by Yelana Black
“You don’t have to worry about that,” Vanessa said. Other girls, she knew, used painkillers, but her feet were so numb and calloused that she could probably drive a nail through her toe and not feel it.
A short while later, after a final cleanup of empty boxes, her father gave her a long, tight hug. “Call me if you need anything. Anything,” he whispered. “Even if it’s just to chat.”
Caught off guard by the softness in her father’s voice, Vanessa relaxed into his arms. This was it, she realized, breathing in the scent of his aftershave. Only now had it sunk in that she wasn’t going home with them. Vanessa pressed her cheek against his lapel. “I will.”
“All right,” her mother said. “It’s my turn.” And before Vanessa knew what was happening, her mother pulled her to her chest and squeezed, burying her face in Vanessa’s hair. “Oh, I’m going to miss you,” her mother said, rocking slightly as she held her. “You’re going to be wonderful. I just know you are.”
Vanessa allowed her arms to slip around her mother’s slender body. “Thanks, Mom.”
And suddenly, as if she had realized what she was doing, her mother released her and stepped back, smoothing her skirt and wiping her eyes with a tissue. “We should be off,” she said briskly.
Vanessa watched as her parents disappeared into the hallway. Now what? She picked up a small box resting by her bed. Nestled inside were Margaret’s pointe shoes, their ribbons coiled around the worn pink satin. Gently, she traced the rough lines of her sister’s initials on the soles. Just as she tucked them into her closet, a girl burst through her door.
“Was that your mom? Crazy lady who busted into my room without knocking? Who kept talking about someone named Margaret?” She was tall and lean, with dark-brown skin, sharp green eyes, and a hint of a smile.
“I’m sorry,” Vanessa apologized. “If it makes you feel any better, she’s been doing that to me for years.”
“Damn. And I thought my mom was bad.”
Vanessa bit her lip. “She didn’t touch any of your stuff, did she?”
The girl pulled back her thick hair with a clip. “No, she just stood there and, like, vibrated. For a minute I thought she was going to sit on my bed, but I told her what’s what before she got the chance. I might’ve made her cry.”
“No, that wasn’t you,” Vanessa said, shaking her head. “She cries a lot these days.” She paused. “I’m Vanessa, by the way.”
“Vanessa? So who’s Margaret?”
“My older sister. She used to go here … but now she doesn’t.”
The girl’s eyes twinkled. “I’m Steffie.”
“Great story.” Another girl popped her head in. “And I’m TJ,” the new girl said with a grin. “Your roommate.”
She had big doe eyes and freckles. A tangled nest of curly brown hair was pinned on top of her head, a few stray ringlets bouncing around her face. “It’s short for Tammy Jessica, but I think that’s too girly. TJ’s better, don’t you think?”
Vanessa nodded. “I guess so.”
“Define ‘better,’” said Steffie.
“Nice to meet you too.” TJ sat on her bright-blue bedspread. For a dancer, she had a generous frame. “I’m reinventing myself now that I’m here. Like I said: TJ. The T can stand for, like, tough as nails. And the J for … jazz. Or whatever. But that’s who I am now. Going forward.”
Vanessa smiled. The idea of a new beginning certainly was nice. TJ’s name matched her image: she wore no makeup, not even eyeliner. Her features seemed expressive enough already.
“I’m from the city,” TJ said, as if there were only one. “The Upper East Side. I could have just lived at home, but I wanted to get away from my parents. They’re lawyers. Prillar & Prillar, so that’s what our house is like. Always talking, talking, talking.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s going to be nice to be away from that.”
Vanessa had to hide her smile. Talking, talking, talking. “Prillar?” she said. “Like the Prillar who’s on the board of directors of NYBA?”
Steffie turned her head. “You didn’t tell me that, TJ.”
TJ replied, “Why would I? That didn’t have anything to do with me getting in.”
“Of course not,” said Steffie. “I didn’t mean to imply—”
But TJ just laughed. “I know. So where are you from, Vanessa? No, wait. Let me guess. California. No, Vermont.”
“Close,” Vanessa said. “Massachusetts.”
