and see what happens. I can see if anyone acts different in class and rehearsal. I can keep an eye on Alistair and see if he’s sketchy.
It’s raining out, but the flat is only a ten-minute walk from the theater, so I walk. When I arrive, my face is chapped from the cold, and as much as I want to spend fifteen minutes in my cozy dressing room, around the radiator, before changing into my warm-ups and going into the cold hallway, I have to hurry. I want a spot at the barre before Arabella arrives. I know if she’s already there and I walk in, there will be that whole cafeteria feeling where you stand there with your tray and don’t know where to sit.
I do beat her to the studio, thankfully. I feel relieved, thinking that maybe she’ll go to the other class and I might get through the whole day without an awkward run-in.
No such luck. I forgot about the company meeting before class. Dammit.
I’ve just finished warming up my ankles with my TheraBand when I reach for my water bottle and look up to see Arabella walking over to me.
“Jocelyn,” she says.
“Arabella.” I let out an exhausted sigh, and then say, “Can we just sort out whatever is fucked up? I’ve done the whole mean-girl standoff thing before with my best friend and we should have just talked. Can you just tell me why you locked me out?”
This catches the attention of the girls around, but they all pretend they’re not listening. I know they are.
“Okay,” says Arabella. “I think it was fucked up for you to blow us off for some guy.”
I give her a look and then gesture at the hall. She follows me.
I turn and round on her once we’re alone.
“You left me !”
She looks irritated. “Only because you had clearly checked out of our time and into something with him.”
I want to ask her if she set up the meeting with Clementine, but by the light of day, the suggestion sounds crazy.
“I didn’t tell you to leave. He took me home after we talked about the ballet, and then you locked me out. And left my things outside. That was fucked up.”
She runs her tongue over her teeth, as if she’s just sharpened them, and says, “Okay. I’m sorry.”
I’m taken aback by the abruptness of contrition. “You’re…sorry?”
“Yeah.” She shrugs. “Sorry.”
I don’t know what to say. I can’t keep hammering her, trying to convince her she’s wrong; she’s already copping to that.
“Um. Okay,” I say. “Thanks, then.”
“Do you still need a place to live?” she asks.
“Actually, no. How did you know that?”
“Just had a feeling.” She shrugs again. Then she completely changes. She smiles and puts her arms out. “Come here, cari?o , I’m sorry for being so testy. It’s my Spanish blood, you know, I just can’t help it. I’ll help you move the rest of your things over later.”
“How did you—”
“Small town, love.”
I let her embrace me, feeling completely thrown for a loop. I hug her back gingerly and then let go as fast as I can without offending her.
“So,” she asks, “did you fuck him?”
“What? No!”
She asks it loudly, as more dancers go into the studio for the meeting.
She laughs. “I’m surprised. You two looked like you were on a hot first date.”
“Okay, well, it wasn’t. Be quiet,” I say, with a hushing finger at my lips. “You got me into this company, and pushed me to get a donor quick, and now are you trying to get me kicked out?”
She laughs. “Of course not, love. Why would I do that?”
“I have no idea,” I say.
We go back in, just as Sarika claps her hands and says, “Okay, okay, enough chatting, quickly before class, I want to introduce you to someone. As you know, Manon rehearsals are starting this week with casting to go up shortly. Of course, the basic has already been done, so please go to the rehearsals you’re on the basic for, but as always, our minds can be changed.” Between each of the last five words, she claps once. “For better or worse. And as we do have a week of Swan Lake left, please stay focused on that, too.”
Arabella and I take our places.
“She means that,” whispers Arabella conspiratorially. “Be careful.”
My phone buzzes. I look and see that it’s a text from Joel Carson, my mom’s friend.
Hi Jocelyn, your mom’s house sold. Call me later. Joel.
I inhale sharply and shove my phone into my warm-up vest pocket. I was not expecting that. I look up and rejoin the meeting happening in front of me.
“I’m going to give the stage over to Isabella Von Fleet,” says Sarika. “She is here from the MacAvoy Trust and will be staging the ballet.”
A woman steps forward, does prayer hands at Sarika, then walks in front of us all.
“You can relax,” she says, with a breezy American accent. “This is just a quick little introduction. We have lots of rehearsals ahead of us to get to know each other more.”
She says relax in a soothing, long way, stretching out the a .
Some ballerinas sit. Arabella and I do not.
Sarika looks at us both, briefly squinting her eyes and then looking to Isabella.
“ L’histoire de Manon . We call it Manon , don’t we? I know you’re all familiar with it. What ballerina hasn’t yearned to play the lead role?” She gives an odd little giggle, then goes on. “When Kevin MacAvoy was choreographing the ballet, he was quite loose with his direction for our Manon. He left it open to the interpretation of the dancers, believing that authenticity was at the core of this character. But what made those in the role shine to MacAvoy was their ability to embody her poverty. He believed that what drove her was her desperation to change her station in life. And it will kill her.”
I think of the text from Joel, and then of my mother. The irony is, the ballet ends in the swamps of Louisiana, which is actually where my story began. And where my mother’s ended. I suck in my breath again sharply.
