The Standout (19 page)

“Very graceful” one casting agent says.

“Great posture” says another.

“Her feet were too turned out,” says a third.

So that’s it, I think. But no. There’s murmuring.

“Come back tomorrow,” says the first lady. "3:00 o’clock.”

I can’t help it. I do a little chasse’ as I get off the stage. Julie is watching; I pretend she’s not angry and I skip on over. “They want me to come back tomorrow!”

She’s able to simultaneously raise one eyebrow, half her mouth, and one shoulder by just a fraction of an inch. “Great,” she says, though her tone implies otherwise. She leans in and whispers. “I think they say that to everyone.”

“Julie Harlow!”

She gets up and pretends that she isn’t nervous. “How tall are you?” I hear the casting agent asks. Julie isn’t ruffled and her confidence must earn her points. After she’s done, she walks back over to me.

“See, I told you they tell everyone to come back tomorrow. Five o’clock, right?”

“Um, no. I’m at three.”

There’s a tense moment before I figure out what I’m supposed to say. She glares at me expectantly until I put the words together. “I’m sure they’re saving the good people for later in the day?”

“Probably.” Julie smiles. She’s no longer angry. “Let’s get out of here. I’m starving.”

A week later we’re stretching before class and discussing ballet company internships. “Oh, Zelda,” says Adrian, who is only ever nice to everyone. “Don’t be modest. You know you’ll get into either New York City Ballet or American Ballet. You’re way too good not to get snatched up.”

Julie is stretching with us, so I’m anxious to change the subject. Adrian hasn’t mentioned how good a dancer Julie is.

Julie can get worked up so easily about this sort of thing, even though I always tell her that she’s the best dancer in our level. I knead my left foot, flexing and pointing, flexing and pointing, and smile gratefully at Adrian. “That’s nice of you, but nobody knows how this internship thing is going to go down. And I don’t even know if I want an internship.”

“Are you crazy?” Julie demands. “Of course you do.”

“I might want to go to college instead.”

She laughs shrewdly. “Your mother will never stand for that.”

We’ve all got our phones out, but I’m about to put mine away because we’re not allowed to have them during class. Then Adrian’s phone vibrates with a text.

She picks it up and squeals. “OMG! It’s the people from
The Standout
! I’m in!”

“Congratulations!” I cry.

“Let me see that!” Julie snatches Adrian’s phone, reads the text, and checks her phone to make sure she didn’t miss her own notification. Then another phone vibrates, but it isn’t Julie’s.

It’s mine.

Congratulations! You have been selected as a model for the upcoming season of The Standout. Please contact us soon to sign your contract and to receive all the details.

I look up, and Julie’s hard stare gives me a cold wave of anxiety.
“I’m sure they’re texting you next,” I say.

She flicks her head to dismiss the idea. “Whatever. Like I care about that stupid show.”

She gets up and puts her phone in her bag, proving how unconcerned she is. I do the same and we get through class without a huge amount of tension.

Yuri is here and Julie watches him. We do center exercises and I jump, trying to cross and uncross my ankles four times, midair, before I land. On my fifth try I achieve it, and when I smile at myself in the mirror, I spot a second pair of eyes on me. Our gazes meet in the reflection. Yuri grins, in this wide-mouth, caramel cream sort of way. Everything about him is warm and inviting, like the sun at the end of September.

Julie says something to him that I can’t hear. Now his eyes are on her, and he’s laughing and when she touches his shoulder, he touches her back. I’m glad there’s something that will put her in a good mood.

After class is over Julie retrieves her phone and finds out that she’s the understudy. So it’s pretty convenient when, several days later, Adrian decides she doesn’t want to be a model after all. She doesn’t give a reason and I don’t question it.

Now Julie and I can do the show together. That was always the plan.

Several afternoons later I am super-hungry yet I don’t head to the refrigerator when I get home. I don’t have the chance. Mom hears the front door slam and calls out my name, high pitched and urgent.

“Zelda!”

My sore shoulders slump and my blistered feet drag into the living room. She’s sitting on our white couch, which doesn’t look soft because it isn’t. She’s facing away from the window, so the cityscape view is lost on her and there’s nothing else in this room to occupy her attention. Our slab of marble coffee table is just a shiny lump that holds neither magazines nor remotes, and there’s no television either.

