Tara
I’d never danced on the stage at the Pritzker Pavilion, so today’s dress rehearsal would be the first time. The outdoor theatre was in the center of Millennium Park, just steps away from the Cloud Gate sculpture we Chicagoans always referred to as “The Bean.”
The walls framing the covered stage were stunning. Rolling waves of shining metal bending toward the skyline behind it, as if someone had used a massive can opener to peel them back. Red seating filled the slope leading toward the front of the stage, and the area behind the seating was a long, grassy lawn. If the seats were full, there was plenty of room to take in the show from a blanket or lawn chair.
Hopefully, people would. The showcase tomorrow night was free, and the weather forecast couldn’t have been better. September in the city was usually great, but with an outdoor amphitheater, we’d still lucked out on dodging rain.
As I made my way down the concrete walkway that led to the backstage area, I glanced at the ChiComm logo being projected on the stage backdrop. It was the city’s first year doing a showcase from the performance community. There’d be everything . . . sketch comedy, dance, live music, all for charity.
The orchestra area in front of the stage was bustling with people who were arranging music on stands and warming their instruments. All our practices had been with recordings, and I couldn’t wait to hear the orchestra in person tonight. Live music pushed me to take my dancing to a new level.
It was just as busy in the wings backstage, and I couldn’t find Elena. I checked the time on my phone, making sure I wasn’t late. My friend’s email had said six, and it was ten till right now.
“Tara,” she called out, weaving her way through the crowd of people exiting the stage. “They want to move our spot in the schedule. Any chance you’re warmed up?”
Being a dancer meant things were fluid. You had to be ready for anything, like learning a new eight-count of choreography minutes before performing it. I spotted an empty place just beside the stage and hurried to drop my bag there. “I walked fast from the CTA station, but I still need to stretch.”
When she nodded, her rich, dark hair gleamed in the stage lights. Like me, she’d pulled her hair up into a top-knot, but wayward strands were curling at the nape of her neck.
My best friend was two years older than I was. She was super cute, with an infectious smile, and deep, expressive eyes you could see all the way from the back of the theater. We’d met during my audition to be a dance major at Indiana University, and after I’d been accepted, she’d become my unofficial mentor.
We were quite a pair. I was a tall, white girl with a long neck and the perfect frame for ballet. She was a compact Latina with great boobs, a four-pack stomach, and a sexy round ass. Even though we wore the same outfit—a black crop top with long, lacy sleeves and matching black bike shorts—it looked completely different on us.
I lunged down into a kneel and began to stretch my hip flexors, looking beyond her to the rest of our group already on stage. Elena had cobbled together all the guest instructors she’d had at her studio over the last three years, wrangling us into performing for publicity. She didn’t need help keeping the lights on at her business, but she tried to offer dance scholarships and reduced-cost lessons to the kids who couldn’t afford it.
I’d been lucky growing up. My affluent parents back in Iowa didn’t understand why I liked dancing, but they picked up the bill. Dance classes and costumes and travel for competitions added up fast, and that shit was expensive. They griped and whined, but I never gave it up, and eventually we all just accepted I was the black sheep of the family.
“I still can’t believe Nadine’s here,” I said. “She’s so awesome.”
Elena grinned. “What, her? That bitch was thrilled to come out of retirement.”
Nadine was easily the biggest star in the last two decades to have come out of the program at Indiana, and she’d danced with the Pacific Northwest Ballet until last year. The girl didn’t draw a single bad line with her body, and her turns were to die for.
I envied her. I got amazing lift on my jumps and could make complicated leaps look effortless. But turns were my weak spot. My execution of pirouettes caused directors to sigh and stick me in the back of the group.
It kept me from landing a spot in the corps of the Chicago Ballet Company, which had been my dream since the first time I’d laced up my pointe shoes.
Negative thinking helps no one, an old coach’s voice echoed in my mind. I shook my head as if I could rattle the thought away, and it seemed to work.
I probably didn’t stretch as much as I should, but everyone was waiting on me, and as soon as I felt good enough, I pulled off my sneakers and hustled onto the stage, tossing quick hellos to the rest of our group. Elena was at the edge of the stage, bent over to chat with the orchestra conductor, and as I took my place, she straightened.
“He’s going to give us a four count in before they’ll start,” she said, hurrying to her spot opposite me. She settled and went motionless.
“One,” the conductor started, “two, three, four . . .”
Off we went.
Elena had asked me to choreograph the piece, and I’d done my best to play to our strengths. There were six of us, coming from a range of dance styles, but I’d tried to creatively combine the fluidity of contemporary and hip hop with the precision of tap and ballet. Nadine was the star of the piece, but we each got our own moment to shine. Mine was a soaring leap where the group caught me mid-air.
Some sections of the music, we were each doing our own thing, complimenting each other, but as the music swelled, we came together as a unit in perfect synchronicity. As I performed, a thin sheen of sweat coated my skin and my pulse quickened to match the intensity of the orchestra.
My moment was coming up, and I was amped.
Our circle rotated, and I spun out upstage, which would give me room for a running start. As I made my approach, Elena turned her back, took a knee, and put her fist on the stage, becoming my ramp.
We’d practiced this all week. We’d done it until we felt comfortable enough we could execute it in our sleep. Elena was a powerhouse of muscle, and I knew I wouldn’t hurt her using her as my springboard. The group was downstage, waiting for me, confidence in their eyes. They wouldn’t let me fall.
The orchestra built to a crescendo, fueling my run, and I put one foot flat on her shoulder blade, vaulting up to the sky. I wanted jaws to drop tomorrow night when I did this. I wanted to fucking fly.