Catching Vanessa eyeing the pile of clothes by her bed, TJ said, “Don’t worry. I’m not this messy all the time.”
Vanessa laughed. “Neither am I.”
“Enough about your messy clothes,” Steffie said. “I can’t believe we get to go to school in Manhattan. How cool is that?”
“The city that never sleeps,” TJ said.
“Where the sidewalks are paved with gold!” Steffie said. “Or is that Hollywood?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Vanessa said. “The point is, we’re lucky.”
“First thing I’m doing tomorrow morning is going to Times Square,” Steffie said, pushing TJ aside and flopping down on the bed beside her.
“Ugh,” TJ said. “The first thing I’m doing tomorrow is not going to Times Square.”
“What’s wrong with Times Square?” Steffie asked.
“Nothing, if you’re a tourist.”
“Well, I’m a tourist. I didn’t live here my whole life like some people with big hair.”
All three of them looked out the window to where Lincoln Center glittered in the late afternoon light. The central plaza fountain sprayed jets of water high into the air, and on every side was a grand building that Vanessa already knew by heart: the one with the dramatic glass windows was the New York City Ballet; the high arched windows was the Metropolitan Opera House; and the yellow marble-walled building was Avery Fisher Hall, home to the New York Philharmonic. Their new school, New York Ballet Academy, was tucked just behind Avery Fisher Hall, next to the Juilliard School: two modest buildings that were now Vanessa’s home. The setting sun cast a brassy sheen on everything they saw—from the fountain to the buildings on the plaza, from the wooden water towers that speckled the rooftops of the many apartment buildings to the glassy skyscrapers in the distance whose windows looked like molten gold.
“It’s really beautiful,” Steffie said, her snark gone for the moment. “Hard to believe this is home for the next four years. We’re at, like, the center of the universe.”
“We’re almost at the center of the universe,” TJ said. “There’s a whole lot to New York City that we’ll probably never get to see. Lincoln Center is a safe little bubble.”
Not that safe, Vanessa thought, but to her new friends she said, “It feels unreal, doesn’t it? Like tomorrow I’m going to wake up at home and realize it was all a dream.”
“Just wait till classes,” TJ said. She smiled and flashed a set of bright, white teeth. “It’ll feel real when our feet are blistered and bleeding.”
Instinctively, Vanessa flexed her toes inside her canvas sneakers. Unable to stop herself, she stared at Steffie’s muscular thighs and TJ’s straight back, and wondered if they were better dancers than she was. She wasn’t used to being surrounded by so many serious dancers; at home, Vanessa had always been the best by far.
But her thoughts were interrupted when two others drifted in: a tiny girl named Elly, Steffie’s roommate, who had wavy blond hair and was carrying a laptop under one arm, and an Asian boy who followed on her heels.
“We heard voices and thought we would stop in and say hello,” the boy said, “because we’re both wonderful and so obviously you need to know who we are. I go by Blaine.” He held out his hand to no one in particular, as though waiting for it to be kissed.
Steffie made a face and sat on the windowsill, crossing her long dark legs and scrutinizing the newcomers.
“But it’s not his real name,” Elly teased in a sweet, southern drawl. Everything about her was sugary and bite-sized: her yellow bob, her
button nose, her pouty lips. Even her clothes were a lacy baby pink. She elbowed Blaine. “Go ahead. Tell them!”
Blaine shook his head and gave her a semiserious look. “Don’t you dare.”
TJ pushed her curly hair off her neck. “So what’s your real name?”
Blaine swatted her question away. “I’ll never tell.”
“Why not?” TJ asked, looking from Blaine to Elly. “You already told her.”
“That’s because we’re both from the South. She understands.”
“Understands what?” Steffie asked.
“That people are weirder down there,” Blaine said, as if it should have been obvious.
“And wider,” TJ added.
Blaine shrugged. “It’s true. But look, I’m half Japanese and half Mexican. How many people do y’all know who wash their margaritas down with a shot of sake?”
“What’s sake?” TJ whispered to Vanessa.
“Not to mention that I’m a guy who likes to wear tights and slippers,” Blaine continued, “and doesn’t eat red meat. It’s not easy growing up like that in Texas. Do you know how hard it is to find a decent salad down there?”
