Page 3 of Dance of Devils
Shit.
Twenty minutes later, I’ve miraculously managed to find another non-metered spot, but now the clock is ticking.
I wolf down a stale Pop Tart to ease my hunger pangs as I wait for the crosstown bus to hit up the nearest Fit World location.
The Mercury Theater, which houses the Zakharova, has a world-class gym facility in the basement. But I’m not at Fit World to work out.
I’m here for their shower and the bathroom.
And I’m not the only one.
Five-forty-five in the morning draws two distinctly different crowds to the budget-friendly, austere Fit World women’s locker room. First you have the women who are actually here to work out. But, this isFit World, not a real, serious gym: people come here because it’s seven bucks a month for a membership, which gets you access to their thirty locations across the city.
No idea how the fuck they make money that way, but not my problem.
My problem is the second group of women who come here before six in the morning, i.e., people likeme.
Most are great. The unhoused aren’t looking to start shit or draw any more attention to themselves than they have to. Invisibility is key to survival. But the health care system being what it is, many of them are also…well…
“Bitch, you go in that stall and I will fucking cut your tits off.”
I tense with one hand on the stall door open and whip my head around to glance behind me. The woman is twice my size…which isn’t hard, but still. She’s big. She’s terrifying-looking. She’s also muttering what might legit be spells under her breath as she sways unsteadily on her feet and gazes at me with unfocused eyes.
“You hear what I said, motherfucker?!”
“Yeah, I…” I swallow, feeling a few eyes in the locker room on me, though no one wants to get in the middle of this shit, and I don’t blame them.
The woman glaring at me is clearly mentally unwell. And while I empathize, I have no idea if she’s about to walk away and forget I even exist, or charge me and try to bite me.
“I just have to pee really badly,” I murmur, squeezing my legs together. “I’ll only be?—”
I back up until I hit the frame of the stall when she storms into my personal space.
“That ismyfucking toilet!!” she screams right in my face.
“Okay, okay,” I blurt, edging out from between her and the stall and then ducking away from her, my hands up. “My mistake.”
“That’sright,” she barks, shaking her head as she storms into the stall and slams the door shut.
One woman gives me a small, comforting smile and a raised brow as if to say “You good?” I nod. She nods back. Then we both return to our morning ablutions.
I pee, then rinse off quickly, brushing my teeth in the shower stall. I’ll wash my hair after rehearsal, before my shift at my other job. I could always shower before rehearsal, at the theater, but I don’t like to make a habit of it.
My friends are the greatest, and I know they’d never shame me for my current life situation. Actually, they’d probably fall over each other asking me to move in with one of them.
But pride is a motherfucker. And Ihateaccepting handouts.
An hour later, as I head toward the back alley behind The Mercury lugging my ratty old dance bag, I shake off the last of “homeless Brooklyn” and take a breath, slipping my mask into place.
I am now officially “ballet Brooklyn”.
Here, I feel safe. I’m snarky and fun and impulsive, I can let my guard down, and let the love and warmth of my amazing friends lift me up. And here, I’m adamngood dancer.
At least, I’d better be. Because in a few months, I might not be “here” at all—in New York, that is.
I might be dancing for theBallet Imperiya Korona; the Imperial Crown Ballet, in Moscow—one of the most prestigious ballet companies in the world.
I scowl at myself for a second.
