Bunheads (15 page)

A few days later, I find a little, unmarked brown-paper bag at my dressing room spot. Inside is a nude bra constructed of a tightly woven, thick mesh fabric. I take it into the bathroom
stall with me because I don’t want the girls to know that I need such a thing.

The door in front of me is Daisy’s Bad Plastic Surgery Wall, and taped to it are dozens of pictures of Hollywood celebrities, each of them—with the help of expensive plastic surgeons—trying to be bustier than the next. The irony of my own position vis-à-vis big breasts is not lost on me. I glare at Heidi Montag as I shrug into the bra and then pull up my leotard.

Back in the dressing room, I stand in front of the mirror. The bra is perfect. Virtually invisible underneath my workout clothes, it holds my breasts close to my body. I don’t look
flat
, but I look
flatter.
I’ll be able to wear it during class and rehearsals, and under costumes as long as it doesn’t show. I sigh with relief and sink down into my chair.

Just then my phone rings.

“So, you ready to see that Fellini movie tomorrow?” Jacob asks. “I’ve been working on my Italian verbs.”

My heart does a little leap when I hear his voice—but then it sinks when I realize what I have to tell him.

“Jacob, I actually can’t make it anymore,” I say. “I’m so sorry. It got crazy around here again.”
Because I have to lose weight in my breasts
, I think. And then I get this crazy image of a pair of boobs on a treadmill, which almost makes me laugh but then makes me depressed all over again.

“You know, you’re making me feel like a reject,” Jacob says. There’s a humorous note in his voice, but I can tell he’s confused.

I clutch the phone to my cheek as I search for my water
bottle in the bowels of my dance bag. “I have to prepare for this upcoming ballet. It’s kind of a big deal,” I say.

I can’t explain to him the sudden importance of taking Pilates and Bikram yoga during my break and then spending an hour on the elliptical at the gym before the performance tonight, because it makes me sound pathological. Especially to a guy whose only real commitments are four college classes a week and a part-time work-study job.

“Okay, I can take a hint,” he says.

“It’s really not about you,” I say earnestly. “There’s no hint to be taken.”

I locate my water bottle and take a swig. With my other hand I’m clutching the phone, as if squeezing the life out of it will somehow make Jacob understand why I’m saying what I’m saying. And I don’t want to have this thought, but I do:
If I were dating another dancer, none of this would be an issue.
Or
—and this is Zoe’s voice I hear—
if you were dating Matt.

“I thought we had a nice time the other week. What’s with the mixed messages?”

“You think I
want
to bail on you? Because it’s actually hard for me.”

Jacob scoffs. “Yeah, I can tell you’re really broken up about it.”

“I am. Give me a break, okay?” I plead.

“My friends have been telling me that I should give up on you, and I’m starting to think they might be right. Maybe I should just try hanging out with someone from NYU. Someone with more time…”

“Jacob, listen, in another week or two, things will slow down a little,” I tell him. “Then we’ll see each other. We’ll totally watch
8½
, or any Fellini movie you want.”

“Okay, okay,” he says. He still sounds irritated, though, and I understand why.

I’d be irritated, too, if I were him.

During my afternoon break, I take the elevator down to the darkened stage to find the sweatshirt I left there after a rehearsal. I’m in a hurry, and I almost don’t see Mai standing at the front of the stage, wearing a white spaghetti-strap leotard and a pale gray chiffon skirt, moving her arms in a graceful arc.

Mai is the rock star of the Manhattan Ballet. Not the
star
star, but the rock star: She has that wildness, that edge. She also has the longest, blackest hair I’ve ever seen, and if you passed her on the street, you might think she was a twelve-year-old girl whose mother had something against hair salons. But she’s absolutely stunning onstage. Luminescent. Her pale skin almost seems to glow in the spotlight.

Mai is incredibly thin, and Otto uses her as the model for the ideal ballerina body. I’ve heard that she eats only once a day,
and then only white foods. As I look at her, I can believe the rumors, even though I don’t want to.

I watch her begin to dance. She must think she’s alone. She lifts her arms and then falls out of a turn. She does that a lot, actually. She’s sloppy but totally fearless, and I admire that bravery. After all, sometimes I feel scared of just about everything; that’s probably why I’ve always been scared to break any rule. For me, it’s always been easier just to do as I’m told.

I hear a noise behind me and turn to see Zoe approaching with two big steaming cups of coffee.

She smiles and hands one to me. “Jonathan ran out to Starbucks, so I had him get us some.”

“Thanks,” I say, taking a grateful sip. I don’t know how any of us would function without caffeine.

“What’s Mai doing out there?” Zoe asks, wrinkling her upturned nose.

Mai does a complicated fouetté sequence. “The solo from
Tschaikovsky Pas de Deux
, looks like.”

“She’s like an overcooked noodle, all floppy.”

I smile. “She’s better than that and you know it.”

Zoe sighs. “I know. I’m just jealous she gets to dance that part.”

It’s rare for Zoe to admit any sort of vulnerability, so it’s sort of comforting to hear that. We watch for a while in companionable silence until my stomach growls loudly and I remember that I still haven’t eaten.

“Oh crap, I forgot to eat,” I say, the near panic apparent in my voice. Matt’s out of town, so I can’t hope for one of his surprise gourmet lunches.

