With a heavy exhale, I release the position and look at Miss Dumond. Her smile is soft, pleased. “Thank you, Poppy. That’s exactly how I hoped it would look with the music.”
I nod and turn to the other girls. They’re staring at me, some with tears in their eyes. Pretending I don’t notice them, I go sit next to Casey on the floor. She leans into me, sniffling. “That was beautiful. None of us could’ve done it justice.”
Oh, Casey.Always underestimating her talent. Turning, I grip her face in my hands. “Yes.Youcould’ve done it just as well.” Her head shakes, an argument ready to go. I clap my hand over her mouth. “You could, Case. You’ve proven that by getting the part with the city ballet.”
Her lips press together, cheeks turning bright red as she nods behind my hand.
We finish the class with a few other girls, including Casey, performing other parts of the choreography. I’m almost to the door when Miss Dumond calls me. “I know you’re busy, Poppy, but I want to do a small showcase this year for Christmas. Casey is doing the choreography for the kids’ performance, but I was hoping you would perform a piece as well. Anything you want. A Christmas theme is not required.”
Flattered is what I should feel. Honored even because even though the small showcases Miss Dumond puts on don’t get awards or acknowledgement from the ballet community, they are truly wonderful. Yet, it takes every ounce of restraint I have not to audibly groan because she’s right. I am so damn busy breathing feels like it should be penciled in.
Also, contrary to what everyone believes, ballet is not my passion. It’s only my salvation because it was my damnation first.
But it comes easy for me. It’s as automatic as my heart beating and as natural as walking. There’s no reason it shouldn’t be what I want for my life, but it’s not.
It’s duty that motivates me, not desire. It was never my dream to be a professional dancer of any sort, but it’s what my mother wanted for my sister and me. Phoebe hated it, but she was never as naturally skilled at it as I was. It was always another point of contention for us, even as kids. She blamed me for not being able to try anything else, and for never telling my mom I didn’t want to spend every free minute in tights.
In the end, Phoebe blamed me for our mom’s death, too. If I’d shown solidarity with her when she said she hated it, perhaps Mom would’ve listened. Instead of being on her way to pick us up from class, we would’ve all been home, and she wouldn’t have gotten hit when the drunk driver jumped the curb.
After that, I knew dancing was my only future. For Mom.
I also can’t tell Miss Dumond no.
While I’ve been dancing for years, I’m a believer in continuously honing your craft. This may not be the career I chose for myself, but I it to owe my family to work hard to make their sacrifices worth it. I attended another dance school for years, but their priority was dancers who had a future in the business. They were creating future primas and wouldn’t acceptanything less than perfection. They lost the beauty of dance. It should be more about passion, determination, and heart than simple mechanics and skill, so I approached Miss Dumond about eight months ago, needing to get away from the overdriven, passionless school. Miss Dumond doesn’t expect perfection. She only expects your best—that you reach your potential, whatever that may look like.
When I learned about the debt I inherited a few months ago, I told Miss Dumond I couldn’t continue her classes. They didn’t fit in the budget because they’re not strictly needed—a luxury, not a necessity. She wouldn’t hear of it. At her insistence, I stayed, and because of her generosity, I can’t deny her.
“When would the showcase be?” I ask, not that it matters.
“Christmas Eve.”
The day means nothing to me since I don’t have any family nearby. Our ballet’s first run ends two weekends before, so the annual Nutcracker performance can begin. But when the hell would I have time to practice? Unless I just do a piece from the show. Maybe I can make it work. I’ll just have to kiss the break from rehearsals goodbye.
“You can count me in, Miss Dumond.”
She smiles widely and nods. We say our goodbyes, and I finally get to leave.
Except I now have four hours until rehearsal and nothing to do.
Although…
Four hours with nothing to do is a good time to go home for a nap before rehearsal and another night waiting on rich dudes with too much money and tending to fighters. I’m exhausted thinking about it. And it’s probably the last time I’ll ever get to again.
Sleep sounds perfect.
Jagger
Street lamps illuminate as the sun sets slowly over the city. People pass by me on their way to the subway or to catch whatever mode of transportation they seek. Across the street, I watch my brother check his watch like a neurotic, paranoid asshole for the fifteenth time in five minutes as he sits in his stupidly expensive car, waiting for the doors to open, and for people to start filing out of the building. He doesn’t even notice my stupidly expensive car parked a few lengths ahead or me standing against the building, waiting for the same.
Habit lifts my hand toward my hair, forgetting about the ball cap I put on before I got out of my car, wondering if I should leave before he spots me, knowing my presence will invite questions I have no desire to answer.
Questions I have no answers to. All I know is that one minute I’m in my car, trying hard to escape the office because it was a shit show today. Idiot managers and agents making demands they knew would get shot down were endless. A diva the label signed a few weeks ago was dumped in my lap to handle. Knox, the rhythm guitarist for Jacob’s Ladder, told me he can’t do their upcoming tour in two weeks but wouldn’t tell me why. And Maverick harassing me again about the songs.
I can’t wrap my head around why he thinks they’re so great when I’m telling him they’re not. It’s my job to know if songs are marketable or even worth a spot on an album. Mine aren’t, and will never be. I accepted a long time ago that my music would never be for anyone but me. He just wouldn’t drop it until I finally told him to use whatever he wanted, but to keep my name out of it.
Rubber squealing echoed throughout the concrete parking garage as I peeled out of there as fast as I could after doing a massive line. I drove blindly, my head in a state of anxious frustration and anger with no plan or destination. At least I didn’t think so, but suddenly I was parked across from my stepsister’s rehearsal location.
Poppy’s rehearsal location.
