by Adams, Sarah
Just because this is an inexpensive ballet class, doesn’t mean they get a cheap education. I instruct these girls with the same precision and expectations I received in my fancy-shmancy-pricey-dicey studio growing up. I cringe thinking back to how my parents and I had to work our butts off to afford that place. Yes, you heard me correctly, my parents AND I had to work for it. Neither of my parents ever had jobs that paid particularly well, and because they were also taking care of my grandmother who fought an aggressive form of cancer for most of my childhood, my dad worked two jobs to make ends meet. Money was tight at all times.
My sister and I both worked during high school in order to pay for our cars, insurance, fun stuff like movie tickets, and even part of my ballet tuition. I wish a studio like the one I own now had existed near me when I was younger for many reasons.
1) We operate on income-based tuition. That means if your parents make less, your tuition is less and we make sure you can afford to come to ballet. Because dance shouldn’t be available only to the wealthy. It should be something for everyone to enjoy. It shouldn’t be a burden.
2) My studio focuses not only on technique and practice, but on the whole person. I care about these girls. I care if they’re eating. I care if they have clothes for school in the fall. I care if they are fighting with a friend and need a hug or a ride to class that day. I care more about what their eyes are telling me than the turnout of their feet. Because as I have learned firsthand, ballet can slip from your grasp in a blink, but your soul is with you forever. I’m finally taking my mom’s advice and implementing it in my students’ dance education.
But don’t get me wrong, I also care about the turnout of their toes, and right now as we practice, I give them the kind of instruction they can be proud of. When they graduate from high school, I want them to feel like they received all the training they needed to go on to dance in a company or apply to Juilliard. During this one-hour class, I give these girls my all, and I expect the same in return from them.
However, some sacrifices have to be made in order to provide lower tuition. As far as ballet studios go, this one is miniscule. It’s a mouse hole—a mouse hole situated in the upstairs portion of a pizza parlor where it has thrived for ten years. I took it over from the old owner, Ms. Katie, four years ago, and I’ve never looked back. This is my slice of heaven. It smells like yeast and pepperonis and sounds like classical music and laughter.
After class is over, I take up my usual position in front of the exit in the four-foot-wide hallway that extends the length of the studio. It’s lined with dance bags, water bottles, and shoes, bookended by one single-stall bathroom on one side and my punctuation mark of an office on the opposite end.
The girls line up with their bags slung over their shoulders and go out the door one by one, pausing to listen to the inspirational message I tell them every time they leave. They want to pluck their ears off from having to hear it so often, but I will wax every hair from my body before I stop telling them, because I know they need to hear it. I hold out the basket of homemade oatmeal protein cookies I make each week for my classes.
“Imani, I’m proud of you. You’re beautiful and worthy just the way you are. Take a cookie.” She does and rolls her eyes with a grin. “Sierra, I’m proud of you. You’re beautiful and worthy just the way you are. Take a cookie.” She sticks her tongue out and wrinkles her nose. I stick mine out in return.
I go down the line of all eight dancers, looking in each of their eyes, noting if there’s anything that seems off, making sure they look not too skinny, like they’ve been sleeping, like they are not losing their soul to dance like I wish my teachers would have done for me. Because here’s the thing about dancers at this level: they will do anything to succeed, which usually translates to working themselves so hard their feet bleed, starving themselves so their bodies have leaner lines, constantly striving for perfection and spending more time dancing than living. That was me at one point, and I’m so thankful it’s not me anymore. Now, I eat when I’m hungry, and I live life outside of dance.
That car accident saved my life, because if I had gone on to Juilliard with the unhealthy mentality toward my body and workaholic lifestyle I had at the time, I’m not sure what would have happened to me. Now, I will make sure my dancers feel seen, and loved, and dammit, FED!
Hannah is the last student in the line, and as she gets ready to take a cookie, my overprotective-teacher radar starts blaring because her eyes are cast down. Usually she makes a face at me like the other girls on her way out the door. I pull the basket of cookies away at the last second before her young-adult hand can grab one.
