“It’s okay. Really. We’re good.”
“I was an idiot and I’m really sorry.”
“It was nothing,” said Giselle.
Marcus laughed loudly. “Not to me, it wasn’t!” Then he grew sober. “I don’t know what my grandmère would’ve done if I’d … if you hadn’t rescued me. I might have to say thanks a few more times, too. So, you know, thanks. Again.”
“You’re welcome, again,” replied Giselle. Then, to turn the conversation, she asked, “Do you live with your grandmother?”
“All my life,” replied Marcus. “We lost my grandpère last year. It was part of why we moved. Fresh start and all.”
“My grandmother lives with us, too.”
“The Miss Chekhov,” said Marcus.
“The Miss Chekhov,” agreed Giselle.
Marcus’s face split into a wide grin. “It’s one more thing we have in common.”
“One more thing,” Giselle agreed.
“I have a feeling we’re going to be great friends,” said Marcus. “Assuming you can forgive me for last night.”
“Trust me,” said Giselle, a tiny smile tugging one side of her mouth, “I’ve moved on. And you can too.”
They stopped at one of Foulweather’s two stoplights behind a car with a bumper sticker that read: WORLD PEACE BEGINS AT HOME. Giselle snorted with laughter.
“What?” asked Marcus, looking over at her.
“It’s just …” She laughed again. “Do you ever get the feeling the universe is trying to tell you something?
Marcus met her eyes, holding her gaze for half a beat too long. “Um, sometimes.”
The car behind honked at them. The light had been green long enough that the WORLD PEACE BEGINS AT HOME car was already turning at the next block.
Marcus pulled his car forward and neither of them said anything for the remainder of the drive, although a large number of furtive glances were exchanged.
After Marcus dropped her off, Giselle grabbed the Studio Bolshoi directories from the past three years. It wasn’t the same thing as apologizing to her mom, and she knew she’d have to do some apologizing, but this was a way to get the ball rolling towards … WORLD PEACE AT HOME.
She hoped.
Picking up the first directory, she began making phone calls, leaving messages that were polite and to the point.
“This is Giselle Chekhov calling from Studio Bolshoi. If you value the education your dancer has received at the studio, please attend the upcoming PTO meeting and speak in support of the studio and Miss Ruslana.”
When she’d made her way through all three directories, she placed one final call to Coach O’Hara.
“Giselle, how are you? The team and I sure miss you in ballet.”
Giselle smiled. “I’m actually calling about Ballet for Jocks—er, I mean, the Ballet for Athletes class,” she said. And then she asked him for a very big favor.
On the other end, Coach O’Hara sighed heavily.
“I’ll have to think about it,” he said at last. “This could land me in some hot water.”
“I know,” said Giselle. “Thanks for thinking about it, whatever you decide.”
She set down the phone, replaced the directories, and tidied the kitchen. And when her family arrived home from the studio, Giselle asked her mom if she’d like some chai with raspberry jam.
Her mother smiled at her softly. “That would be lovely.”
Giselle gulped back the swelling in her throat.
It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
43
SAINT SEBASTIAN
At the meeting convened by the PTO to discuss Studio Bolshoi’s deliberate display of an object of religious worship, dozens of concerned parents attended along with an assortment of reporters, camera-persons, and students. Lots of students. The school cafeteria tables had been removed and replaced with rows of folding metal chairs. It looked like most of Foulweather had shown up for the event.
“There are so many people,” Katya murmured.
“Ochen, Ochen,” agreed Babushka.
Giselle’s mother said nothing, but her fingers tightened on the folder she carried.
The family slipped into chairs seven rows back, toward the center aisle. Mrs. Fitzpatrick strode past them to the front of the room, making a point of introducing herself to the board members, shaking hands, laughing, and smiling.
It was several minutes into the official meeting before Ruslana was called on to answer questions.
“Ms. Chekhov, have you knowingly displayed this religious painting at your studio in spite of objections raised by parents?”
The woman asking the question held up a large reproduction of Babushka’s ikon which had been photographed and mounted onto poster board so that it was perhaps fifty times its actual size.
