“Give me a chance and we’ll see how long you can put up withme,” he says.
Mistress Sinclair clears her throat in the microphone and I look away, relieved by the interruption. She does her routine speech and then with a glance my way, says, “Phoenix, would you like to open the envelope this evening?”
I step forward and take it from her hand, quickly tearing it open. There’s just one name on it. Unusual, but there’s likely only one. I lean into the microphone.
“Ruby,” I announce. “Ruby, you are the winner of this year’s auction.” Everyone looks around to find Ruby. The pause becomes awkward when no one comes forward. “Ruby? Are you here?”
“Well, this is odd,” Mistress Sinclair finally speaks up. “If you’re here, Ruby, come see me in the next half hour; otherwise, we will announce another winner.”
I stand near the cake table, contemplating a piece of white cake with raspberry filling. The frosting looks delicious, a thing of beauty.I don’t have to eat it to enjoy it, I remind myself.
Mistress Sinclair taps me on the shoulder and leans into my ear. “Our winner showed up. Looks like you’re set to begin at ten in the morning.”
I nod. “Great. Where is she? I’d like to meet her—”
“Oh, long gone.” She titters. “Long, long gone,” she repeats under her breath.
I won’t complain about anything that gets me home earlier. I edge toward the exit and pick my moment to escape when a toast is being made.
Bright and early, bright and early. I don’t know who coined that phrase, but it makes me angry that anyone can be bright this early. I pull sweats over my oldest and most comfortable leotard, so threadbare I should feel embarrassed. Ruby, whoever she may be, will most likely be more focused on the lessons than on what I’m wearing. Or maybe not. Some of the girls who come through are young versions of the dancers in the company, already so catty they can barely focus on the art. I sigh as I grab my bag and head out the door.
Forty minutes later, I’m warming up at the bar when the door opens. I hear the squeak of rubber soles on the polished floors. I finish my rises before turning around, my smile already in place. It drops off as soon as I see who walks through the door.
“What are you doing here?”
He strolls in, tossing a duffel bag onto the floor, his grin enough to ease the panties off any woman—all the women. Not this one. I fold my arms across my chest. He still has his sunglasses on; I watch as he slides them off his face and tucks them into the pocket of his sweatpants.
“I’m here for my lessons.”
“Not unless your name is Ruby,” I say. My arms drop to my sides. “No…” I say, shaking my head.
He grins wider. “My mom said that if I had been a girl, she would have named me Ruby, and I’ve noticed you also seem to have an affinity for them.”
“It’s not allowed…”
“Men aren’t allowed to practice ballet? Or an End Man isn’t allowed?”
I shake my head. I don’t know. What I do know is that I’d rather dance naked on stage than spend hours at a time with this pompous asshole.
“This is for serious dancers. It’s to give someone the chance to improve their technique so they can—”
“Bullshit,” he interrupts. “Do you know how much I paid for this? Ten lessons with the company’s principal dancer. It’s for anyone who’s willing to shell out the cash.”
“It’s to help people,” I argue.
“Well, I’m sure there are plenty of girls in the lower end who dream of doing something like this. Why don’t you donate your time to teaching them?”
My face heats, red embarrassment climbing up my neck and into my cheeks. It’s true, of course, the company never donates anything to the lower end except its contempt. Only last year I’d suggested we start a program to take dance to the lower end, and they’d denied me.
I hate him. I walk toward the door. I will go directly to Gina, tell her I’m not going to spend a minute with this bleating goat of a man—
“But you do donate things to the lower end, don’t you?” he says.
I stop. No, I freeze, blood rushing to my head.
“What are you talking about?” I don’t turn around. I keep my back to him, stiff and square, but my heart beats like the opening drum inLa Bayadère’sIndian Dance.
I can feel him getting closer, my body conditioned after two decades to know when another dancer draws near or away. He’s two feet behind me—if I swing around, he could lift me in a fish dive. His breath is on the back of my neck now. I close my eyes as it runs warm heat along my spine. Gooseflesh erupts across my arms.