“Ah-ah-ah,” I say like I’m reprimanding a puppy that’s too cute to actually scold. I hold the basket far away. “No cookie for you unless you tell me what’s up with the darty eyes.”
Oooo, I forgot I was dealing with the worst kind of teenager, though—a level-four teen, aka a driving teen who now thinks she’s a grown-ass adult.
She folds her arms. “Fine. I’m not hungry anyway.” Her eyeballs cut purposely away from me, but I can still see something lurking.
Well, unlucky for her, I never fully grew up.
With her gaze turned away from me, I’m able to easily pluck the same little bejeweled cell phone that had Nathan’s glorious picture on it from her hand. I hold it behind my back and convey with my eyes that she’s never getting it back if she doesn’t comply. She gasps indignantly, and I mimic it like an annoying parrot, widening my eyes mockingly.
“Oh, did you want this? Tell me what’s wrong and I’ll give it back.”
“You can’t take my phone! This isn’t school.”
“Uh—I think I just did.” I’m ruthless, but I don’t care if she’s mad, because now I’m convinced something is going on that she’s not telling me about, and I care too much about her to let it slide.
“Miss B!” She groans. “I need to go! My shift starts in forty-five minutes, and I need to go home to change. Please can I have my phone back?”
I make a thinking face. “Ummm…no. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Her slender shoulders slump as best as a perfectly refined ballerina’s body will allow. “You’re really not going to let me have it back?” I smile pleasantly and shake my head. She rolls her eyes. “Fine. My dad lost his job again. He said the company had to make budget cuts. I—I know my tuition is already low, but I still might have to quit coming. I can’t work any more hours and still keep up my grades.”
I extend the pink and blue jeweled phone back to her. “Thank you. Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
She gives me a death glare. “It was an invasion of privacy.”
“Sure, sure, I see where you’re coming from, but…I don’t care.” I grin and hand her a cookie. She smiles weakly, and I know I’m forgiven. “Forget about tuition until your dad gets back on his feet.”
She looks stunned. “Are you serious? Miss B, I can’t—”
“Of course you can! Now, quit worrying—it’ll give you ulcers.” I turn around to flick off the studio lights and pick up my duffle bag. “I want to see you in class on Thursday.”
Once we’re out the door, I lock up, and we both walk down the extremely steep and narrow stairs that lead to the parking lot. The smell of pizza dough punches me in the stomach, and I want to chuck these healthy cookies across the building and devour a supreme stuffed-crust pizza instead. You’d think after six years of smelling this haunting yeasty aroma, I’d be used to it, maybe even sick of it. Nope.
Hannah turns to me after we make it to the bottom of the stairs. She opens her mouth, but no words come out. I do see tears clinging to her long lashes though. She slowly lets her breath out and then nods. “Thanks, Miss B. I’ll be here.”
And that’s all I want. Well, that and more money to rain down like manna from heaven somehow. I’m not sure how I’ll make it work without Hannah’s tuition and an already tight budget, but I refuse to turn away a girl who needs help.
The memory of an Instagram post I saw earlier this week suddenly pops into my mind. It was from The Good Factory saying that one of their incredible spaces is going to become available next month, and they are currently taking applications. I’ve dreamed of securing a place in The Good Factory ever since I learned about it a few years ago. It’s a giant old renovated—you guessed it—factory that was endowed in some rich benefactor’s will with the specific purpose of offering free rental spaces for non-profit organizations. The only overhead costs organizations are required to cover are for any adjustments they need to make to the space (which for me would be adding mirrors and a ballet barre). There are only fifteen gigantic spaces available for use in the factory and they are ALWAYS occupied, because, duh, who wouldn’t want to be in there?
Each space is lined with gorgeous windows, hardwood floors, and expansive exposed brick walls. I bet there’s not a hint of a yeast scent anywhere in that building. I want to apply, because with the free rent, I would officially be able to convert my studio to a non-profit and lower tuition prices to nearly free. But even as I think of applying, I roll my eyes. There’s no way I’d get selected among the hundreds of other applicants. I’ve learned by now not to count too much on something in the future that’s completely out of my hands. Best to make do with the resources I have available to me now.