The room erupted in a chorus of giggles. “It’s not that bad,” Elly said, folding herself onto the bed next to TJ. “And the South does have one thing that the rest of the country doesn’t.”
“An excess of Mountain Dew?” TJ joked.
Elly smiled, her lips forming a pink crescent. “Southern gentlemen, preferably from Alabama.”
Blaine rolled his eyes. “They’re all farmers to me. Farmers with big fat hoes.”
Vanessa let out a laugh. “I’d take collared shirts and chinos over coattails and bow ties any day,” she said. “But I’m from Massachusetts. I like prep.”
“See, that’s what I’m talking about,” Blaine said. “Or I could settle for a Russian dancer. They’re so severe. I love it. I wouldn’t even care if he spoke no English whatsoever. As long as he made sweet, sweet love to me while feeding me caviar, and then helped me play with my set of Matryoshka dolls.” He paused. “Not that I have any Matryoshka dolls.”
Vanessa and the girls continued staring at him. “Then how would you communicate?” Elly asked quizzically.
“Darling,” Blaine said, leaning forward and batting his eyelashes. “The language of love requires no words. Haven’t you seen The Little Mermaid?”
That made even Steffie laugh. “Enough about Russian men and little dolls and Disney movies. We’re here to dance.”
Elly opened her laptop, which had a pink case and an enormous heart on the lid, and showed them photos of famous dancers who had graduated from their school: Anastasia Petrova in her leading role in Giselle, Alexander Garrel as the sinewy Rat King from The Nutcracker, and Juliana Faraday as an ethereal Princess Aurora from Sleeping Beauty.
“Those are the ones who made it out,” Blaine said. “What about the ones who didn’t?”
Vanessa grew rigid. “What do you mean?”
Elly cut in. “I heard a girl broke her leg last year during a rehearsal. One of the guys dropped her mid-jump. An upper-classman told me he could hear her bone snap.”
Vanessa cringed.
“Twenty are called,” TJ intoned, “but few survive long enough to graduate.”
“I’m serious,” Blaine said. “There are all these students who get hurt.”
“Not to mention the broken toes,” Steffie chimed in. “I almost broke one of mine last year,” she added, a thin silver anklet jingling as she rolled her foot.
“Or the broken hearts,” Elly added, giving Blaine a coy look. He threw a pillow at her.
“Or the girls sent home because of weight problems or drugs,” Vanessa added.
“When you guys dance, do you ever feel different?” Steffie said suddenly. “Like you’re—”
“Delirious?” Vanessa said, startling herself.
“Um—no, I was actually going to say weightless,” Steffie said.
“Delirious?” TJ said with an amused smile. “Like dizzy? Maybe you’re not spotting right.”
Vanessa laughed sheepishly. “Just kidding,” she said, embarrassed.
It only happened once in a while—the strange, delirious feeling. When Vanessa danced so perfectly the music was like a part of her heartbeat, the world around her spun into oblivion, and she felt like she was losing herself. But maybe it was just dehydration. That’s what her mother told her every time she tried to raise the subject. When Vanessa looked up, she realized Steffie was studying her. She felt herself blush, but Steffie only gave her an understanding smile, as if to say, Whatever your secret is, it’s safe with me.
“Orientation!” Elly said suddenly. Outside, the hall was strangely quiet. She glanced at her watch. “Crap. We’re already late!”
Chapter Two
It couldn’t be.
The rest of the group ran ahead, toward Juilliard, where the orientation was being held. But Vanessa stood frozen in place on the curb, arrested by the sight of a frail girl with long chestnut hair.
She was waiting on the corner by a bus stop, her shoulders bare above a cotton sundress, reading a magazine. Her arms were dotted with dark, familiar freckles.
Vanessa’s heart seemed to stop. Could it be?
Slowly, Vanessa approached, pushing through the people on the sidewalk until she was just inches away from the girl. She took a step closer, gazing at her sister’s delicate skin.
“Margaret?”
Exhaust from the passing cars made the air thick. Vanessa’s long red hair blew about her face.
The girl glanced over her shoulder, her face foreign and strange.
