How It Feels to Fly(80)

“Will do.”

She punches me in the shoulder. “Go get ’em, tiger.”

I give her a weak smile in return.

I pull open the heavy front door. I’m hit with a blast of cold air that smells slightly funky. It’s that perpetual dance-studio scent. No matter how often you clean, no matter how many air fresheners you use, there’s always an underlying odor of sweat and feet.

I walk up to the front desk. There’s no one there, so I look around. At the portraits of company dancers that line the walls. At the posters advertising performances from the past few decades. I can hear the tinkling of a piano down the hall. Also the strains of a piece of classical music I don’t recognize, a cello’s mournful tone paired with a violin, sharp and swooping. And I hear voices. Girls in black leotards and pink tights are heading for the stairs. They look about my age. Which means they must be my level. Or the level I’ll be if I make it through today.

I will make it through today.

“Can I help you?”

I turn back to the desk. A gray-haired woman in a faded black pantsuit is standing there, bustling with some papers.

I clear my throat, which has gone dry. “Hi. I’d like to speak with Ms. Levanova?”

The woman looks me up and down, her gaze lingering in a way that makes me feel like my skin is on fire. “Dear, are you sure you’re in the right place? The recreational and community classes are in our other building, across the street.”

That’s all it takes. My inner voice starts chanting Fat fat fat fat. But even though my stomach is doing entrechat quatres and my heart is beating faster and faster, I stand my ground.

“Is this where the summer intensive is?”

“Yes, but it’s audition-only. Orientation was yesterday.” The woman extends an arm back toward the door I came in. “Open classes are—”

“I auditioned. I was accepted. I was supposed to miss this first week, which meant I had to be on the wait list, and I found out on Friday you aren’t taking anyone else from the wait list, but since I got in originally, I wanted to stop by and see if I can reaudition. . . .”

My voice is muffled through the roaring in my ears. Did I really come all this way only to get stopped by an overzealous receptionist?

“I’d really like the opportunity to show you what I can do—”

“What’s going on?”

I can breathe again. The Russian accent is unmistakable. Ms. Levanova will remember me, because she’s the one who auditioned me. After the audition class, she complimented my classical technique. Even if I look different, I don’t look that different . . . right?

“Samantha? What are you doing here?” Ms. Levanova glides toward us on turned-out feet, like the hallway is a stage. “Did you not get our message? We’re very sorry, but—”

“I got it. But I was—I was hoping I could convince you to change your mind.”

She gives me a pitying look. “Is not how it works, my dear.”

“Please. Just let me audition again. I belong here. I know it.” I’m this close to dropping to my knees. “Please.”

She stares me down. Unblinking. I try not to blink back. Not to shrink away. So much depends on this staring contest.

“I’ll show her out—” the receptionist starts.

Ms. Levanova lifts a hand. “No, Dolores. Is okay.” She appraises me, and I think about the pounds and inches I’ve gained since the last time she saw me. The curves that weren’t there before. This is the moment of truth. The moment I find out how much they really matter.

“One class. No guarantee.”

“Thank you!” I want to throw my arms around her. I want to jump up and down. I settle for squeezing my hands into fists and channeling everything I feel into them. “Thank you!” I say again, as my fists quake.

“Well, go!” Ms. Levanova says, fluttering her hand in a way that’s both very Russian and very retired prima ballerina. “It will not do to be late!”

IN THE DRESSING room, I drop my dance bag next to an empty locker and pull out the two leotards I brought. Black with a pink piping detail, or all-black with a lace back? The one with the pink makes my chest look smaller, but the one with the lace back cinches me in more at the waist. I look from one to the other, unable to make a decision.

“Wear the one with the lace.”

I spin to see a girl standing behind me, already dressed for class.

“They’re serious about the all-black dress code,” the girl says. “Plus that lace is really pretty.” She sticks out her hand. “I’m Hannah.”

“Thanks. I’m Sam.” We shake.

“See you in there.” Hannah slings her pointe shoe bag over her shoulder and heads out the door.

I watch her go. And I realize: she didn’t say anything about my body. She didn’t even look at me funny. I’d forgotten what that felt like.

I shake myself out of it and change clothes. I pull on my pink tights and black leotard, grabbing a black wrap skirt in case we’re allowed to wear them. I get my shoe bag, which has my newest pair of ballet slippers and my perfectly broken in pointe shoes, plus my toe pads and toe tape. I shove the rest of my stuff in the locker. On my way out, I stop and check my bun. There’s not a wisp out of place.

I look good.