My ears begin to ring and I feel like I might pass out. I can’t breathe. My knees buckle beneath me. I catch myself.
“Are you all right?” asks Isabella, looking over at me.
I nod. “Sorry,” I say.
But I still feel woozy. I bend down and get my water bottle, drinking a few sips. My mouth has gone so dry that I cough.
“Excuse me,” I say, because everyone is looking at me, and then walk quickly out of the studio.
I go straight down the hall to the bathroom, where I splash freezing-cold water on my face and breathe in deeply. I feel dizzy and sick. My mind keeps spinning around, then the sound of a car crash fills my heart and head. Memories of Louisiana float into my mind. My mom. My mom is dead. I feel a sob build in my throat and then explode out of me. And then the crash I’ve been waiting for.
A sob bursts out of me so deep I can’t breathe.
She’s gone.
The house is gone now. What is left for me? There’s no home left. There never was much of a home, but now it’s really gone.
I cry hard, one hand on the sink, one hand on my open mouth. I let myself descend to a crouch, my tears wetting my Adidas warm-up pants.
It’s the kind of crying that just can’t be stopped. The kind that’s bigger than any self. Everything I’ve been suppressing the past few weeks is hitting me now like a fucking tsunami at fucking work. I feel like I can’t breathe. My chest feels tight. I put my head between my knees and try to calm down.
A few minutes must go by as I sit there, falling hard into the feeling, tears still falling uncontrollably down my cheeks, and then the door opens.
My self-consciousness asserts the rest of me and I regret I didn’t hide in a stall, but it’s too late to run into one now. I try to breathe and pretend I wasn’t being so small, so weak.
It’s Isabella.
Now that I see her up close, I see that she is quite beautiful. Blond hair with some gray. Hazel and honey-colored eyes, dappled with kindness and a sharp, present attention.
“Jocelyn? Right?” she asks. “You all right, sweetie?”
I nod, but the tears are still spilling. “I’m fine,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
She comes over to me and crouches down in front of me. “What’s going on?”
I bite my tongue and shake my head.
“It’s okay,” she says. “You can tell me or not. Would you like me to leave you?”
The answer is no, so I find the strength to say, “My mother died recently.”
It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud.
God.
“Oh, dear. Oh, I am so sorry. I’m just so sorry.”
“I hated her. I don’t know why I’m so upset,” I say, trying to laugh, but the tears keep coming.
“We all hate our mothers,” she says, smiling kindly, a hand on my arm. “But we all love them, too.”
I nod and hide my face, sobbing silently into myself.
“Jocelyn, honey, can you do me a favor?”
I sit up. “Sorry, yes. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s something I want you to do for yourself. Stand up. It’s okay, I’ve got you, stand up.”
She takes my hands in hers and I stand up.
“Okay, now I want you to get really big for me. Your whole body is crouched into a tiny shell. I want you to open up that chest for me.” She does what she’s telling me to do. I mirror her, and she says, “That’s right. Now put your arms out as wide as you can and take in the biggest breath you have all day. Maybe all week. Okay? Let’s go.”
We both breathe in together.
I let it out audibly, and I really do feel better.
I nod. “Thank you.”
“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it,” she says.
I breathe in deeply again. She does it with me a few times.
“I’m actually from Louisiana,” I say, like that would explain my breakdown. “I think just hearing you bring up Louisiana triggered something.” I go on, feeling stupid now. “It’s where I’m from. And it’s where my mother died. It wasn’t that long ago.”
“Wow. It’s a bit like fate.”
I suddenly can’t stop. “Even the fact that she’s broke—I grew up completely without money, just trying to find success in ballet. To be honest, I think…I think this ballet has always been a little too close to home. Hearing you talk about it in the company meeting really awakened something I’ve been suppressing. Because in a weird way, even though it freaks me out, this ballet has always been a dream of mine to perform. I was with NAB in New York for six years, but it was never in the repertoire to perform it. I remember the first time I saw it live here in London four years ago, it really spoke to me. I know I’m a mess right now. I shouldn’t even be saying any of this and it’s probably going to make my chances worse, but I know I’m made for this part. I am Manon.” I finally take a breath. And then, “Oh god, I’m sorry for dumping on you.”
She takes in what I’m saying, her eyes looking even more observant than before. Then she smiles and says, “You’re a strong girl. I can tell.”
This makes me ache. I want to hug her. I want to fall asleep beside her like a lapdog while she drinks tea and reads Proust or whatever it is she probably does.
God, I am so fucked up right now. I’m like the bird in that old book running around pecking everyone on the head and asking, Are you my mother?
Talk about Mommy issues.
“I’m going to give you some space. I’m running downstairs to meet Charles. I believe class just started, but maybe breathe a minute and then do your own warm-up class today?”
She pats me gently on the arm, and then drifts out of the bathroom.
I decide to not take her advice, and head back to the studio to join company class. I notice that no one will look at me. But it’s fine, because I really don’t want to look at them either.