Babushka muttered in Russian.
Giselle’s mother rose to answer the question. She was not a tall person, but she seemed tall as she stood, her back arrow-straight, and answered the question.
“I will first point out,” said Ruslana, “That none of the parents of my students have objected to the display of this cultural artifact that has been in my family’s possession for generations.”
Giselle’s attention faded in and out as semantic distinctions were hashed out: yes, some parents had objected; no, none of the objecting parents had students in attendance at the studio; yes, the icon depicted a religious personage; no, Ruslana had never brought the students’ attention to the icon or attempted to expound on its significance.
The time set aside for public comments followed.
Three parents whose children didn’t take classes at the studio spoke out against Ruslana Chekhov and the ikon, but twenty-two other members of the community went to the microphone to speak up for the studio. In a dozen different ways, they said what a gift the studio was to its students, to the high schools, to the community.
Giselle felt her lower lids filling at some of the remarks, and when she saw her mother dab at her eyes too, Giselle reached over to take her mother’s hand. Ruslana squeezed tightly, as if to reassure herself Giselle was really there.
Towards the end of the time allotted to comments, Marcus stepped up to the microphone.
“We moved here this year so I could study at Studio Bolshoi under Miss Ruslana. My family is saving thousands in ballet tuition, and we’re just one family of many who couldn’t participate without the classes offered through the school.” He turned to Giselle’s mother. “I’d just like to say thank you for all you do for my family and this community.”
As he returned to his seat, Marcus winked at Giselle. And she winked back.
The moderator called for last comments just as a heavy footfall echoed from the back of the room.
“Am I too late?” asked Coach O’Hara.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick leaned forward to whisper to one of the PTO board members, who shook his head and whispered to the moderator.
“Go ahead,” said the moderator.
Coach continued to the front of the room and grabbed the microphone out of the stand. After unwinding the cord and freeing the mike, he said a few “hellos” to individuals in the sea of people.
“I understand we’ve got ourselves a little difficulty with the lines separating church from state.” He paused, scratched the back of his neck, and looked out over the crowd. “Now, I don’t know much about your Russian icons, but I can tell you that I wear a Saint Sebastian medallion to each and every one of our football games. And anyone who wants to tell me I can’t, well, they can go ahead and try removing it.”
No one offered to take away Coach O’Hara’s medallion.
He looked grimly over the crowd, his demeanor reminding Giselle of every tough military officer she’d ever seen in the movies.
“Good,” said Coach O’Hara. “Now we’ve got that out of the way, I’ll say what I came here to say. Get rid of the Ballet for Athletes program from All Arts High School and you can kiss your state championships for Fou
lweather High goodbye.
“You can kiss half your rushing yards and passing yards goodbye. And all your goal line stands. This woman—” Here he paused, smiled, and pointed to Ruslana Chekhov. “This amazing athlete, I should say, took a bunch of out-of-shape kids and turned them into winning machines. Hell, she’s even got me talking in French out there on the field. You want a good punter? Find a kid with a good leg. You want a star punter? Teach him grand battements. You want your boys to spend more time on the field, less time recovering from injuries? Give ’em changements. Tendus. Go ahead and ask Dr. Cotter. Hey, Doc, you here?”
Dr. Cotter waved a hand.
“How many players we have go out with groin injuries this year so far?” asked the football coach.
A ripple of nervous laughter ran through the crowd.
“None,” replied the doctor. “None the previous two years, either, I might add.”
“Good, good,” murmured Babushka, nodding with approval.
“How ’bout four years ago?” asked Coach.
“I believe I treated six severe injuries the year before you began including weekly ballet training.”
Murmured whispers slithered through the room.
“Damn straight you did. That’s what sent me to Ms. Chekhov in the first place. Heard about pro teams using ballet teachers. And let me tell you something, if you can teach a group of clumsy teenage gorillas how to flow from one movement to the next, you’re going to be evasive on the field and have a damn fine football team.”
