Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 75983 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75983 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
“Goodnight, Rudy.” He cut me off with a raised hand as he sidestepped away from me, already reaching for the door. “And I’m sorry.”
Not as sorry as I was. My groan followed him out the door into the cold night air, which rushed into the stairwell. If he hadn’t guessed my most embarrassing secret, we could still be kissing. Or more. And despite what he thought, it would be special, and not simply because he was Alexander Dasher. He was my friend, or so I’d thought.
Eleven
Croisé: a position where the legs appear crossed from the perspective of the audience.
Alexander
“You’re late.” Tavio studied me critically as I entered the studio for our scheduled morning rehearsal.
“Never.” I’d sooner walk in naked than be late for any rehearsal, a habit born from years of working with fussy directors. I had, however, dallied finishing up class, waiting until the hallway was sufficiently clear before making my way to the other studio. “On time, perhaps.”
It was Monday of Thanksgiving week, three days after I’d kissed Rudy. I was rapidly becoming an expert at avoiding him in the halls at the ballet school. If I missed seeing his face, well, that was on my own stupid self for kissing him. I could blame the kiss on the moonlit walk or the high of winning at game night or my long dry spell, but in truth, I’d had an inconvenient attraction to Rudy from the start for reasons that baffled me. He was younger, geekier, and less connected to the professional ballet world than my usual type, yet those dimples and big brown eyes kept drawing me in until I’d been powerless to resist.
And now I was stuck slinking around in a foul mood, best kiss of my life on repeat in my brain, and not nearly focused enough on the upcoming performance.
“We need to discuss your variations.” Tavio pursed his lips as if he could sense my distractibility. He’d blocked out this rehearsal time before Victoria was due to arrive to work on my solo, and my back stiffened in anticipation of his next question, “How is the knee?”
“It’s fine.” We had around two weeks until tech week, and the time had arrived for deciding whether I’d do the standard variation I’d used for years with this choreography or if I’d need to adjust and water down the elements. According to my medical team, my knee was structurally sound with impressive progress in regaining my strength and mobility. Zero reason for any doubts at all, yet sweat gathered at the back of my neck.
“Fine? Or good?” Tavio prodded, expression as serious as my tone. It might be a holiday week with the schedule at the ballet school in disarray, but Tavio was elegant as ever in a crispy ivory shirt and black pants. “I’d prefer splendid or never better, honestly, but I’d take good.”
“It’s good.” I discarded my warm-ups—a sweatshirt and track pants—onto a chair in the corner of the studio. My muscles remained warm and loose from my earlier class, so I easily launched into the choreography. Each movement felt like an old friend, an intimacy born of years of repetition. The morning sun streamed in through the window, nature’s own spotlight for my demonstration. “See?”
“I see.” Tavio nodded slowly, but he didn’t sound entirely convinced. “No pain? Even with landing?”
“No pain.” I went into a series of jumps, more old friends, but there was a new distance between me and the movement, the barest of strain.
“Hmmm.” Tavio’s thoughtful noise revealed he’d noticed the same minute hesitation I’d been fighting against for weeks now. “But I can see you thinking, Alexander. Overthinking.”
“Apologies.” My voice turned formal, but my old mentor was having none of my brush-off.
“Don’t apologize.” He shook a long finger at me. “I rehabbed my share of injuries too. If you’re tight, maybe you need a little more time to get your mobility back—”
“I’m not tight.” I shook my head. I wished it were as simple as a few more stretches or exercises added to my routine. “All the therapists at PT rave about my range of motion.”
“Ah.” Tavio put a hand on my shoulder, his knowing tone making me tense. “Doubts then. If you let fear take hold, the performance will suffer.”
“I know.” My long groan reflected the weight of my nearly three decades of dancing experience. “I’m not afraid.”
“Of course you are.” Tavio made a clucking noise, his sympathy almost worse than if he’d turned harsh and demanding. “The risk of reinjury isn’t nothing. Your career is on the line. You’re terrified. Who wouldn’t be? But you can’t let the fear stop you.”
“I’m not.” My tone took on a stubborn edge. I would dance the Cavalier. I would return to Seattle and to the stage.
Fear would not win, even if I did lie awake most nights thinking about reinjury, replaying the initial injury, turning over other, increasingly dire ways I could hurt myself. But more than all those doubts, more than fear, was my unquenchable desire to get back on stage. The long layoff had only cemented for me that there was nothing else on earth I’d rather be doing.