does that make me?
Wanton. Wild. Adventurous.
Or slutty?
“Don’t look so glum.” Rosalie sends me a comforting
smile. “It sounds like you had a wonderful night. That’s
something, right?”
“Right,” I echo, but it already feels too far away. Just
a dream, a glimpse of something I might never taste again.
The girls take up the conversation, chatting idly about backstage
gossip and dinner plans while I pick at my food, downcast. I try to
remind myself that Raphael would only be a distraction, anyway, but I
can still picture the look in his eyes as we danced together last
night; the expression on his face as he lowered his mouth and claimed
me. I’ve never seen anyone look at me the way he did, with such
intensity and sensual passion.
My phone buzzes loudly, and I look down to see it’s Mom
calling. I feel a prick of guilt, as if she could sense me thinking
about something other than ballet from all the way across the globe.
“I’ll see you at the studio,” I tell Karla, rising
to my feet.
“Don’t be late, we’ve got partnering, and you know
the last one in will get stuck with Andre,” she says, naming
one of the male dancers.
“You’re too mean,” I protest. “He’s a
great dancer.”
“Yeah, well he could use a great mouthwash.” Karla
wrinkles her face in disgust.
I answer my phone, weaving my way out of the cafeteria. “Hey,
Mom.”
“Hi, sweetheart, I haven’t heard from you. You were
supposed to call last night.”
“I was?” I flush. The thought of the party and Raphael
sent everything spinning from my mind. “Sorry, I was...
rehearsing late,” I lie. “I forgot.”
I exit the building onto a side street. Rome is awake, traffic noise
sounding along with the distant ring of church bells.
“Good.” Her voice is steely. “You need all the
practice you can get. I talked to Deirdre in the office at the
company, and she says they’ll be casting soon.”
“Next week,” I admit. “But Mom, the competition is
pretty fierce,” I add, scared. “There are a lot of good
dancers here.”
“There will always be good dancers.” Mom’s voice is
scathing. “Better dancers, more disciplined. That’s why
you can’t relax, even for a second. I’m counting on you,
Annalise. Don’t let me down.”
I stay silent, guilty. If mom ever found out where I’d really
been last night, I don’t know what she’d do.
“Have you been working on your solos?” Mom demands. “Your
footwork is always sloppy in your Odette routine,” she says,
naming one of the trickiest pieces of all, a dance from Swan Lake
that’s been getting the better of me all year.
“I was thinking,” I start, in a quiet voice, “maybe
I shouldn’t use that for the audition. Maybe I should do
something I know better, the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, perhaps,
or—”
“Don’t be a baby,” Mom cuts me off. “If
you’re going to win the solo, you have to dazzle them. Have you
been slacking off?” she demands. “I told you, some of the
girls will be running around, sight-seeing and staying out late. You
can’t let them pull your focus away from what matters. This is
your last chance, remember?”
I stop, my blood running cold.
She’s never said that before. Deep down, I’ve known it
was true ever since she produced my ticket and told me I was coming
here, but it’s different to hear her say it out loud.
My last chance.
If I mess this up, if I don’t win one of those solos, then my
ballet career is as good as over. Sure, they’ll keep me around
another year, in the back of the corps de ballet , just another
face in the crowd. But we all know a ballerina has a limited shelf
life, and if you’re not moving up the company ladder, sooner or
later, you’ll be moving out. From there, it’s a slow
slide, to minor companies, touring smaller cities, until finally, you
admit defeat and wind up teaching, or quit ballet entirely, just
another dancer who couldn’t make the cut.
As if she can hear
Wanton. Wild. Adventurous.
Or slutty?
“Don’t look so glum.” Rosalie sends me a comforting
smile. “It sounds like you had a wonderful night. That’s
something, right?”
“Right,” I echo, but it already feels too far away. Just
a dream, a glimpse of something I might never taste again.
The girls take up the conversation, chatting idly about backstage
gossip and dinner plans while I pick at my food, downcast. I try to
remind myself that Raphael would only be a distraction, anyway, but I
can still picture the look in his eyes as we danced together last
night; the expression on his face as he lowered his mouth and claimed
me. I’ve never seen anyone look at me the way he did, with such
intensity and sensual passion.
My phone buzzes loudly, and I look down to see it’s Mom
calling. I feel a prick of guilt, as if she could sense me thinking
about something other than ballet from all the way across the globe.
“I’ll see you at the studio,” I tell Karla, rising
to my feet.
“Don’t be late, we’ve got partnering, and you know
the last one in will get stuck with Andre,” she says, naming
one of the male dancers.
“You’re too mean,” I protest. “He’s a
great dancer.”
“Yeah, well he could use a great mouthwash.” Karla
wrinkles her face in disgust.
I answer my phone, weaving my way out of the cafeteria. “Hey,
Mom.”
“Hi, sweetheart, I haven’t heard from you. You were
supposed to call last night.”
“I was?” I flush. The thought of the party and Raphael
sent everything spinning from my mind. “Sorry, I was...
rehearsing late,” I lie. “I forgot.”
I exit the building onto a side street. Rome is awake, traffic noise
sounding along with the distant ring of church bells.
“Good.” Her voice is steely. “You need all the
practice you can get. I talked to Deirdre in the office at the
company, and she says they’ll be casting soon.”
“Next week,” I admit. “But Mom, the competition is
pretty fierce,” I add, scared. “There are a lot of good
dancers here.”
“There will always be good dancers.” Mom’s voice is
scathing. “Better dancers, more disciplined. That’s why
you can’t relax, even for a second. I’m counting on you,
Annalise. Don’t let me down.”
I stay silent, guilty. If mom ever found out where I’d really
been last night, I don’t know what she’d do.
“Have you been working on your solos?” Mom demands. “Your
footwork is always sloppy in your Odette routine,” she says,
naming one of the trickiest pieces of all, a dance from Swan Lake
that’s been getting the better of me all year.
“I was thinking,” I start, in a quiet voice, “maybe
I shouldn’t use that for the audition. Maybe I should do
something I know better, the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, perhaps,
or—”
“Don’t be a baby,” Mom cuts me off. “If
you’re going to win the solo, you have to dazzle them. Have you
been slacking off?” she demands. “I told you, some of the
girls will be running around, sight-seeing and staying out late. You
can’t let them pull your focus away from what matters. This is
your last chance, remember?”
I stop, my blood running cold.
She’s never said that before. Deep down, I’ve known it
was true ever since she produced my ticket and told me I was coming
here, but it’s different to hear her say it out loud.
My last chance.
If I mess this up, if I don’t win one of those solos, then my
ballet career is as good as over. Sure, they’ll keep me around
another year, in the back of the corps de ballet , just another
face in the crowd. But we all know a ballerina has a limited shelf
life, and if you’re not moving up the company ladder, sooner or
later, you’ll be moving out. From there, it’s a slow
slide, to minor companies, touring smaller cities, until finally, you
admit defeat and wind up teaching, or quit ballet entirely, just
another dancer who couldn’t make the cut.
As if she can hear
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