I watch Hannah walk to her car and wait until she’s safely inside to go to my own. I toss my bag on the opposite seat that’s already piled high with sweaters and water bottles then check my phone. I’m not surprised to see a new voicemail from Nathan because we have become very good at a voicemail-and-text friendship. We tend to call and leave meaningless voicemails for no reason. Like cell phone pen pals.
“Hey, is it true that some caterpillars are poisonous? Somehow one made its way into my truck and then disappeared when I looked away. Now I’m wondering if I should buy a new vehicle and just give him this one? What do you think?”
I immediately call him back and leave a message when he doesn’t answer. “I haven’t had time to Google it yet, but better safe than sorry. Can you get a flashy sports car this time? Also, I’m really craving a cherry slushie. Does that mean I have a vitamin deficiency? That’s all. K, bye.”
After I hang up, I peruse the internet, trying to find that photo the girls were staring at before class.
I hear a loud knock on my apartment door followed by Nathan’s voice. “Bree! You here?”
“Be out in a second!” I yell from my bathroom where I’ve just finished applying my face mask.
It’s only 5:30 PM. He’s a little early to pick me up for Jamal’s party, and I’m still in my strappy black leotard with my herringbone textured leggings overtop, but more importantly, bright green goo is currently hardening on my skin. I should probably worry about what Nathan will think of me in this thing, but honestly, he’s seen me in worse. And this is one of the perks of never anticipating a relationship with your best friend—you can look like dump and still hang out!
Welcome to the bright side, friends!
I leave the bathroom and head toward the kitchen where I see Nathan rummaging through my fridge. He’s bent over when I walk in, and my stomach does a flip at the sight.
“Apples are in the bottom drawer,” I say, forcing my gaze away from his derriere, because, umm hello, friends don’t ogle friends’ butts. Even when those butts look amazing in a pair of tight, grey chino pants.
“Ah—thank you.” He stands up and shuts the fridge with his spoils in hand. When he turns to face me, the apple is already between his teeth and he freezes mid-crispy-bite. His eyes widen and his smile grows on either side of the red forbidden fruit.
“What?” I ask, leaning back against the counter like everything is perfectly normal. “Do I have something on my face?”
He lets out a guttural laugh, and the sound is so him it stirs me in ways a woman with her face painted like a frog shouldn’t be feeling. In fact, I shouldn’t be thinking sexy thoughts toward Nathan ever, but it’s just…it’s DIFFICULT, okay? I’m a woman with very opinionated ovaries, and let me tell you, they’re real hussies. Currently, as Nathan rips the bite off that apple and tilts his head at me with a playful smile, they are down there waxing poetic about how his soft, white tee fits him so well it looks like a deity plucked him up by his feet and dipped him headfirst into a sensual cotton pond. In conclusion, I am deceased at the sight of him.
“Should I be worried about whatever is happening here?” He wiggles his big man fingers across the front of his face.
“Only because when I wash it off, I’ll be so devastatingly gorgeous you might die on the spot.”
It’s a joke, clearly a 100% facetious statement, but Nathan swallows his bite of apple, and then his eyes do a very odd thing: they tiptoe down my body.
It only happens that one time and his gaze doesn’t take the same path back up, but part of me wonders…no! No wondering! Shut up down there, you little instigators.
I register the wink of desire running through me and do the same thing I’ve always done over the last six years, what every good co-ed best friend dynamic has perfected. I dart around the kitchen like I have something very important to do, pretending like it never happened. At all costs, I NEVER acknowledge the feeling of desire.
I turn toward the counter at my back and find a cherry slushie in a Styrofoam cup. I gasp like it’s a goblet full of stolen jewels. “YOU BROUGHT ME A SLUSHIE!?” I have to say this in a way that projects my voice and conveys excitement without cracking the mask on my face. It’s an important skill to master in life.
