My pulse still raced as I backed toward the door surveying the room, hoping it looked the same as it had when I’d entered. Before fleeing, I pinched a pink flower from a nearby vase. One missing flower wouldn’t be noticed. Gingerly, I wove it through my hair to tuck it behind my ear.
In the hallway, I leaned against the closed dressing room door and listened to the empty building. Overhead, an air vent rattled and a light down the hall buzzed frenetically. Unlike the night I looked for Van, this was a Sunday and everyone had gone. There’d be no stagehands or cleaning crew until Monday morning and it was as if the place waited for something.
To my right, the hall led to the rear exit and the faint hum of the street outside. To my left was the route back to the stage—go home one way, stay a little longer the other. There would be a single guard on duty at the Wakefield’s main entrance on the other side of the building, so I had the Griffith Theater entirely to myself. Tittering slightly, I slipped off my shoes, grasped them in one hand and my bag in the other, and took off running that direction.
Pushing through the curtains, I hopped onto the dance floor and placed my shoes and handbag in the corner. Then I tiptoed to center stage to spring onto the balls of my feet and do a series of pirouettes. The chirp of my bare feet on the floor and the swish of my dress fueled my fervor. I imagined Claudette’s dressing room mine, with my things adorning the dressing table. Exhilaration coursed through my limbs, and I threw my head back and laughed aloud. When I could leap and prance no more, I drifted to a halt to catch my breath.
Then out of the darkened, deserted theater, I heard, “So there is a dancer inside struggling to get out.”
Chapter Twenty Nine
Almost immediately I knew who it was.
“You scared the crap out of me—again!” I bellowed, and a low chuckle rumbled from behind the heavy, velvet drapes.
My hand pressed to my overexerted lungs, I breathed deeply. “I see you’re still behind the curtain. But I suppose that’s where a stagehand would be, wouldn’t he? Behind the curtain.”
“Ouch. And here I thought you were a nice girl—not like the Academy snobs looking down their noses at the hired help.”
“Ah-ha! So you are a stagehand.”
“I never said that. What I said was you’re a snob.”
“I am not!”
He half laughed half snorted.
“What are you doing here?” I asked him.
“I came to see the ballet. Isn’t that why you’re here?”
“Of course, but that’s not what I meant. The ballet has been over for an hour. Why are you still here?”
“I might ask you the same thing.”
The pink flower chose that moment to fall from my hair and float to the stage floor.
“You were playing the ballerina, weren’t you?” He teased.
His voice had moved from where it started at my right to the curtains behind me.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll keep your secret.”
My face heated and I bent to recover the flower then stood to face his voice.
“You won’t tell Mr. Darby or the theater manager?”
“I said I wouldn’t tell.”
Spinning the flower between my fingers, I asked, “Why do you stay behind the curtain?”
“I don’t like the stage.”
“But you said you’re a dancer. What kind of dancer doesn’t like to be on the stage?”
“This kind.”
He’d been yanking my chain long enough. Two could play this game.
“So, are you handicapped or what?”
An unpleasant silence stretched between us and I realized I’d stumbled onto something.
“Oh, God, you are.”
Backtrack-backtrack-backtrack.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I said that. I didn’t mean to…”
“It’s okay. You could say I have a handicap, and I prefer to keep to myself. That’s all.”
“So are you a dancer or not?”
“I am.”
“But you’re disabled?”
“No.”
“But you said—”
“That I prefer to keep to myself.”
I took a step closer to the curtain. “I’m confused. You said you could help me, but you won’t come on stage?”
The velvet rippled as he ran his hand across it on the other side and he moved back to where he’d started. “You should go,” he said. “It was absurd of me to offer to help you—considering I can’t even bring myself to step onto the stage.” His voice cracked with emotion, something in it akin to my panic attacks.
“Sometimes the stage terrifies me,” I confessed. “But being here alone like this, it’s freeing.”
“Solitude can be freeing,” he said.
