Bright Burning Stars

by A. K. Small

  I also didn’t watch Gia struggle through her variation. I didn’t watch her fall from a pirouette and pick herself back up as fast as gravity would let her. And I didn’t watch Bessy forget her steps midway through the allegro, pause, and momentarily look out into the audience, unsure as to how to proceed. Nor did I watch her run off the stage, crying. Instead, I kept my eyes closed. I listened to the music, visualized myself dancing, holding long notes, and felt the warmth of Luc’s fingers laced in mine.

  When our names were called, Luc clasped my hand.

  “Let’s crush this pas de deux,” he said.

  We passed the wings and stepped out onto the stage. I looked for the yellow X that demarked center, a buoy in the middle of the sea. But as I bowed to the audience a crazy idea formed inside me. Though I wanted to dance with Luc more than anything, I also yearned to dance alone. I needed to own the stage without a partner, once and for all. I needed to do it. Not for Oli, not for Kate, not for Cyrille, and not for Luc. But for myself.

  A demand against all rules.

  I hesitated, then leaned toward Luc and whispered in his ear, knowing that my request might disqualify us both. Luc grabbed my waist, twirled me around, placed me back on the yellow X, then disappeared into the wings.

  A murmur rippled through the audience.

  “I want to perform the solo, the supplication variation,” I shouted into the darkness.

  A cold draft hovered at my feet. My muscles tensed, sinewy and ready. For a second, I heard nothing. Perhaps The Witch was about to enter the stage and escort me out, but Monsieur Chevalier was the one who stood.

  With a microphone in hand, he said, “Very well, Marine. Luc can perform his coda with Sebastian.”

  The two and a half minutes of the variation blinked by. I could hardly recall anything except for the pulse of the oboes in my legs and the fluttering of the flutes in my fingertips, for the violins in my heart, and for frantic joy everywhere. My muscles contracted, my feet glided just above the ground, and my arms flew, the Firebird melody twisting and transporting me like a thundering river. This time, I did not drink the notes but the notes drank me. I became part of the orchestra, another instrument, rhythm once again commanding me, timbre and texture inhabiting my body. The orange of my tutu seemed to catch on fire. It wasn’t until seconds before all of it was over that I remembered that in order to win I had to perform a fish dive. But how could I, alone? I finished my fouettés, stuck the landing, and wondered what I would do instead, when Luc came charging from the wings as if he’d heard me calling him.

  People in the audience had already begun clapping. I didn’t know if it was for what I’d just performed or for Luc’s grand entrance. No matter. I took a few steps then leaped toward him. Luc caught me and lifted me up onto his shoulder. Suspended in midair, I lifted my chest toward the sky and dropped my head back.

  The music stopped.

  Luc kept me up on his shoulder. When he slipped me in silence into an impeccable fish dive, Monsieur Chevalier whistled, which made us both laugh. Luc’s body shook against mine. With his own weight, he stabilized me, the signature of a consummate partner. Under spotlights, I dripped sweat. People in the audience stood. Bouquets of flowers landed onstage. Slowly, Luc put me down and together we took a step forward. We opened our arms to the side, and never letting go of Luc’s fingers, I bowed until my forehead touched the ground.

  thirty-four

  Kate

  The prize ceremony, known as La Remise des Prix, took place after Luc and Sebastian had performed their coda. Judges climbed onto the stage. The seven-ton bronze and crystal chandelier glowed. Before I could sneak as close to Benjamin as possible, the other performers and I were asked to stand in alphabetical order. I tried to keep my focus on the tips of Louvet’s shoes but I couldn’t help scanning the front seats, looking for my father. I longed for the ceremony, for everything, to be over.

  Eventually Mademoiselle Louvet tapped the microphone. Between her fingers, the director held the two envelopes. I could see the soft wax, the red of the seal stamped on their backs. I pretended to readjust my tutu and placed a hand nonchalantly on my hip to keep my balance.

  “Good afternoon,” Louvet said.

  Everyone clapped.