Mom’s sitting perfectly erect, as always. She wears a stylish black tunic and her perfectly tousled, wavy hair makes her look like she belongs in a glossy magazine.

“What’s up, Mom?”

Her chest rises and falls. “How was your day?”

I press my lips together before answering. “Okay.”

“Really?” Mom gets up from the couch and puts her hands on her hips. “That’s not what I heard. It seems to me that you have some pretty big news.”

“If you’ve already know then why are you asking?”

Mom, graceful as always, steps around the two-ton rock that we call furniture. “I ran into Meredith Andrews at Citarella today. We were in the cheese aisle when she told me about that reality show. I had to pretend like I already knew, Zelda!”

My entire body sags. “Look Mom, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I wasn’t sure they’d pick me, and I wanted to wait until I knew.”

Her gaze is intense, forcing us into a standoff. “Let’s get to the real issue here, Zelda. Why did you sign up for it, when you ought to be focusing on an internship?”

“I don’t know,” I mumble and stare at the floor. Of course I’m lying.

“Well, your father is going to be BEYOND upset.” Mom’s voice borders on shrill. “All the work we’ve put in, the money for dance classes, and for what? So you can parade amateur fashion designs in front of that aging super model, Hilaire Kay? I mean, your chances for recruitment by one of the major companies is nonexistent now, you realize that, don’t you?”

“Sorry, Mom.”

And because I can think of nothing else to say, I spin on my balletic heel and glissade off to my bedroom, ignoring Mom’s demand to come back, that we aren’t done yet. “I won’t let you throw away your future,” she yells. “So forget about doing the show. It’s not happening!”

I ignore her wailing but then it turns to a more guttural sort of cry. Concerned, I turn around and re-enter the living room. My mom is staring at her phone like it’s the devil’s pawn.

“Are you okay?”

She tilts her tearful face up, towards our track lighting. “He just texted that he’s delayed his trip home again.” She blinks rapidly, surrendering tears. “I know it’s because he wants to keep screwing Janice. I think I’m really losing him this time, Zelda.”

Dad is one of the most renowned set designers in the world. He and Mom met nearly twenty years ago, when he was designing the set for
Giselle
and she was the second lead. They fell into an intense, passionate, push-and-pull sort of relationship, the type where they couldn’t live without each other one moment and were railing at each other the next.

Mom “accidentally” got pregnant and she gave up her career to have me. Dad married her on one condition: he would continue to travel to London and Paris for work and he’d have liaisons when he felt like it. I still don’t know why Mom agreed.

And I really wish I didn’t have to hear about it.

“Can I get you anything, Mom? A glass of water?”

Mom closes her eyes and winces, as if she’s suffering from a migraine. “Don’t worry about me, Zelda. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay. . .”

Her eyes snap open and she’s suddenly alert. “But promise me you aren’t going to do that show.”

“Mom, be reasonable. It’s a great opportunity! Julie and I got picked out of a lot of girls. You should be excited for me.”

The corners of mom’s mouth turn down. “I should have guessed that Julie is behind this. I don’t trust her, Zelda. She’s not a good friend to you.”

“Julie’s my best friend.”

Mom shakes her head. “No, she’s not.”

Mom and I both got emotional and our fight escalated, until she threatened to kick me out if I do the show.

“Fine!” I yelled in response. “I don’t want to stay here anyway!” And I slammed the door behind me.

Now I walk through the Upper East Side, tears blurring my vision. It’s one of those cold spring days, when March has pushed April back, demanding the spotlight and pirouetting out sleety rain. But that’s not why my face is wet.

I wipe my tears with the sleeve of my hooded Ballet Institute East sweatshirt, which gives me feeble protection against the soggy weather. I didn’t think, I just grabbed a few things and ran. And I didn’t text Julie to warn her I was coming.

When I get to Julie’s building, the doorman rings her. Julie’s parents are fancy, big-time lawyers who often travel or stay late at the office, so Julie pretty much gets the apartment to herself. I knock on her door and she answers, immediately noticing my sad face.

“What’s wrong, Zelda?” She takes me into her arms. Silently, I hug her. Then, over her shoulder, I see him.