We were quiet a moment. Then I said, “There are impaired people who dance, you know—even some in wheelchairs. Why don’t you come out and show me what you can do? If you want to dance, you should.”
“It’s not my dancing that would repulse you—but my face.”
“Ohhh.”
“That’s right. Cinderella’s prince isn’t so charming anymore,” he murmured.
“What happened?” When he didn’t answer, I felt compelled to press him. “Will you tell me? I promise I won’t say anything catty. I didn’t know before—I didn’t mean to insult you. I would never have said such a thing had I known.”
“It was a fire.” The response was short and clipped, and when he continued, his voice was so low and fractured I had to inch nearer to hear him.
“One night a couple of years ago, I came home to flames shooting out of my mother’s upper floor window. Sirens blasted from a distance, so I knew the fire department was coming, but it was difficult to tell how far away they were, no way of knowing how long it would take them to arrive.” He paused for a beat then said painfully, “I couldn’t leave her there.”
“You went into the fire?”
“I found her unconscious in her bed and managed to get her onto my shoulder to haul her downstairs. About halfway down, an overhead beam gave way and struck me in the head and knocked me out.”
“Oh, my God. That’s horrible. How did you escape?”
“The fire department arrived. I woke up in the hospital the next day with my face and head bandaged.”
“And your mother?” I asked.
Silence was his answer and a shudder ran through me.
“Oh, no,” I whispered. “I’m sorry.
“Thank you,” he said. “It took me a long time to even think about dancing again. I just didn’t care. I didn’t want to live much less dance.”
Totally absorbed, I slipped closer to the curtain, a longing to express comfort rising up in me.
“That’s why I watch the ballet from the shadows. There’s no place for the scarred—the ugly—in ballet. So I come here and cower behind the curtains and remember what it was like to have once been the dancer the audience adored.
“I watch the company and wallow in self-pity,” he said. “It’s macabre, but I can’t seem to stop myself. Then when I saw you dancing, I thought I could help you. I know that sounds ridiculous. But I really miss it—you know—the music, the audience, and the stage. I miss it a lot.”
Fixing my eyes on the flower still in my hand, I tried to process everything he’d said. For months, I’d worried that my entire life was wasted on an elusive dream. Now, to meet someone who’d attained and lost it was more than I could wrap my mind around.
“I’m starting to think it’s impossible,” I confided. “Maybe I should stop torturing myself and bow out before the second company auditions rather than suffer the humiliation of having Mrs. Hahn or Ms. Zaborov reject me.”
“Don’t talk like that,” he commanded. “You have to stop making allowance for failure. Don’t expect to fail.”
I didn’t have the courage to tell him I’d already tried and failed. In light of what had happened to him, my panic attacks and botch
ed audition seemed trivial.
“You are a gifted dancer, better than any of the girls you’re up against. But I do think I could help you. If you would let me.”
His voice had taken on a hopeful intonation, and I felt sorry for him. He sounded so lonely.
“I have tutoring with Ms. Zaborov,” I said. “And then there’s the football team. I’m not sure when I could squeeze it in—maybe at night.”
“Come when you can.” There was anticipation in his tone now. “I’ll give you my cell number, and you can text me when you’re coming.”
Squeezing the flower’s stem, I lodged the bud behind my ear again.
“I don’t even know your name,” I said.
“Erik.”
“And you don’t know mine.”
“I will when you tell me.”
“Christine,” I replied and smiled.
Then I padded across the stage, slipped my feet back into my shoes, and retrieved my handbag. “Give me your number,” I said, pulling out my phone. “I’ll have to think this over, though.”
Every reason why this was a bad idea sounded in my mind. I didn’t even know the guy. But he seemed so sad, so lost.
“I understand,” he said then recited the phone number. “I’ll wait to hear from you when you’re ready.”
Chapter Thirty
“You’re late,” Mom said from her post on the sofa.
