Bunheads (21 page)

“Stop talking,” I whisper. And I pull him to me and kiss him deeply.

The next morning, Bea comes over with two cups of coffee and a plastic tub of fruit salad from the corner deli. I rub my eyes as I let her in; it’s not even nine o’clock yet.

“I hung out with Max Gruner yesterday,” she says, dumping the fruit into two bowls and fetching forks from the kitchen. Her bright red hair falls in waves from under her black beret.

I give a little yelp of excitement. Max Gruner is another corps member. He’s cute, despite having a minor acne problem in the chin area, and he’s an incredible dancer. I once overheard Otto say that Max had promise, which, for Otto, is very high praise. “Tell me everything,” I demand. But then I have to sink down into a chair. I didn’t get home until after two in the morning, and then I couldn’t fall asleep.

Bea sighs. “I was really nervous, and he was, too. The whole time I couldn’t stop thinking about how awkward and
embarrassing everything was. Like, there would be these long silences—and then we’d both start talking at the same time.”

“Wait, start over. Who asked who?”

“I asked him to a movie.”

I applaud. “Good for you!”

“So I thought. I asked him on Sunday after the matinee. I was still in my stage makeup, and so I pretended I was someone else. Someone braver.”

“Like Zoe?” I ask.

Bea laughs. “I said braver, not sluttier.”

“Well, I don’t care what you say. I’m proud of you. That took guts.”

She pokes at a piece of pineapple with her fork. “I don’t want to be the last person on earth who’s never had a boyfriend.”

“First of all, who cares, and second, you’re not. Think of the corps: Jordan has never had a girlfriend.”

“He’s totally bizarre—he rides a Segway, for one thing—so please don’t compare me to him.”

I grin. “Right, sorry.”

Bea puts some pineapple in her mouth, chews, and then sighs. “I guess I wonder what the point of it is.”

“The point of what?”

She looks at me as if I’m a little on the dumb side. “Trying to be with another person when it’s so much simpler to be alone,” she says.

“Bea, you don’t
have
to have a boyfriend,” I say. “You can do
whatever you want.” I blow on the coffee and then take a sip. It’s strong, but not nearly strong enough.

“Yeah, I know.” She sighs. “How are you and Jacob?”

“Great. Or it
would
be great if not for this.” I wave my arm around.

“Your apartment?”

Now it’s my turn to shoot her that
are you stupid?
look. “No, my life. The company. The ballet world. Like you said—it complicates things.”

Bea stands up and goes into the kitchen. “Don’t you have any clean glasses?” she calls. “Oh, here they are.” I hear the faucet running as she fills a water glass. “Yeah, it’s hard for all of us. But we knew what we signed up for, when we were, like, nine.”

“I know, Bea, but people change in a decade,” I say. “I’m different now than I was even a few years ago.”

“Eh, thank God. We were such dorks,” she says, laughing.

“Remember how we were dying to be
shrubbery
, just to be onstage with the company?”

She cringes. “So we grew up, and now we have a better understanding and appreciation for what we do.”

“Yeah, of course, but—”

“You’re just a little burned out,” she says confidently. “Give it a week and you’ll feel better again. Feelings come in waves.”

I really hope she’s right.

Bea looks at me closely with her pretty blue eyes. I can’t read her expression. Finally she says, “Are you going to eat your pineapple?”

I push the bowl toward her. “All yours.”

“Thanks,” she says. “Now go get ready. Class starts in an hour.”

It’s not an easy morning. Lack of sleep, combined with fatigue from weeks and weeks of dancing without a break, means that by the second rehearsal of the day, I’m beginning to feel spent, even though I still have three more hours of rehearsal and then
A Night Piece, Concerto in C,
and
Foresight
to dance tonight before I can eat a proper meal and take a bath.

“Pull up, Hannah,” Annabelle Hayes barks. “It looks like you’re sweeping the floor!”

Obediently, I pull up my abdominals and try to stay alert, but my back aches and my thighs are blown out, so it’s nearly impossible to engage my legs. Blown-out muscles feel like someone punched you in the leg as hard as they possibly could; even a light touch is excruciating.

Annabelle claps her hands to pause the rehearsal. “Is everything all right?” she asks me. “Are you ill?”

I shake my head. We’re taught from a young age never to speak in class or rehearsals unless absolutely necessary, and not to
ever
complain. So I’d never tell her that I’m utterly exhausted, my shoes are completely dead, and my thigh is blown again.