  “The tradition is to offer this exceptional and difficult title to our most dedicated rats on the day of the Grand Défilé but due to our Tokyo invitation, I would like to present them at this time. For this great and humbling task, I have the pleasure to have by my side Benjamin Desjardins, a recipient of this title, and Sarah Barinelli, the company’s newest étoile. They have helped us judge each dancer and the quality of their variation. Students will be ranked from one to five, simulating the weekly générales, and the Number One rat-girl and boy will win. But before we begin, this is the house rule I find most important to share with all of you today. Rule number eight: believe in the past and in destiny.”

  I silently repeated, Believe in the past and in destiny.

  “For any person to be standing here with us onstage tonight is a huge accomplishment alone,” Louvet continued. “Very few dancers have the tenacity, the grueling work ethic, and physical endurance to survive levels six, five, four, three, two, and one. Even fewer continue to show steadiness under pressure and a growth in skills, which is exactly what two of these dancers have done today.” She paused and turned toward us.

  Under her gaze, I felt radioactive, like I was gleaming from the inside out. Was I one of the two? I’d received a standing ovation. I’d been nothing but steady under pressure.

  “Sebastian,” Louvet called. “Your coda today showed potential. You were ranked third. Please join the upcoming Division One rats in the audience. We hope that an extra year will allow you more growth.”

  Sebastian leaped off the stage. What he still had, I knew, was hope.

  “Guillaume, you unfortunately came in as number four so it is time for you to pack your bags and go home. We wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors.”

  Guillaume hurried off the stage. Louvet offered fifth to Jean-Paul, who was also asked to leave. I cringed, not because the number felt wrong but because of what he might do. I hoped it had been drunken bravado, his leaning dangerously off the terrace. Then Louvet ranked Bessy fourth, making her sob once more on her way into the wings. My heart raced. With Ugly Bessy gone, only M, The Ruler, and I remained.

  “Gia Delmar has been one of our favorites but due to a stress fracture she has been battling in her ankle for the past few weeks, and with tonight’s slip-up, she unfortunately has been ranked third. We thank you, Gia, for your incredible contribution and talent. We know that you will find a position at another house.”

  The Ruler: 3?

  I watched in disbelief as Gia smiled a radiant smile, bowed the way une étoile would have after a sublime performance, then exited the stage.

  I should have been glad. For a second, I even thought about trying to make eye contact with M. After all, The Ruler had been our nemesis for years, the one dancer whose technique and excellence we feared. This moment should have been one of great relief, but somehow I felt even more apprehensive than before. If the director could boot The Ruler, she could boot anyone.

  “At last,” Louvet said. “We are now left with our four top rats: Luc Bouvier, Marine Duval, Kate Sanders, and Cyrille Terrant. Please give them a round of applause.”

  The audience furiously clapped and I thought I might pass out. I imagined myself running to accept the envelope but something inside me twisted. What if I didn’t get it? I was grateful to be near Cyrille. I wanted to be able to turn around and hug the male winner. I didn’t want anyone to see my tears when I buried the envelope to my chest. Benjamin and Sarah Barinelli took a step forward. Louvet advanced toward me.

  “Kate Sanders,” she said, “is the only American to have ever made it this far. She even understudied one of our company mem
bers this spring. Her talent and firelike personality are unique and her light a rarity. I am incredibly proud of her dedication to this art and thankful for her years of participation here in France but—” Louvet paused. “Tonight, Kate has been ranked second.”

  The number 2 echoed in the air. Louvet kissed me on the cheek, her fragrance something flowery. I nearly grabbed her hand to say, Wait. There has been a mistake. But then, everything happened too quickly. Sarah Barinelli smiled an apologetic smile and pecked my cheek also. Louvet moved away, her long skirt swaying, the envelopes still in her hand.

  I wanted to run after her, snatch the letter, and bury it against my chest just like I’d planned. I wanted Benjamin to bow in front of me and ask me to be his partner in Tokyo and next year as he’d promised. I wanted for him to scoop me into his arms and kiss me hard on the lips in front of everyone, to whisper in my ear that he’d been in love with me all along. But none of that happened.

  Instead, Mademoiselle Louvet turned to Luc.

  “Luc is a formidable strength,” she was saying. “I have learned a lot from him through the years.” For a second I thought that Louvet was handing him the envelope, but I must have skipped some words and misunderstood.

