Page 2 of Cocky Nerd
Olivia
Committing to the life of a ballet dancer requires passion, discipline, perseverance, rigorous perfectionism, repetition, a high tolerance level of physical pain, the ability to work as part of a team, and balls-of-steel-confidence in the face of any kind of adversity. I’m happy to say that I possess all of these attributes, and they’ve served me well in all other areas of life too. But that doesn’t mean I don’t get annoyed occasionally every summer when I have to wait tables and it certainly doesn’t mean that I’m not immune to fantasizing about dropkicking my spoiled brat colleagues who’ve never had to supplement their dance company salaries during the off-season.
I start my second season in the corps de ballet at the Bay Area Dance Company at the end of August. It’s July. The summer hiatus is a welcome break for my body, but it’s a brutal blow to my bank account. San Francisco is approximately one million times more expensive than Pittsburgh, where I was an apprentice, and a gazillion times more expensive than Cleveland where I grew up. To make ends meet during the off-season I’ve been waitressing and doing modeling jobs here and there. The good news is that I work at a great restaurant, within walking distance of my apartment. The annoying news is that the last modeling job I had involved a creepy photographer with sticky hands, so I’m going to limit my modeling work and pick up more shifts at the restaurant. Which is why I’m working the lunch shift today, of all days, when Kennedy Sloane is here having lunch with her dear olddaddy.
Kennedy is in the corps with me, and is an adequate dancer (whose bony ass I can literally dance circles around), but she was featured in the festival of new works last season because her father made a major donation to the company. I’m not bitter. I’m in it to win it. I’ll get thereeventually.
Okay, I’m slightly bitter. This is an aspect of ballet and life that I’ve struggled to come to terms with, as there’s nothing I can really do to change my own circumstances other than being complacent in the face of it. It’s just hard to be complacent in front of the pointy face of Kennedy fucking Sloane. I love every other dancer at the company, but she is the epitome of a phony conceited bunheadsnob.
I got a text from one of my friends at the ballet and she wrote:OMG 911 Kennedy just instagrammed that she’s at your restaurant—pls tell me you aren’t workingnow!
I sent her back a selfie of me in the kitchen, smiling like a crazy person, holding a giant knife up to my throat. A tad dramatic, but it got me anlmfao.
At least she wasn’t seated in my section, so I don’t have to serve her, but as she passes by the bar where I’m waiting for an order, she does the most affected double-take I’ve ever seen and approaches me wide-eyed, as if she hadn’t spotted me when she entered the restaurant over an hourago.
“Olivia! Oh my God, hiiiii!” Three air kisses, blinking doe eyes, suchbaloney.
“Hi Kennedy, good to seeyou.”
“Oh my God—what are you doing here? You should come sit withus.”
“Oh thanks, but I’m working right now.”Hence the black three pocket apron around mywaist.
“You mean a businesslunch?”
“No. I mean I’m working here as awaitress.”
“Oh wow! Oh that’s great! It’s such a nice restaurant, you should beproud.”
“Okay.”
“Seriously—I just posted a picture on Instagram and my followers are all like: ‘LOVE that place!’ I should post a picture of us! My fans will love that!Ourfans, Imean.”
“I actually have to get back to serving my customers now, but it was so great to seeyou.”
“Oh you too, sweetie. We should totally get together soon!” Three air kisses. “I’d introduce you to Daddy but we have to go pack for Paris. Such a rush—whirlwindtrip.”
“Aww. Next time, safe trip, buh-bye.”
For most of the year, my muscles are sore all of the time. In the summer, it’s my ego that gets a bruising. I should be above all this. Waiting tables is a means to an end, and I’m lucky that in San Francisco it is a means to a surprisingly decent living. So—deep breath, inhale my good fortune, hold, exhale the toxic Kennedyfumes.
It’safter two o’clock so things are starting to slow down a bit. After three deep breaths, I return to the moment and realize that half of the front of the house staff has gathered around the bar to peer out the window at a hot guy on the sidewalk out front. My buddy Franklin is a peculiar brand of gay hipster nerd, with his beard, bow ties, suspenders, tight vintage T-shirts and burnt orange leather shoes. We hate each other’s taste in music, art and fashion, but we have the exact same taste in men. He falls for straight men just as frequently as I fall for gays, although considering my vocation, it hasn’t happened as many times as you’dthink.
“Look at that jaw line,” Franklin mutters. “I would shave twice a day if I had a jaw likethat.”
Hot Guy, as he’s being referred to, is in profile as he’s talking on his cell phone outside. He is not an animated speaker, he’s very focused, almost definitely making a business call. Tailored navy blue pants that fit around his butt so perfectly, I want to applaud. I find myself sighing. My life has been filled with super tight leotard-clad male dancer buns, but catching sight of a cute guy’s butt on the street will always give me a mini-high.
“That guy’s stubble is the sexiest thing about him,” says Tara the hostess. “That and hisbutt.”
“Word,” Isay.
“He better come in here. It’s just mean to stand in front of a restaurant like that and then not comein.”
“God, I bet he’s mean. I hope he comes in and insults me. I’d jizz in my pants and do a happy dance.” Franklin covers his mouth andgasps.
“And I would pee in my pants from laughing sohard.”
“You like it when guys are mean to you too, don’t denyit.”
