The Turnout(54)

    The only succor the day offered was that Derek didn’t appear at all.

“Where is he?” Dara asked Benny, who shrugged, his face dark with sweat.

“He makes you do all the work,” Dara added.

Benny took off his cap, wiping his face.

“Madame Durant,” he said, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” Dara asked.

Gaspar, working the belt sander in the corner, looked at Benny, who then paused. Taking a breath.

“For this,” he said, shaking his head.

And it was unclear if he was referring to Studio B, a space that now looked as if it had swallowed itself, the floor sunken and the air above heavy with grit, or something else, something larger, and deathless, of which Dara could only see the dark corners, the creeping edges. The growing thing that had sunk its claws into the studio, into Marie, into everything.



* * *



*

All day, Dara waited for a chance to get Marie alone, but they were both consumed with rehearsals, with the one-on-one and small-group work as they slowly stitched the ballet together.

The older ones were truly Dara’s now, giving themselves over to the throbbing feet, the blistered blood, the smell everywhere of bandages, rot.

Mademoiselle, entendez! Swiftly, Dara moved from correction to correction. Tailbone down! Over toes, not over heels! There was no more room for error. They were all hungry for correction. Desperate to be stretched, yanked.

All eyes on her all day, all those eager faces, those plaintive expressions, those hungry looks. The twitchy neediness of the girls, their bodies never leaner, never stronger, but a darkness hovering behind their eyes. This is what happens, Dara thought, when you’ve entered the ballet. When you’ve finally gone beyond your old ideas of your body’s limits, of what you would push yourself through.

The pain is real and abiding.

The pain is bracing and makes you feel alive.

The pain is your friend. The pain is you.



* * *



*

The pleasure came later, when Dara brought out the Nutcracker head, which she’d set on the windowsill all day to air out the mold, the basement funk.

Its painted face was slick with condensation.

“Madame Durant,” Corbin Lesterio said, taking it from her, holding it in his hands like an enormous gem. “I’ve been waiting for this for so long.”

“Don’t get too excited,” Dara said, trying not to smile. “Like everything else in ballet, it’s hot and it smells.”

Corbin lifted it over his head with trembling fingers. Remembering all the young men who’d worn it, Dara felt a heat behind her eyes.

That was when she heard the faint sound of laughter. In the far corner, several of the Level IVs had gathered to watch, a few hiding giggles behind their hands.

“What’s funny here?” Dara said. “I’d like to know.”

Everyone went quiet, heads down, except Pepper Weston, who said, “It’s just . . . it’s silly.”

“No, it’s not,” someone said.

It was Bailey Bloom. A rare interjection from their Clara, who was mostly mute these days, avoiding the wrath of her rivals.

Pepper looked at her, clicking her tongue malevolently.

“I think,” Bailey said, more shyly now, “it’s beautiful.”

Corbin turned his bobble head toward her. The painted grin seemed to smile at her.

Dara watched as Bailey blushed.



* * *



*

    It was nearly two before Charlie finally found the phone message he’d jotted down from the day before. It was just a phone number with “House?” scrawled next to it.

The noise from Studio B a constant rumble, Dara ducked downstairs to sneak a smoke in the narrow space between their building and its neighbor while she returned the call.

But after she punched the number into her phone, she was met with a tinny message announcing the user’s mailbox was full.

Sighing, she put the phone away and plucked the cigarette she’d tucked beneath her tank strap.

“Spying on me?”

Dara looked up, startled. It was Derek, lurking behind a dumpster, vape pen in his hand like her emaciated sixteen-year-olds.

“Who’s the spy?” she said, whipping around. “Asks the person sitting outside our house this morning.”

His eyebrows lifted. She’d surprised him.

As if stalling for time, he pulled a handsome brass lighter from his pocket and extended it to her. Reluctantly, she took the light.

“This is what I miss most about cigarettes,” he said, looking at the lighter. Then, gesturing to his vape pen. “No class.”

But Dara was in no mood, her phone hot in her hand.

“I saw you,” she said. “In my sister’s car this morning. I think you saw me. That’s why you drove off.”

He paused a second, then seemed to gather himself, to put on something like a mask, his features softening, a smile forming itself—easy and winning.

“Guilty as charged,” he said, hands in the air. “Your house interests me.”

Dara’s hand shook, the cigarette ashing. She wished she hadn’t started things. Now it was too late.

“We’re not interested in your thoughts about our house,” Dara said.