It’s Yuri, in nothing more than a pair of tight sweatpants. And Julie is so warm, dressed in a tank top and leggings, baring her stomach every time she raises her arms.

I pull away. “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”

Julie laughs and pulls me into the living room. “Don’t be such a dork, Zelda. We were just practicing lifts.”

“Is good you’re here. Ve can vork on lifts together, yes?” Yuri smiles like he’s proposing a threesome.

“You watch, okay Zelda? Tell us if we look okay.”

I wipe my face and sit on the couch, while Yuri and Julie dance to
Swan Lake
. He lifts her because she’s graceful, born for the air. His muscles strain underneath his golden skin and the two of them seem fused. They belong together and I’m here in the audience, privileged to witness to their beauty.

It’s been several days of ignoring my mother’s phone calls. I texted once, to let her know I’m safe and staying with Julie. Julie’s parents have been working non-stop, so that gives us the freedom to do whatever we want.

And Julie wants to do Yuri.

Late Saturday night, I’m in the living room, headphones on, iPod tucked into my sports bra. I’m dancing around the hardwood floor, doing a pas de valse, waltzing to the steady beat of trumpets, my favorite sound. I need to drown out the noises coming from Julie’s bedroom. My strategy works, because I don’t even notice Yuri, not until he stands directly in front of me.

“You startled me!” I say, pulling my headphones down. I’m suddenly aware of my sweaty bangs matted against my forehead and I feel my cheeks burn. “Where’s Julie?”

He cocks his head toward the hallway, toward the bedroom. “Asleep.”

“Why aren’t you sleeping too?”

“I am not good sleeper.” His face scrunches in concentration. “What is word, when you are unable to sleep?”

I shift my weight. “Insomnia?”

“Ah, yes. I am insomnia.”

“No, no,” I laugh. “You are an insomniac.”

“Ah.”

Yuri blinks his grey eyes rapidly and twists his chin, which juts out of his perfectly sculpted face. But he looks so confused that I laugh even more.

“Me too,” I tell him. “I’ve never been able to sleep for very long.”

“How do you pass time?”

I lift my arms and let them float back down to my side. “Dancing, mostly. What about you?”

“I dance. I go for walk.”

The way he says walk sounds like valk, which is charming and exotic but I choose not to be affected. “You go for a walk in the middle of the night?”

“In Moscow, best time for walk is in middle of night. I am krovel’shchik.”

“Huh?”

He smiles and shakes his head slowly, like he’s withholding something out of spite. But when he extends his hands to me, I sense only friendship. “You want we dance together? Show me what you are working on, yes?”

The rise of thick eyebrows—that grin of anticipation—they make me want to agree. But Julie is sleeping down the hall. She’s claimed Yuri and he seems happy to be claimed by her. Still, it’s just dancing, and that’s innocent enough. . .

But how many dance partners does Yuri need?

“It’s a solo, actually. I’m choreographing it, just for fun. I don’t think anyone will ever see it.”

“Then what is point?” Yuri asks. “We dance to share.”

Gently he steps in and reaches for the iPod that’s underneath my T-shirt. His fingers graze my skin and then they clasp the metal that’s warm from my body heat. It feels as intimate and forbidden as a stolen kiss.

Yuri goes to the stereo and plugs in my iPod, selecting the song I was playing before he came in. When the trumpets blare his face lights up and he moves to the rhythm, his arms and shoulders swaying in celebration. I rush to turn the music down.

“You’ll wake up Julie,” I say.

“No, she is dead to world.”

You would know
, I think.

Silently, I dance. I am not self-conscious as I release a series of jetes, with the occasional pirouette when the bridge in the song occurs. I spin around four full times without breaking and Yuri claps.

“Excellent,” he says. He dances too, matching my movements, and this dance becomes a pas de deux with an unspoken agreement: we move in and out of each other’s spheres but we won’t invade them. We will reach but we will not touch. Our bodies are in sync but our limbs will never meet.

The next morning Julie makes coffee and we all drink it black. Yuri finds a lonely bagel in the refrigerator and puts it in the toaster. “I will share, yes?”

Julie makes a disgusted face. “Are you kidding? I don’t want that.”

My stomach is gurgling with hunger. “I’ll have half,” I say.