“From the top, then,” Annabelle says, frowning. The girls all groan, and Zoe looks at me with blatant annoyance.

The pianist begins again, and there’s nothing to do but try to pull myself together and ignore my discomfort.

I remember that when I was a younger dancer, there were days it hurt to roll over in bed, or to breathe, or to do anything but lie motionless on the floor. Back then I found something satisfying in the soreness, because I knew that I was
alive
and that my discomfort was the product of something great.

I wish I could capture that feeling again.

That night, before the performance, I shellac my face with pancake makeup and follow it with layers of powder. My entire face is white, and I look like a ghost of myself.

I decide to get a Diet Coke from the vending machine, and then a little bit of air, so I leave the eye shadows, liners, lashes, and lipstick for later. I run up the stairs and plop my quarters into the slot. While I’m waiting for the soda can to fall, I spot Otto and Mai at the other end of the corridor. Mai’s normally pale cheeks are flushed pink, and her tiny chest rises and falls visibly; she must have just been rehearsing. Otto moves his hands animatedly and appears to be almost smiling as he speaks. Mai listens, nodding, and then responds. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I hardly need to—it’s enough to see that they are having an actual conversation. I wasn’t aware anyone did that with Otto. In my experience, he barks something out, a command or a complaint, and everyone just keeps quiet and does what he or she is told.

My Diet Coke clunks down the chute and crashes into the open mouth of the soda machine. I flinch at the noise, and Otto
turns his head toward me. His face is blank at first, and then a look steals over it—disdain, I’d say, or maybe even disgust.

A tiny shiver travels up my spine, and I wonder if he’s looking at me like that because my makeup is only half done or because he hasn’t forgotten the rehearsal in which I couldn’t do the brisé volé. I flash a weak smile, but he continues to gaze at me as if I am wholly unwelcome in this hallway, or in this theater, or on this planet.

In the next excruciating moments, every dark, disloyal thought I have ever had swirls into my mind. Wishing that they’d just put me out of my misery. Dreaming that Otto wanted to cut off my breasts. I feel my heart thudding in my chest. I clutch the soda against me as if it were some kind of shield.

After what feels like an eternity, Otto looks away. I duck my head and coax my legs to move. Then I flee to the safety of the dressing room.

Later that night, I’m almost late for my entrance in Jason Pite’s ballet. But when I step onstage, I feel strangely relaxed—almost detached. I leap high into the air and kick my legs up for a rond de jambe. As I move across the stage, my mind is clear and calm. Even my breath seems to come easier, lighter, and I hear the music as if it is coming from far, far away.

I just dance as if in a dream until the final notes of the orchestra swell and then fade.

I guess this is what it feels like not to care.

Annabelle Hayes stands beneath the exit sign, its red light reflecting on the crown of her head. Her tiny arms are folded across her chest; she looks like a sparrow. She motions to me. Then she opens her mouth and says something, but she’s too far away for me to hear her.

“Sorry?” I say, inching closer. Unconsciously I touch my bun and adjust my costume.

Annabelle blinks at me. “That was much better, Hannah,” she says.

I stammer out a weak “thanks,” and Annabelle nods in acknowledgment. I can’t remember the last time she said anything nice to me. How strange: Today she was riding my butt in rehearsal, and now she’s actually giving me a compliment.

I walk back to the Green Room, where everyone is in various stages of readiness for the final ballet. It’s a big corps ballet, and all of us are in it.

“How did the Pite go?” Bea asks.

“Apparently, good,” I say, reaching for my bottle of water. I drink half of it in what seems like two gulps. “I got a compliment from Annabelle, God knows why.”

Daisy’s dark head pops up over Bea’s shoulder. “No way,” she says.

Zoe has just come in, still a little out of breath from the performance. “A compliment? I wonder what got into her,” she says.

I finish the rest of my water and then check my makeup in the mirror. I need to retouch my lipstick and change my bun to a low chignon. “I mean, I totally relaxed for once. It was kind of freeing.”

Zoe lifts an eyebrow. “Whatever works for you,” she says, sounding unconvinced. “But his ballet is hardly a real ballet, you know—I mean, all that rolling around on the floor stuff! Ugh.”

“I’m sure you looked great, Hannah,” Bea says.

Zoe snorts under her breath and turns away. And I can’t help smiling to myself.