“Back to first position,” Miss Helen instructs, “bending forward, back, to the bar, away from the bar, fourth position with arm up and turned toward the bar. Same thing with fifth position with the inside arm, turn completely, grand plié and last four counts a little slower for the whole de côté.”
To the untrained ear, I’m sure everything she just said doesn’t make a lick of sense. But I’ve been doing this for a long time, so her instructions are perfectly clear. A few of the other girls sharing a barre section with me appear wide-eyed and stunned, struggling to recall Miss Helen’s sequence.
There are at least forty other dancers in the studio with me, all noticeably younger than myself. I try my best not to think about how much older I am. A-Ma says that I have far more experience than the rest of the ballet dancers here, and that’s what’s important to recruiters.
We’re dressed in a weird mishmash of dance clothes: tights over leotards, hand-knitted multicolor legwarmers on each calf, puffy vests over baggy shirts, running shorts over tights. When it comes to classes, all that matters is that we’re dressed for comfort. There’s no audience to impress, so wearing a fancy tutu and full costume makeup is overkill.
Gentle piano music plays over the speakers, the tempo slow but cheerful. My body moves in perfect synchronization to the beat, flowing with grace that’s both poised and effortless. I’m more than aware of the burn in my shins, the tendons and stiff muscle of my legs stinging. I’ve been trying so hard to take care of myself, but nothing I do seems to help. I know I should listen to the doctor and take some time off from dancing, but I’m worried that if I wait any longer, I may not be able to make springtime auditions.
The second things get bad, I want you to come back and see me.
Nate’s words echo in my head. The deep rumble of his voice distracts me, causes me to fall behind by a beat.
Don’t think about him.
Miss Helen claps her hands together. “Don’t drag, Eve. You’re dragging.”
Focus, woman. Now’s not the time.
We turn on our toes, extending our legs while presenting our feet. I tap my pointe shoes to the steady rhythm as I prepare for Miss Helen’s next sequence.
It’s hard not to notice the state of disrepair of my pointe shoes. They’re almost completely dead. If I’m lucky, I can maybe use them for another day or so. I know they’re on their way out because the tip feels squishy and soft, not at all solid and supportive like it should be. I’m unable to achieve maximum arch, so I’ll have to change shoes in the middle of class to make sure my form isn’t affected. It’s a shame, really. I was hoping to make this pair last a bit longer.
Pointe shoes are stupidly expensive.
I’m fairly certain I go through two pair in the run of a regular week because I dance so much. I’ve got a special pair for barre, a special pair for jumps, and even a pair specifically for performances. I count my lucky stars I don’t need as many as a ballerina in a company for now. They can go through upward of a hundred pairs per season, sometimes more. The only reason I get a decent discount is because I happen to work part-time as a ballet instructor with the Haven Ballet Academy. I’m thankful that I’m able to work and study at the same time. A-Ma’s already working two jobs as it is just to pay the bills. I honestly don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t teach the little ones and earn a little money to help out on the side.
A-Ma works as a cashier at a local bookstore during the day, and during the evenings and on the weekends, she works as a maid. She actually used to work for the Winthrop family, which is how I met Nate in the first place.
It feels like forever ago.
“Now turn,” Helen orders, “and repeat on the other leg.”
Feet shuffle against the hardwood floor as we prepare for another round of warm-ups. The tension in my legs is starting to become excruciating. The muscles in my calves are tight, fatiguing far too quickly for my liking.
I swallow my frustration. I’m in serious trouble if I can’t handle a simple warm-up. I still haven’t gotten the X-rays like Nate asked. Mainly because I don’t have the spare cash lying around to pay for them, and also because I really, really don’t want to see Nate again.
If I do, I might not be able to control myself.
It’s just too dangerous.
Every time I close my eyes, when my mind wanders for a fraction of a second, I can remember the sensation of his big, strong hands on me with excruciating detail. I can see him, breathe him in, hear his voice as clear as day. I don’t know why I want to feel his fingers combing through my hair. I don’t know why I ache to have him pressed up against me.