“Let’s see how tired we are after rehearsal,” Alec says. I could swear he shifts his eyes for a half second over her shoulder and looks right at me. Smiles, even. But it’s too quick to tell.
“You promised,” Bette says. It’s not a whine, which would be below her. It’s a statement of fact, and she crosses her arms over her chest, straightens her back, taking the stance of a lawyer questioning a witness.
“Can you continue your soap opera later, please?” Will says, interrupting the long look between the two of them. “I’m sure you’ll get your way.”
Bette bristles, even though it’s a compliment, I think. A confirmation of Bette’s beauty, her seductive powers, and most of all how much Alec must love her. Alec gives her a kiss on the cheek, and my heart twists a little more when Bette takes his face and moves it so his mouth reaches hers. The whole room looks away from them, as if on cue. As if they’ve been doing this their whole lives. Which, I guess, they probably have.
But I haven’t, so I don’t know the rule about giving Bette and Alec their little private moment, and my eyes alone stay on them. So it is only me who sees Alec slide Bette off his mouth. Her whole forehead creases, and he tries to kiss her cheek again, but she turns her face away from him and takes a step back, so full of hurt I can practically smell it.
She catches me looking straight at them, as ill advised as staring straight at the sun. Bette makes an audible, animal noise, but covers her mouth before it’s all the way out. Whatever niceties we just exchanged while making ourselves up in the mirror have disappeared. I was not supposed to see what I just saw.
I look away what feels like hours too late. I lift on pointe in a series of relevés, bounce on the balls of my feet to loosen the shank further, and make sure my toes feel comfortable in the toe box.
Mr. K storms into the room with the other dance teachers on his heels. They take seats along the front of the studio. We all scramble forward.
Mr. K claps his hands and nods. “We will mark the last part of The Nutcracker this evening. I want to see the progress. Snow Queen, you’re up first. Snowflakes, gather around her, and others dart in and out of the center like windblown flurries. We’ll just do the first two minutes, since your pas with Henri hasn’t been practiced yet. I want to see your entrance, Bette. Henri, stand off to the side as if you’re getting ready to join her.”
This is Bette’s first run-through, and when she moves she is a snowflake skittering across the floor: the very definition of grace. Her turns are effortless, her flourishes melodic, her hands and feet and face perfect. The other girls twirl around her, trying to keep up, but they are mere beginners in her presence. She holds her arms and hands in just the right way—the way our teacher Morkie holds hers. Her face is soft and she knows just the right way to turn it, a moth looking for the light. Everyone watches her in awe. A twist of pain stabs at me. Does everyone feel like Mr. K’s made the wrong decision? Do they think Bette should be the Sugar Plum Fairy? I fight away those feelings.
Mr. K yells above the music, “More charisma, you are the snow. Lighter. Lighter!”
Bette’s cheeks turn red. Morkie says something in Russian and Bette adjusts her leg. She does one pirouette and the music ends. We all clap. Bette curtsies and exits stage left. She puts her hands on her head and I notice that they’re shaking.
Mr. K turns to Morkie. “The turns are sloppy. They’re not spotting properly.”
Morkie answers in Russian. Mr. K throws his hands up. “The basics should be sharp, so ingrained, that they’re automatic. Second nature. They look like amateurs in here.”
Mr. K motions for Bette to return to center stage. She stands before him.
“Your whole combination was pretty. Your piqué turns, pirouettes all fine. Nice extension and perfect body alignment.” He strokes his goatee. “The difference between the kind of performance that gets you in the corps and the one that lands you Aurora, Kitri, and Odette is character, feeling, and transformation, butterfly. I need to forget who you are, Bette Abney, and see only the Snow Queen before me.” He dismisses her, and she curtsies and hurries from the center. She leans into the barre with her back to everyone.
Mr. K plops down where Bette left, on the actual floor, to make sure the male dancers fly over him for their leaps and jumps. All the boys look nervous, except Henri. He does so well that even Alec hovers a little too close, watching how high Henri soars. I’ve seen his high jumps photographed in dance mags, which called him and Cassie an up-and-coming dance duo.
Finally, Mr. K extends his arm to me. My turn. I gulp and shuffle to the front, ready to dance. Viktor starts my music. I present my arms in little flutters, then wait for the third beat, inhale, and step into my first piqué. Mr. K waves his hand in the air before I can start. He paces about the room with his hand on his mouth. “Sorry to interrupt, moya korichnevya. One thought before we proceed tonight . . .” He scratches his head.
My stomach sinks. I fidget in my pointe shoes and wipe sweat from the back of my neck. I pretend to push some of my bobby pins farther into my bun, but it’s an empty gesture. Not a curl is out of place.
Mr. K and Morkie fuss back and forth in Russian. He puts his hands up, and she stops talking.
“Can we use the mirror, maybe?” Will says, like he’s translated their squabbles. “Just for today? I know it’s a safety blanket, but maybe it would help. I know it would help me.”
My chest collapses in relief at Will’s suggestion. I have never practiced this early on without a mirror. He gives me a wink when I glance at him gratefully. I mouth the words thank you.
“Fine, fine. Boys, push back all the curtains.” Mr. K shakes his head and frowns at us. Disappointed. He tells them all to split up. The boys scramble about to different areas of the room and pull back the black drapes.
My music starts again. I concentrate on my footwork and the variation. I start to dance, tiptoeing across the floor. It flows, my mind letting go and my body taking over. My feet find every chime and melody. I feel ready to smile, to stop thinking about the steps, and let the music guide me. But I hear whispers rise above my music.
They grow louder and louder until I’m pulled out of the dance, my focus shattered.
“Do you see that? Look!”
“It’s written back there. Kind of random, right?”
“Creepy. It’s about Gigi.”
Viktor’s hands bang the piano keys in frustration, and he stops playing. Voices explode through the studio. I wobble from the sudden drop in energy. I put my arms out to catch my balance. I don’t have to worry that someone’s seen the awkward move: they’re all looking at the mirrors. Every last one of them, crowded into a pack. One of the girls points.
The teachers burst into a flurry of Russian, and I move to the edge of the crowd.