Vanessa went rigid. “Oh, I—I’m sorry,” she said, and backed away. She felt a hand on her arm and, startled, she jumped.
“Are you okay?” Steffie asked.
Vanessa nodded.
“What were you doing?”
“I thought I saw someone I knew,” Vanessa said, her gaze lingering on the girl’s back. “But it’s stupid, right? I mean, New York has millions of people. What are the chances of finding one person out of all of them?”
“I don’t think it’s stupid,” Steffie said softly.
Vanessa stared at the flood of people on the sidewalk and the crowded mess of storefronts and brownstones and skyscrapers that framed them. The windows that dotted the sides of the buildings looked minuscule from the ground, and it suddenly made Vanessa dizzy to think that a person lived behind each little square of glass, thousands of them just in this three-block radius. Her sister was here somewhere.
And that was why she had come to New York: she wanted to find Margaret.
“Come on,” Steffie said. “We’re late.”
When they caught up with the others, they were standing in front of a wooden door, looking lost.
“I thought it was here,” Elly said, glancing down the hallway full of dance studios. “But the door is locked.”
“Maybe they locked us out because we’re late,” Blaine said.
“Here, let me try,” Vanessa said. Using all her weight, she gave the door a firm push. It swung open, and the five of them hurried inside.
They were in a large ballet studio. Mirrors lined the walls, reflecting the warm light and making the room seem endless. The entire student body was sitting on the floor, staring at them.
“How interesting,” a woman said in a slight German accent, scrutinizing them. She was so short that Vanessa had barely noticed her. She was middle-aged, her body plain and squat, with thick legs and dull brown hair. “Your first day and your timing is already off.”
“We’re sorry,” TJ blurted out. “We got lost.”
The woman squinted at them. Her face was round and maternal like a country farmwife, her gaze stern, yet somehow still kind. “Let’s just hope your dancing is a little more elegant than your entrance. We have space for you—right—up—here.” She pointed at her feet.
Trying to avoid everyone’s eyes, Vanessa led them up to the front of
the room. Her RA, Kate, sat by the barre with a few girls, smiling sympathetically. Other students’ eyes met hers as she wove between them—girls with braids coiled into buns, tortoiseshell headbands and barrettes nestled into their hair, their lean shoulders bare beneath tight tank tops; boys in black jeans, white undershirts, and cutoff sweats that allowed a glimpse of rock-hard biceps and firm abs.
None of them bothered to move to let Vanessa and her friends pass.
Just before she sat down, she noticed a group of older girls leaning against the mirrors in the corner of the room. They were beautiful—long and languid—as they whispered to each other. All thirteen of them had sunburns, as if they had just come back from the beach.
“As I was saying,” the woman up front said, clearing her throat. “My name is Hilda, and I will be your assistant choreographer.”
Vanessa squeezed in next to Steffie, who smelled faintly of vanilla. She had noticed the older girls, too, because she said, “Someone forgot the sunscreen.”
Vanessa was about to smile when Hilda caught her eye.
“And now I’d like to introduce your choreographer, Josef.”
A sinewy man with the compact figure of a dancer approached the front of the room. He looked young at first, but as he grew closer and his features came into focus, Vanessa realized he was probably in his late thirties.
Hilda moved aside and Josef smiled, baring a set of charmingly crooked teeth. He ran a hand through his hair, which was wavy and brown, streaked with gray. He wore tight black jeans and a white V-neck tee with a lick of chest hair sticking out the top. Even though he was neither tall nor particularly good-looking, his presence filled the entire studio.
“Well, here we are.” He spoke with a slight French accent. “At the apex of the world. Welcome.”
With his words, the room seemed to lighten. Vanessa glanced around her and saw the other students smiling.
“Every dancer dreams of attending the New York Ballet Academy, and rightly so. We are a school of dreams. Here, you will learn how to transcend this world. You will transform yourselves into fairies, princes, swans both pale and dark, wicked queens, and demons from the underworld. You will float like a cloud and disappear into shadows. The audience will think it’s a trick of the light, but all of you will know that you are the light. You are the music. You are nothing but movement.”
