The Man I Love (The Fish Tales, #1)(6)

“We have a ballet program set entirely to Johann Sebastian Bach. We’ll be using seven pieces in all. In order, they are…”

Erik noticed David was writing. He started writing too, listening and scribbling a rough outline:



“Bach Variations”

Bourée from Suite in E Minor. Ensemble.

Prelude from Cello Suite. Sr male solo.

Prelude in C #. Sr female solo.

Prelude in F Minor. 5 girls.

Gavotte in E Major. 5 boys.

Siciliano from Sonata #2. Dance for Sr couple

Brandenberg Concerto. Finale, feature Sr couple.



He flexed his fingers and reread it all. He liked Bach. His piano teacher had him play a lot of it, back in the day. Back in the long day. His allegiance switched to guitar and he hadn’t sat down at the keys in years. He frowned at his list. Nothing was jumping out at him as familiar. He’d have to wait until he heard it. He didn’t know anything until he heard it. Or took it apart.

He drew a question mark by the Siciliano. Michael used some other term but Erik didn’t know how to spell it so he put “dance.” His eyes flicked to the stage. Daisy had moved next to a tall boy, tallest of all the male dancers, with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Daisy’s hand was on his shoulder and she was up on her toes, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Her leotard had elaborate crisscross straps in the back. Her shoulders were defined, as were her arms.

And dear God, those legs.

Erik looked down again, drew a box around “Bach Variations.”

“All right then. Let’s start from the top,” Michael said. “Marie, any last requests?”

Marie Del'Amici stood up, a black shawl swathed around her purple sweater, salt-and-pepper hair in a rumpled braid down her back. Her speech spilled out in bubbles, a thick Italian accent garbling a third of it. “Don’t go crazy with the spacing, darlings, I’m not giving any notes or corrections. Just dance. We want to let Leo here know how this tastes.”

“No notes, my ass,” David said under his breath.

Erik smiled. He expected Marie would be out of her seat in two minutes, going crazy with the spacing.

The dancers took up positions onstage and the Bourée started.

Sure enough, Marie was already down by the apron, jumping around and waving her hands, yelling directions. Leo kept calling her back to talk to him about the design. She would come back, effusive with apology. After engaging with Leo for barely a minute, the dancers would distract her and she would wander off again.

This happened several times, and Erik found it more entertaining than watching the dancing. Cornelis was no help. He made a thing of holding Marie’s hands behind her back, seeing if she could talk without moving them.

“David, my love,” he said, after setting Marie free. “Introduce me to your disciple?”

“Erik Fiskare, chick magnet,” David said. “Cornelis Justi, gypsy queen.”

“Call me Kees,” the black man said, shaking Erik’s hand. “Or Keesja, but only if we’re dating.”

“Don’t scare the child,” David said.

Erik wrote Cornelis—Kees in a corner of his notes.

In the midst of all this clowning, Leo was muttering either to himself or over his shoulder, and Erik was scribbling anything he could pick up, making more lists:

Both low and mid shins.

Blue cyc on opening.

Cut new gels for bars.

Pink wash for first transition, poppy red for first male solo, maybe. Definitely maybe?

Remind Leo to inventory Fresnels.

Back to blue for second female solo.

Remind Leo to fix lens on follow spot.

Start of the duet needs to be in silhouette.

The dancers gulped water and ran the Bourée again. This time Marie stayed by Leo, keeping only a token knee on the seat of a chair, but at least she held still. Leo had less to say, so Erik was able to watch.

Despite the invitation for artistic input, he had nothing. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking at or for, except Daisy. It took some time to be able to pick her out of the group, but during the third run-through, he’d gotten a general feel for when and where she was on the stage. Even then, he only watched her as a male attracted to a female. He had no true interest in or appreciation for what she was doing. He simply liked how she looked doing it.

Ironically, it was during the section of the Bourée which featured all the male dancers when Erik was finally moved to speak up. He leaned into David. “The guy with the ponytail. Front row, far right, who’s he?”

“Will Kaeger. He got the Brighton last year.”

“The what?”

“Brighton scholarship. Full free ride for two incoming conservatory freshman. Daisy’s got one of them this year. Not that she needs it—little rich girl from Gladwyne.”

“Don’t be a bitch, David,” Kees said.

“What? It’s true. Her father made a killing laying pipe along the Main Line, now he owns a zillion-acre farm out in Amish country.”

“It’s an orchard, dumbass. And her father working hard is not her character flaw.”

With half a mind, Erik recorded all these details about Daisy. But he was still looking at Will, squinting beneath wrinkled eyebrows. Will had the moves. Erik didn’t even know the moves but at a rudimentary level he could still grasp Will’s talent. Observing the other boys dance, Erik felt a prickling defensiveness, some primal affront to his own masculinity. He watched as though a pane of glass were between him and the stage. Fine, I’ll look at you, but it doesn’t mean I’m enjoying it.