  “Luc has come in as number two. We wish him all the best. And because of their achievements, he and Kate, the runners-up, will wait onstage and celebrate the winners with us.”

  I stared at Luc as he hugged Marine. The audience once again stood, clapping. Then, Luc let go of Marine and walked over to me.

  “Come on,” he whispered.

  He gently pulled me by the hand until I stood removed, steps away from Marine and Cyrille. I watched as Louvet handed Cyrille the first envelope. As she placed it in his hand, the crowd roared. The director kissed Cyrille on each cheek and though I only caught words here and there, I heard her say something about his electricity, luminosity, and staggering technique. The Witch, Chevalier, Sarah, and Benjamin shook his hand. Cyrille waved the envelope in the air. The entire house seemed to be yelling his name.

  Make it stop, I begged. Please make it stop.

  But the noise grew far worse when Louvet offered Marine the remaining envelope.

  “The decision was a difficult one, but Marine’s resiliency, her unique rhythmical ear and daring last-minute request to dance alone made the judges realize how powerful ‘voice’ can be. Her surviving spirit, the performance she shared with us tonight, and the way she and Cyrille have partnered all year unanimously sold us.”

  Marine did not take the envelope. Luc was the one who stepped in and placed The Prize between her fingers. Louvet bowed to her. The Witch pecked her cheek, and Monsieur Chevalier scooped her into his arms and pirouetted her around the way I dreamed Benjamin would do to me.

  Then, the worst of the worst happened: Cyrille kissed M on the forehead and Benjamin followed by getting down on one knee. He took Marine’s hand. And, as if he’d known her all his life, as if she’d been the one who’d waited for him in the pouring rain outside the theater, he said, his serpents snaking up his forearms, “I need a partner for Tokyo. Will you grace me with your presence?”

  He pulled out a brown teddy bear from behind his back, identical to mine, and offered it to Marine.

  “You were spectacular,” he said, just as he’d said to me in front of Bastille, one long-ago night.

  I thought I might shatter into a thousand pieces right there onstage. I watched as Sarah Barinelli offered Marine an extravagant bouquet of cream roses. After a lengthy ovation, the audience settled down. Louvet handed Marine the microphone.

  “I am grateful for the title,” M said. “And I would like to thank all of the judges, especially Monsieur Chevalier, who has been my greatest advocate. I’d like to thank Cyrille for being a solid partner this year and Luc for being a grand one tonight. I’d like to thank my family.” Marine’s face turned bright. She gazed toward the ceiling. “I’d like to thank Oli.”

  Everyone onstage took a final bow, and then the curtain dropped.

  I slipped back into the dressing rooms and shed my tutu. I stood in front of the mirror still bewildered at the turn of events and afraid of what I might do next. The one thing I knew I couldn’t handle was facing my father. Not after what had happened. My poor dad had traveled all the way from Virginia to watch me botch everything. Minutes later, when the soft knock rapped on the dressing room door, I hid in the restrooms. I locked myself in one of the stalls, climbed on the toilet seat in my pointe shoes, and pushed my hands against the wall to balance.

  “Katie?” my father called from the dressing rooms. “Sweetie?”

  My heart felt so heavy I thought it might implode. Go away, I kept silently pleading. Please, go away. But my father waited. He must have been wearing dressy loafers because I could hear their tap-tap-tap on the floor. I heard him walk carefully first around the dressing rooms, then into the restrooms. I sucked in my breath.

  “Katie?” he called once more, his voice concerned and close.

  Through the crack in the stall door, I caught a glimpse of him. He wore a gray suit and an electric-blue tie. He’d combed his hair, which had turned more salt than pepper, and his glasses were slightly crooked on his nose. I kept holding my breath and wished I’d already ingested J-P’s new stash of pills because the shame I felt coursing through me was blistering. At once, I remembered my parents—a fragmented image—hand in hand by the Chesapeake Bay, his glasses crooked then too. How lonely had he been feeling all these years without a wife and daughter? But I had nothing to give him now, nothing to be proud of. I had no past, no future. A broken family reunion, too late. My short life had been meaningless, locked in this destructive pattern of drifting from boy to boy, wishing upon a star that one of them might grow to love me. Except that just like my mother who’d abandoned me, none of them ever had.

