How It Feels to Fly(82)
And probably your last—
Stop.
Come on. You know—
No. Stop.
I scramble to my feet. Place my left hand on the barre.
“We’ll begin with the pliés.”
The pianist plays a slow, elegant waltz as we bend our knees and straighten them, warming up our joints. Tendus come next. We brush our feet along the floor to the front, side, and back, working through our toes. Then dégagés, then fondus, and on and on. As I move my body through each sequence, I feel more and more at ease. My head clears. My stomach settles. I relax, even as my muscles tremble with effort. I can pinpoint the exact moment when I start to sweat, the first beads of moisture that form on my forehead and on my lower back.
I feel good. And as I look around the room, my confidence grows. My extensions aren’t the highest in the room, but they’re also not the lowest. And they’re properly placed. My feet arch dramatically, and my arms and head and upper body float and swoop through the port de bras. I’m in control of every movement. Nothing happens without intention. Without care.
For the center waltz combination, the pianist chooses a Philip Glass piece. As I wait for my turn to travel across the floor, I watch her play, rocking with the rhythm, eyes closed, experiencing each note as it passes through her fingers. I close my eyes too. Just for a moment. I feel the music flow through me.
When it’s my turn to dance, I step forward. I breathe in. I take off.
I’m not doing steps. These aren’t balancés and fouettés and pirouettes. They’re everything I’ve felt over the past two weeks, and over the past seven months. I pour myself out. I tell my story. I get lost in it.
And when I reach the opposite side of the room, I’m breathless.
Hannah’s waiting for me. “Wow,” she says in a low voice. “That was . . . gorgeous.”
I blush. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Thanks.”
“You have to show me how you land those attitude turns. I never put my heel down at the right time. . . .”
We shift into talking technique, but my adrenaline doesn’t fade. I sail through the waltz combination on the left side, and I dart through petit allegro, attacking each jump and beat with clean precision, and by the time we get to grand allegro—big leaps—I’m flying. I’m lighter than the thick, humid air in the studio, soaring so far above the floor, not even gravity can hold me down.
thirty
AFTER CLASS MS. LEVANOVA TAKES ME TO HER OFFICE. “Samantha,” she says, sitting down and crossing one leg gracefully over the other. “How are you feeling?”
“Good.” It’s true. The question is, how long will I keep feeling good? My high is fading fast. What Ms. Levanova is about to say could change everything.
Because what I discovered just now, in class—what I remembered, what I didn’t realize I’d lost—is that I have to dance. It’s my oxygen.
“I will be brief, because I have much to do today, to launch the intensive—and because I received a call from”—Ms. Levanova glances at a note on her desk—“a Dr. Debra Lancaster asking about you. You told no one you were coming here?”
“Not exactly—” I cringe. “Did she sound mad?”
“Da. You must talk to her.”
I nod. “Of course.”
She looks at me with narrowed eyes. “And you would never do something like this while at our intensive? You would not simply drive off one day, without warning? This is not allowed, Samantha.”
I gape at her. “No, I would never—”
Ms. Levanova waves her hand to cut me off. “Well then. Here is the situation. I cannot make a place for you this summer. I’m very sorry.”
She’s so matter-of-fact that her words take a second to sink in.
“You are a very talented dancer, Samantha. Your dancing is not the reason that we have to say no.”
She’s talking about your body. How fat you’ve become since she saw you last.
I clutch my shoe bag in front of my stomach. My eyes fill up.
“You know you will not find it easy to have a professional ballet career with your body type,” she goes on, and I feel like I’m living my worst nightmare in real time. “I’m sorry to be so blunt, but you must know this.”
She looks at me long enough that I realize she’s expecting an answer.
And I can’t deny the truth any longer. “I know.” A tear slips out. Glides down my cheek. Drips off onto my bare collarbone. I brush it away. “And it’s not worth training someone who looks like me—”
“What?” She looks genuinely astonished. “Samantha, this is not why we say no.”
“What do you mean?”
“I fight for you,” she says, shrugging eloquently. “How can I not fight for someone with such talent and passion? Who drives, in secret, from another state, simply to have the chance to be seen? Why should you not get the excellent training we provide? But administration says we cannot allow you to join when the program is full. My hands are tied.” She touches her wrists together, extending them toward me to illustrate her words.
“Oh. Okay.” I start to stand up, ready to slink back to the dressing room, but she holds up her hand: a silent but commanding Stay put.