“We stayed behind to talk with some of the company.” The lie rolled off my tongue effortlessly. “Plus, you know how the theater district is at night. The traffic’s crazy.”
She stood, stretched, and appeared to accept my excuse for being late. “Well, I’m going to bed.” She kissed me on the cheek as she walked by. “G’night, sweetie.”
“Good night. See you in the morning.”
In my room, I changed into pajamas, and readied for bed. As I brushed my teeth, images of a house fire and burned flesh plagued me. Staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I touched my nose, eyebrows, and even my ear. Looks were important, if not everything, to a dancer.
“Cinderella’s prince isn’t so charming anymore,” he’d said. So he must have been handsome before the fire. In my mind, I envisioned the possibilities, dark hair, warm, olive skin, green eyes that twinkled when he lifted a dancer over his head. But now, what kind of damage had the fire caused?
The whole matter drove home how precarious my own situation was, and it set that familiar roiling in my stomach in motion. Marisol. I needed to speak to Marisol. If anyone could talk me down, she could.
It took several rings before Marisol answered the call and her face appeared on my laptop. Her hair aimlessly disheveled, she yawned widely. “What time is it? I was asleep.”
“Mmm, I don’t know, eleven, eleven-thirty maybe.”
“Oh, c’mon, Chris, I have school tomorrow.”
“Me, too, and I’m sorry, but I really need to talk. I met this guy—”
“I know, you told me.” She scratched her cheek. “So how’d it go with R—what’s his name?”
“Raoul, and it went great, but that’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Hmm?”
“I met a guy at the ballet. He wants to tutor me.”
“What are you talking about?”
Slowing down, I took the time to unpack everything and told her about meeting Erik the first time when searching for Van, running into him again tonight, and even his experience in the fire.
“Man, Chris, that’s bad.” She was wide-awake now. “So this guy can’t dance anymore?”
“It’s not that he can’t—he doesn’t. Think about it, he went through some major trauma—lost his mother, his looks. The damage to the outside is probably nothing to what it did to the inside, to his heart and emotions.”
She nodded. “Did you see him? Is he creepy looking?”
“No, he wouldn’t come out from behind the curtain.”
“Then how is he going to coach you?”
Shifting a shoulder, I said, “I’m not sure he’s thought it through. More than anything, I think he misses the dancing world—he wants someone to share it with. I know that's how I would feel,” I added.
The clock at the bottom of my screen rolled over to midnight, and I knew I needed to let Marisol get back to bed. “What do you think, Mar? Should I do it?”
“I don’t know, Chris. The whole thing is kinda weird.”
“A lesson or two couldn’t hurt anything,” I said. “It might make him feel better. After all, what ballet teacher isn’t a former dancer? If he can’t dance, teaching might fill the void.”
Marisol yawned again. “Cool. Now can I go back to bed?”
“Yeah, I’ll let you know how it goes. Love you, chica,” I said and clicked the End Call button.
After closing my laptop, I crawled into bed and stared at the ceiling for a long time. My fate as a dancer was in the hands of Ms. Zaborov and Mrs. Hahn. They were playing tug of war with it, and my career hinged on the winner of that game. Depending on the outcome, I could be burned as easily as Erik had been.
The next morning, I’d planned to tell Jenna about Erik as soon as I got to school, but I had a dentist appointment and didn’t arrive until the end of pointe class. When I walked into the studio, I discovered Mrs. Hahn and Jenna in a heated conversation.
“Haven’t I been doing what’s asked of me?” Jenna demanded angrily.
“Remember your place,” Mrs. Hahn warned, and I saw Jenna’s jaw tighten as she battled to keep her temper and her tongue under control.
“This had to be addressed,” Mrs. Hahn told her. “Now, it's up to you.” Then leaning on her cane, she walked away, saying, “Good morning, Christine,” as she passed me on her way out.
“Good morning, Mrs. Hahn.” I dipped my head and gave her a slight curtsey.
Aware I was there now, Jenna turned her face away. With her head bowed, she swiped at her eyes and I heard a sniffle.
