Page 1 of The Perfect Mistake

Isabel

I walk through the dance studio on quiet feet. My pointe shoes are laced up tightly, and they make no sound against the well-worn hardwood floor. Thousands of dancers have walked these halls for over a century. All of them suffering the same things I am today. The pain, the fatigue, the rivalries, the ambitions.

The injuries.

I pass by an open door where a group of ballet dancers are warming up and shooting the shit. Irina is in her splits, her curly brown hair teased back into a firm ballet bun. The new prima ballerina. Matt, Beth, and Simone are smiling around her, but I know the latter two must be burning up inside. Irina is young to be the prima ballerina, and she’s new in the role. This fall will be her first season dancing in the position everyone covets.

Even me. Now I know that dream is at least six months—if not a year—away, even if it wasn’t for Irina. If ever, a voice whispers in my head.

I walk down the corridor to the unassuming wooden door at the end. It doesn’t even have a name on it, or a title, but that doesn’t matter. Everyone at the New York Ballet Company knows and respects this door. We all fear it.

I knock.

“Yes,” she says.

I push it open and enter Ms. Moore’s office. She’s sitting behind her desk, perusing a list of dancers, her gray hair swept up in a strict chignon. Her wrinkles are soft around her eyes, but they are the only soft thing about her.

“Ah. Isabel. Good.”

I close the door behind me. “You wanted to talk to me?”

“Yes.” She takes off her reading glasses and knots her hands together on the table. “I spoke to the physician yesterday about your hip.”

My stomach sinks. “Yes, he says that—”

“You need to rest, if you’re to ever dance again.”

I nod. It’s safer than speaking, even though every part of me wants to protest. “I can continue like I’ve been doing,” I say. “Cutting my training in half to ensure I’m able to perform on show nights. I can do this. I promise. It’ll be enough to heal.”

Her eyes pierce. “We create art on that stage every single night. Can you create art?”

“Yes,” I say. It’s what I’ve been working my entire life for. Over two decades, every early morning and late night, every time my feet bled or my muscles ached. It’s the only thing that has ever mattered.

“I can’t keep an injured performer in the troupe in hopes she’ll recover. You know this, Isabel. I need to slot a new dancer into rehearsals to get her up to par.” She looks down at her list, at her sharp and neat handwriting, and I know she already has a shortlist of girls who will replace me. Might be looking at it right now.

“I’ll get better.”

“That’s what they all say.” She sighs, and something seems to soften around her mouth. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen that particular expression on Ms. Moore’s face. It’s terrifying. “Isabel, you’re out. For your own good. Injuries happen and, sooner or later, every ballerina’s career ends. Mine ended almost twenty-five years ago. You’ll survive it.”

Survive it? Every career ends, but not mine. Not yet. I’m only twenty-five. I was planning on doing this until I was thirty at the very least, or thirty-five. It’s extraordinary but not unheard of to dance at forty.

Twenty-five?

“No, all I need is rest,” I protest. If I can take a week off, I can come back—”

Moore looks up at me. “Isabel,” she says. “The decision has been made. Antoine agreed with me, and he’ll work you out of the choreography effective immediately. I’ll be in touch about the logistics, your severance package… and look, if you feel completely healed in six months, come back for a meeting with the physician. If he gives you the green light, we can have a conversation.”

I take a few steps back toward the door. Everything feels numb. My legs. My brain. My heart. Her words sound empty. It’s not an opening, it’s a parting gift. It’s pity.

“Okay,” I say.

She looks back down at her papers, preparing for tonight’s performance, and that’s it. I’m out. I’m done.

She’s wielded her scythe again, but this time, I’m the one on the receiving end and not the one consoling.

Numbed limbs carry me down the corridor I’ve walked so often. The building that the New York Ballet Academy calls home is old—one of the finest in the city—with the top floors designated entirely just for us. For the principal dancers of the premier Ballet Company. One of the best in the country.

I’ve worked so hard to be a dancer here. To climb the ladder, to build a career, and to grow the skills to one day become a prima ballerina. It’s my home.

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