Page 6 of Ruinous Need
Blissfully alone.
These stolen hours after teaching ends are my favorite parts of the week.
So what if my brain is broken and I’m never going to be part of the City Ballet again? My body still works mostly fine. I can do what I love even if no one sees it.
Things could be worse. As a dance teacher I’m one of the lucky ones. I have a job that I love that pays my way through college. I have access to a studio whenever I want.
I should feel exhausted after a full day of teaching, but the second I touch the barre and stretch my muscles, I feel invigorated. Often, during these stolen rehearsals, I look up at the clock and find that hours have passed. I slip into my oldroutines so easily that it feels as comfortable as putting on an old pair of pajamas and curling up on the couch.
Nothing elaborate. Nothing new. Just enough so that I remember what it was like to dance in this way, to go through the motions. Enough that I can feel that satisfying ache in my muscles when I lie down to go to sleep.
Everything feels effortless today. It’s been six months since I started rehearsing in secret again. Finally, my muscles are remembering how they’re supposed to move. I’m extending to my full reach automatically, bending like a willow in the breeze.
As I reach the end of my performance, my heart hammers in my chest. Before my mind understands what’s happening, my body is hyperaware. It takes a while until I recognize the uncomfortable feeling.
I have an audience.
When Marianne steps forward into the light, everything stops working. My breathing gets shallow. The movements don’t feel natural. Even the simplest steps feel like a strain.
I falter in my steps and fold to the floor, the energy draining away.
Disappointing my mentor and the greatest ballet teacher in the country.
Marianne walks towards me, dressed as always in her black crisply tailored clothes and with her back ram-rod straight. But she softens as she approaches and bends down to meet me where I am.
The familiar honeyed scent of her perfume and the gentle touch of her hand on my shoulder makes me feel nostalgic for a time that’s long passed.
I expect pity. I’m ready to fend off a hug.
A tear glistens in her eye, but to my surprise, she’s beaming. The edges of her brown eyes crinkle as she regards me with a warm gaze.
“Perfection. You haven’t lost any of it, darling.”
As much as I wish it was true, I’m all too aware of how far away I am from perfection. My stolen practice hours, late at night after a day of teaching children, are nothing compared to the hours I used to put in.
I don’t have the flexibility or the stamina, and it shows. The ease isn’t there anymore. I can see it in the mirrors that lines the walls of the studio.
“You’re too kind, Marianne.”
She takes my hand in her firm grip, her palms papery. “I mean it, Lisette. Don’t forget that this is who you are.”
“Who I was.” I correct her and step back with a wince.
Marianne’s face falls.
“Don’t say that, my darling. You could take to the stage tomorrow and no one would bat an eyelid.”
“Not if every muscle in my body seizes up the second I see the audience.”
“We can work through that, Lisette.” Her face is filled with hope and I hate to break her heart. “We can start small, with performances at the studio’s recitals. You know exactly how we build up our students’ confidence. We could do the same with you.”
She knows as well as I do that it won’t work. We’ve tried.
I can’t stand it when people pity me.
Least of all Marianne, who has seen me at my best. Back when doing what I loved didn’t feel poisonous. When it didn’t feel dangerous to stand on a stage. I used to be so naïve.
I take a deep breath. “You know I can’t, Marianne. It would only end in embarrassment. I’m sorry.”