“Jenna?” I moved toward her. “Are you okay?”
“She’s such a bitch!”
“What happened?”
She pivoted to face me. “Apparently, I’m getting fat!” She pinched a hunk of leotard and skin around her midriff. “Must have been the stupid ice cream,” she mumbled under her breath.
“She can’t be serious,” I marveled.
“Have you ever known Attila the Hahn to be anything but serious?” We stood quietly for several seconds when Jenna concluded, “I suppose I’ll have to start skipping a meal, at least until I drop a few pounds.”
“Jenna, that’s not—,”
“Save it, Christine,” she interrupted. “It is what it is.” Then she stalked to the door. “I’m going to the bathroom.” As she stormed out, she all but ran into Ms. Zaborov.
“Jenna?” Ms. Z. called after her, but Jenna barreled on.
“She and Mrs. Hahn had a disagreement,” I said when Ms. Zaborov looked at me quizzically.
“Perhaps I should speak with her.”
“Actually, I think she needs some time alone.”
“Ah,” Ms. Zaborov sighed. “I see. It is just as well because I would speak with you, Christine.”
My stomach recoiled. What now?
“I wish to talk about this new man in your life.”
Chapter Thirty One
New man in my life? She knew about Erik. How could she?
“Your mother called to enquire about the young football player,” Ms. Zaborov said.
“Oh.” I almost laughed at my misunderstanding. “My mother called you about Raoul?”
“Naturally, your mother is concerned for you and your career.”
“Naturally.” I sneered.
“Christine, you cannot fault her for being concerned. Frankly, her concerns give me pause as well.”
“What do you mean?”
“I do not know if it is a good idea for you to be thinking of boys at this time, especially a boy from the football players. You are in a tenuous position, my dear.” Tho
ugh she tried to sound sympathetic, there was wary caution in her voice. “You should be focusing on your art right now.”
Anger bubbled up, and I found myself echoing Jenna’s sentiment from earlier. “Haven’t I been doing what’s asked of me? I’m teaching the class you gave us. I’m working with you after hours. Do I have to give up my personal life, too?”
“Control yourself, my dear. I am merely saying there comes the time in every dancer’s life when she must make the choice. And sometimes that choice does not allow for boys and the dates.”
“A choice,” I mumbled.
“I am confident you will do the right thing, Christine.” Then in an uncharacteristic move, she stepped close to me and wrapped a strand of hair behind my ear. “Your mother and I only want what is best for you, lapochka.”
Though I didn’t know the term she’d used, I figured it an endearment—something Lena Zaborov doled out sparingly.
“Now, I must go make some calls. I will see you this afternoon.”
Choices, the word reverberated through my head as Ms. Zaborov left the room. It comes down to choices, yet Jenna couldn’t eat what she chose, and now I couldn’t choose to date whom I wanted. I resented the hell out of Mom for going behind my back to, of all people, Lena Zaborov.
If it all came down to choices then maybe I would make one that would blow their socks off and choose to give up ballet.
Chapter Thirty Two
That evening, I pretty much ignored Mom, though it took little effort on my part because she had her face buried in work she’d brought home from the office. After my conversation with Ms. Zaborov, I’d planned on coming home and telling Mom to keep her nose out of my business, but by the time she’d picked me up I’d run out of steam. Instead, while she dug into work I entombed myself in my bedroom.
Everything had gone to hell. Jenna was fighting with her weight, and consequently Mrs. Hahn, Ms. Z wanted me to give up possibly the greatest guy I’d ever met, Mom and Dad were knocking on divorce’s door, and a wounded young dancer had lost his dreams to a cruel fate. Could life suck anymore?
It was time to take control—at least where I could.
I picked up my phone from the nightstand next to my bed and sent a text message to Erik.
Meet you at 11 at the theater?????????
The number of question marks might have been overkill, but that was a late hour. It might not work for him, or he could have even reconsidered his offer from the night before.