Zoe puts a hand on my shoulder. “Chill, lady. I’ve got an extra yogurt and a banana upstairs that Gladys packed.”

This sparks a tiny flare of suspicion—why is Zoe being so extra nice? Does she want something from me? Is it because she feels sorry for me for having breasts? But I’m too hungry to pay much attention to my suspicion, and so we leave Mai to her solitary dancing and go up to the dressing room, where Zoe feeds me lunch prepared by her housekeeper.

“Do you think Mai ever wishes she had a life outside the theater?” I ask. “I mean, it’s her break right now, and she’s not even taking it.”

“What, you think she should take this opportunity to read
Frankenstein
? Or go on some environmental reading kick like your crush? She’s a dancer, Hannah. She
dances
.”

I swirl the spoon around in the yogurt. “Yeah, but sometimes I just wish there was time for other things.”

Zoe pulls a pair of black knit shorts over her tights and shiny purple leotard. “Remember what Annabelle said.” Then she does her best Annabelle impression: She somehow manages to fold into herself so that she seems much smaller, and she squints her eyes. The expression on her face suggests she’s just smelled something very unpleasant. Her voice comes out high and clipped. “ ‘A dancer’s job is not to live, stupid girl. A dancer’s job is to do tendus until she drops!’ ”

I laugh, but the impression’s so uncanny that it gives me goose bumps.

As part of my new fitness regime, I talk Bea into coming to Bikram yoga with me, even though she thinks the practice is gross because of all the sweating. In Bikram, the room is heated to over one hundred degrees, and classes take place in front of a wall of mirrors. It’s one of the most intense forms of exercise I know, and I hope that it will help me get back the body I used to have.

As we enter the studio and unfurl our mats, I point to the front of the room where Taylor, the instructor, is waiting for everyone to get settled. Taylor has black hair, deep blue eyes, and the kind of strong, masculine jawline you see in cologne advertisements. He also likes to wear tiny shorts that show off his muscular legs. Bea winks at me and lifts an eyebrow. I point at her and mouth,
He’s all yours!
Bea then blushes and drops into lotus position. She refuses to look at me or at Taylor until class begins.

After ten minutes of bending and balancing in seemingly impossible ways, I feel sweat running down the back of my neck and my legs and onto my mat. Taylor wanders through the room, offering friendly encouragement (“Breathe through the pain; it will make you stronger”) and indecipherable yoga philosophy (“Remember that the tourniquet effect encourages blood flow and
opens up new pathways of thought and consciousness”). By the time class is over, I’m nearly nauseated with exhaustion.

“I feel wrung out,” I tell Bea as we rinse off in the showers. “Like an old towel.”

“You certainly smell like an old towel,” she says, laughing.

She’s beet red from the exertion, while I’ve turned pale and splotchy. But I know this is good for me. Another few weeks of this is all I need.

That night I fall asleep on my couch and dream that Otto comes at me with a knife. He tells me in cool, reasonable tones that he is going to cut off my breasts. “You will dance so much better without them,” he whispers. He flicks off the light, but I can still see the knife glinting as he walks toward me. I wake in a pool of sweat.

The next day, before company class, I go to the gym again and work out twice as hard. The gym scale tells me I weigh two pounds less.

“Can I take a picture?” Matilda, Harry’s daughter, asks. She holds up a pink digital camera covered in stickers and points it at me hopefully.

I still have a few minutes before I have to go on for
Rhyme, Not Reason
, so I pause on my way to the wings. “Sure. How about one of me and your dad?” I ask.

Harry appears out of the shadows and reaches for the camera. “Better yet, how about one of Mattie and Hannah?”

Matilda nods wordlessly and steps delicately over a pile of cords to stand by me. Then her little warm hand snakes its way into mine, and we stand side by side as her dad takes our picture. Mattie is wearing her ratty tutu and sneakers again; I’m in a blue-gray leotard with a chiffon skirt.

“Great,” Harry says. “Just great. My two ballerinas.”

“Thank you,” Matilda whispers to me.

“No problem,” I whisper back.

And then I hear the intro to my music, so I wave as I hurry to the wings. There, Adriana is tapping her bony fingers against the wall, counting out her entrance. She marches out, and then four counts later I follow her into the white lights of the stage.

Rhyme
is set to Chopin, with choreography inspired by the interplay between shadow and light. The corps wears shades of gray, and the principals wear stark white, so they appear to glow against the black backdrop. The shadowy lighting accentuates our muscles; the piano’s tune is lilting and melancholy. I imagine that it’s dusk, when the shadows are soft and long. Those of us in the corps are the shadows, and the principals are the lingering sunshine that bounces off the buildings in bright, fleeting bursts.

I love ballets like
Rhyme
, ones with simple costumes and almost no scenery. I like to feel as though my body is unrestricted and free, and to imagine that I’m performing outside under the sky.

When the ballet is over, I linger for a moment in the wings, breathless.

“Lovely,” Harry says, passing by with Matilda in his arms. “Just lovely.”

I smile because I had a great time out there. Maybe it’s the Bikram, and maybe it’s the bra, but who cares? I feel confident and strong, and that’s what matters.

Harry stops and turns back. “I’d love to see you in some solos soon, okay?”

There’s another casting coming up, and I’ve been killing myself to be noticed.

“Me too,” I tell him. “Me too.”