I hear him chuckle and bite into the apple again. “You said you were craving one, right?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t mean for you to go get me one,” I say before putting the straw in my mouth and taking a long sip until my brain freezes deliciously.
Nathan is staring at me before looking grumpy and shooting his gaze down to his phone. “It’s really not a big deal.” He thumbs his screen then sets his phone down on the counter with a loud thud. “I’m so sick of this thing,” he says, dashing an anxious hand through his hair. “I feel like it goes off nonstop. I can never get a break.”
He leaves my little galley kitchen to move into the living room and plops down on my couch. I can’t help but chuckle at the sight of him, limbs completely sprawled out and hanging off every surface of my teeny-weeny furniture. He looks like he just climbed down the beanstalk and decided to nap on Baby Bear’s couch. His dark eyes close, and I sense how tired he is. Just looking at him and knowing the kind of schedule he has to keep makes me exhausted to my bones. I want to wrap him up in my bright yellow throw blanket, feed him soup, and make him watch cartoons all day.
“We could stay in and watch a movie, you know. I’m sure Jamal will understand if we miss his dinner.”
Nathan doesn’t open his eyes. “Nah, I want to go. It’s important to him that I be there.”
I sigh, knowing Nathan is as immovable on his reluctance to pass anything up in favor of resting as I am about taking money from him. I imagine a girlfriend would probably climb right on top of him and pin him down, giving him no choice but to stay in for the night.
But I’m not his girlfriend.
I shake myself from that fantasy. “Okay, well I need to go wash this goop off my face and then we can—”
I’m interrupted by the sound of Nathan’s phone buzzing on the kitchen counter. I look over my shoulder, but he holds up his hand, signaling for me to leave it be. “Shhh, no one move and maybe they’ll think I’m not home.”
“I can answer it and pretend they have the wrong number.”
“No one believed your French last time.”
That’s true. Tim, Nathan’s manager, made me hand Nathan the phone right away.
Nathan grabs the lime green pillow resting under his head and pulls it up to bury his face in. There’s an odd sense of satisfaction that hums through me because I get to see him like this, because he only lets his guard down with me
. “I’m sure it’s just Nicole or Tim wanting another piece of my soul.”
The phone stops ringing.
“Someone is dramatic tonight.”
Nathan peeks over the pillow and lifts a brow. “I’m dramatic every night.”
His eyes shut again, and I let myself have one last good long look at him. He’s lying on top of a pile of clean clothes that have lived in that spot for a week. There are nail polishes scattered all over my coffee table and bills open on the floor. The funny thing is, Nathan is the physical manifestation of order and tidiness, but he’s never once tried to clean up my space. (And thank goodness because I know under the pile of leggings in the corner of my room is an open magazine with a red pen lying underneath, and if he ever moved that pile, I’d have no idea where the red pen is when I need it!) He’s never made a negative remark about how I like to live messy or suggested order in my life. He just lies down on top of my clothes.
I mentally grab myself by the ponytail and pry myself away from Nathan to rinse the cracking mask off of my face. I change into some cute and casual partygoing jeans and a t-shirt, and just as I’m exiting my room, I hear a loud series of quick buzzes erupt from Nathan’s phone in the kitchen. It’s a new voicemail alert. I’m down my short hallway and almost to the living room when Nathan yells, “Hey Siri, play that voicemail.”
I love technology. Giving us these little servants.
The next voice I hear, though, stops me dead in my tracks.
It’s my landlord.
“Hello, Mr. Donelson, this is Vance Herbert…”
I turn around and make eye contact with Nathan, who’s now sitting up stiff as a board on the couch. We both stare at each other for exactly one second, and then we simultaneously bolt for the kitchen. I was closer, though, so I’m the one to get to the phone first.
I pick it up and make a break for my bedroom. Nathan is right on my heels and trying to catch my arms, but I zigzag and evade his grip. Quick, someone put me in the NFL. We sound like a pack of elephants stampeding the apartment building, all while Vance’s voice continues on in a soft, monotone cadence. “I just wanted to let you know that all of the paperwork has been finalized—”