Giselle knew how seriously the football team had taken their floor work, as if winning depended on landing a good pirouette. It hadn’t occurred to her winning did depend on those turns.
Coach continued.
“Anyone who wants to argue with that can take a look at the awards displayed behind glass just outside the cafeteria. You’ll notice things looked pretty dismal until three years ago.”
Here, he paused, regarding the assembly.
“Cut my athletes’ ability to take classes from Ms. Chekhov’s studio and you can all enjoy a nice reminder of how football used to be in this town.”
He crossed his arms over his chest.
“And for the record, any kid on my team—Catholic, atheist, or otherwise—who wants to kiss my Saint Sebastian medallion for good luck before next Friday’s game, well, I’m not gonna tell ’em they can’t.” He held up his medallion. “So fire me.”
He replaced the microphone and returned to his seat.
The audience applauded wildly, leaving Giselle to conclude that if anyone had job security in Foulweather, it was Coach O’Hara.
The meeting was declared officially over and Coach was surrounded by half a dozen people wanting sound-bites, several of whom were accompanied by news cameras from the Portland stations. From across the cafeteria, Coach caught Giselle’s attention, pointed to her, nodded, and gave her a thumbs up. She wasn’t sure if it meant thank you or we did it or good luck, but when she waved back, she meant all three.
“You are taking me to car,” Babushka said to Katya. “This is your mother’s night to shine, not mine.”
Giselle wasn’t sure how much “shining” there would be. Eyeing the news cameras, she felt protective and stayed with her mother.
A few students came to speak to Miss Ruslana, and most thanked Giselle for the reminder call and the opportunity to speak up for the studio. Giselle kept a smile pasted on her face, but really, all she wanted was to leave. To go home. To sit down with her family, and only her family, all together in one place.
“Let’s go home,” her mother said at last.
She was still holding Giselle’s hand.
44
LONG HOURS AND NO COMPLAINING
At school, the two sisters heard rumors that were confirmed later in the week: the petition to shut down relations between the school and the ballet studio had been denied. Foulweather’s citizens, fair-weather friends of ballet, loved their football too much to risk a losing season.
Upon hearing the news, Katya murmured thoughtfully, “I wonder if Coach’s Saint Sebastian medal ever speaks to him.”
Giselle looked at her with an expression that said you can’t be serious.
Katya shrugged in response. “You never know.”
And who knew? Maybe Katya was right. Maybe there were “more things in heaven and earth ...”
A week passed during which Giselle began to spend her free time in the studio assisting with costumes. She had explained to Babushka about making the willis look terrifying, and her grandmother not only loved the idea but convinced Ruslana to go along, so that Giselle was now spending her free Saturdays and Sundays at the studio humming along to the haunting refrains of Giselle while she snipped and bedraggled the willis costumes.
It didn’t hurt that she and Marcus were becoming better and better friends. And it certainly didn’t hurt that she got to watch Marcus dancing as Albrecht every time she went to the studio.
And then, one Friday when drama rehearsal had ended early, Giselle walked into the studio in time to hear her grandmother raging in Russian over the phone. One thin wall away, Miss Ruslana was trying to keep order in the Ballet 5 class. Through the one-way glass, Ruslana glared angrily in Babushka’s direction, but Babushka was ignoring her, her eyes flashing fire as she spoke on the phone.
Someone, thought Giselle, was getting quite a tongue-lashing.
Miss Ruslana, who must have decided this had gone on for long enough, told the dancers to stretch in splits while she “took care of things.”
“What is going on here?” demanded Ruslana, her hands on her hips, sparks flying from her Baltic-blue eyes.
For a moment, the door was open enough for Marcus to catch Giselle’s attention in the lobby. He raised his eyebrows, curious about the shouting match. Giselle rolled her eyes and shrugged, indicating she knew nothing about it. She and Marcus could communicate nearly as well as she and Katya, with the difference that Katya’s glances never caused color to rise to Giselle’s lips and cheeks.
Meanwhile, in the lobby, Giselle’s grandmother continued on the phone as though she could neither see nor hear Ruslana.