  My father called me one last time and then I heard his footsteps retreating from the door. When I was sure that he was gone, I climbed off the toilet seat, opened the stall door, and made my way to my dressing table. I grabbed my ballet bag and found a small pink box next to my makeup. On it was written: To Katie. I am so proud of you. Love, Dad. My fingers shook as I opened the lid. Inside lay a small silver bracelet with little ballerinas that dangled from it, a trinket I might have loved when I was ten.

  I looked around the empty dressing rooms, thought of M downstairs, speaking, no doubt, to television and newspaper journalists and reporters, camera flashes blinding her. Maybe because I was staring at all these empty chairs, at my burnt-orange tutu strewn on the floor, at the four sad feathers we’d left on the vanity tables, and maybe because of the too-small bracelet I still held in my hand, I understood better than anyone why someone might die after losing The Prize. Back at school, I’d have headed straight to the laundry room or up to the boys’ terrace. But in this palace, I wasn’t sure where to go. So with my bag hoisted on my shoulder, I climbed stair after stair until I reached the petit-rats’ old quarters, the stuffy studios beneath the mansard roof.

  Needing air, I found a narrow door that led to the outside. I pushed it open and climbed out. Still in my Firebird leotard and pointe shoes, I gingerly walked across what looked like long slate tiles. I stopped in the center of the palace’s roof. It was late evening. In the dark, I could see the golden statue of Apollo with his poetry and music muses lit by spotlights. To my right, the Eiffel Tower blinked. Behind me, Marine’s beloved Sacré-Coeur rose on the hill. In the warm air, I made my way toward the edge. Cars beeped in the distance. I stepped across little box windows that showed the studios beneath. Here, there was no fence and I was much higher than on the boys’ terrace.

  For quite some time, I breathed Paris in, wondering what it might have been like had I won and stayed in the city, but then the weight of my loss and the shame of it hit me all over again. My legs throbbed and my heart twisted. The night seemed to grow darker. I unzipped my bag and found J-P’s
new pills. Laced amphetamines, he’d said. I counted them. Thirteen. I also yanked out Benjamin’s pathetic bear. I pulled off its red bow tie and threw it over the edge. Then, I tugged at its beady eyes until one of them popped. I threw that too. God, I’d been so dumb. How could I have believed him? How could I have fantasized about a pretty bed with fluffy pillows somewhere in a sunny loft? About a partnership with a soloist? I looked at the one-eyed bear and lobbed it as far as I could.

  Slowly, I took off my leotard and put on my black one and my black tights, honoring the Pointe Shoe Cemetery’s ritual. As a finale, I added face-lace, the one Adèle had given me the last time I’d seen her. “It’s chic,” Adèle had said, smiling. I now pulled the adhesive from the silver lace, then placed it over me like a Mardi Gras mask. God, Adèle. I would never see her again.

  I was about to swallow the pills—there was no point in jumping sober—when I remembered that I needed to etch my initials in my pointe shoes. I untied my ribbons and slipped the right shoe off. I grabbed a black marker and pressed K on the sole but because the shoe was warm and damp, the ink smeared. Soon, I had a glob of black and a shaky S. I tried to do better with the left shoe, except my fingers trembled so much that I couldn’t press hard enough, the KS now just thin lines. I shook the marker and decided to write directly on the satin, on the front of the toe box. After that, my pointe shoes looked like someone had vandalized them, like graffiti on someone’s locker.

  I slipped them back on anyway. I tied my ribbons and, forgetting to grab the plastic bag with the tablets, I stood and carefully stepped to the edge of the roof. I chose the right side because there was less traffic below. No one would miss me, I thought. Not my dad, who’d learned to live without me all these years; not my mother, who, of course, had abandoned me for eternity; and not even M, who was most likely drinking a champagne toast with Serge Lange, the famous company director. In the end, I hadn’t meant anything to anyone. I teetered on the ledge, my whole being hollow, the imaginary balloons returning one final time, pulling me up by the wrist. Come on, they whispered.