Giselle glanced over to the Holy Mother of Reconciliation Between Generations, serene upon the wall.
A little help here? Giselle asked silently. She continued stitching a loose bit of boning back inside its casing, wishing her stitches were as tidy as her sister’s.
Her grandmother delivered in Russian what could only be a resounding ultimatum before slamming the receiver down on the old-fashioned switch hook. The shouting, however, was not yet over.
A volley of accusations in sharp-sounding Slavic tones ensued between Babushka and Miss Ruslana. At last, Miss Ruslana murmured something that sounded like a small concession before striding back into the dance room to bully the dancers into higher, stronger developées.
Giselle looked to her grandmother and from her learned the following: the studio’s Queen Myrtha, Irena Lyubov, who was in hopes of becoming a principal dancer with the National Ballet, was saying she would allow no public display of any photographs showing her as Myrtha wearing the shredded costume Giselle had altered. In fact, Irena Lyubov insisted she would not appear on posters or programs or the stage unless she was given a “proper” Queen Myrtha costume.
“You’re kidding,” whispered Giselle. How was she going to stitch the tattered costume back together again? It was a hopeless task. “We would need a whole new costume.”
“Yes,” agreed her grandmother. “As this is not going to happen, I fired her.”
Giselle’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. “You … fired Irena Lyubov?”
“Da,” replied her grandmother.
No muttering, no clucking in Russian. Just … da.
Giselle’s sewing needle, stuck between layers of tulle, pulled suddenly free and stabbed her finger. A drop of crimson blood fell onto the costume.
“Derrmo!” hissed Giselle in an undertone.
“Der
rmo, indeed.” Having said this, Babushka began to laugh, shaking her head softly from side to side. “Well, well. Fox is in henhouse now.”
Giselle raised her brows, but she knew better than to inquire as to the precise meaning; her grandmother would only explain in Russian, clarifying exactly nothing.
“So,” said Babushka, giving Giselle’s thigh an evaluating squeeze. “These legs of yours are weak. Flabby. Shameful.”
Giselle shrugged. “After five weeks, what do you expect?”
Her grandmother made a guttural noise which was simply untranslatable. Then she sighed and tucked a stray hair back into her tidy ballet bun.
“What do I expect?” she asked Giselle. “I expect long hours and no complaining. I expect arms that do not sag when they are tired.” Here Babushka pinched the underside of Giselle’s arm.
“Ouch!” said Giselle, shifting away from her grandmother.
“I expect girl who does not complain,” said Babushka. “It is honor to portray Queen of Rusalki at your age.”
Giselle stared at her grandmother in disbelief. Did she mean … Surely, she wasn’t saying …
“Babushka?” she whispered. “Do you mean—”
Her grandmother made a snorting sound. “Lyubov is dead to me. I am knowing no one of that name.” Babushka patted Giselle’s thigh, gently this time. “You are to dance role of queen.”
As Giselle heard the fateful words, the temperature of the room seemed to change. Her skin flushed with heat.
“Babushka!” she said, but she didn’t know what words were supposed to come after. She didn’t know anything anymore. She hugged her grandmother, long and tightly.
“And,” said Babushka, after the hug, “Just to be certain large audience is attending without Lyubov-who-is-dead-to-me, I am feeling large interview coming over me.”
Her grandmother reached once more for the studio telephone.
45
WHAT THEY HAD LOST AND WHAT THEY HAD FOUND
All five performances of the Studio Bolshoi production of Giselle sold out an astonishing month before the scheduled shows. It was partly due to the studio’s newfound notoriety for having brazenly left the Holy Mother of I’m Still Here on their walls. It was partly that Giselle’s grandmother granted a full Lifestyles interview to Portland’s Sunday paper. And it was partly because of Giselle’s unorthodox costume design. The newspaper referenced the “Tim Burton-esque” sensibilities of the production, and apparently there were plenty of people curious to see a romantic-era ballet’s collision with The Nightmare Before Christmas.
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