Angel: Counsel Series

by Shenda Paul

  By the end of my lesson, I feel better. I feel even better when I’m with my friends. We have a great time at the movies. Our moms sit two rows behind, while we girls giggle and whisper. After, just like Mom promised, we eat at the pizza place we pass every Saturday, the one we always said we’d visit one day.

  At home, I show Mom the box. I don’t tell what he said or that he touched me; I didn’t even tell my friends because I’m starting to think maybe I imagined things are wrong just because I don’t like him. And, anyway, if I tell Mom, she’ll worry. She’ll want me to leave the Institute, and I don’t want that. I do tell her I don’t like Mr. Quandt, though.

  “He’s not very likable,” Mom says, “some people just don’t relate well to others.”

  She holds up the chain with the pink ballet slipper. “I’m not sure, but I think this may be white gold… and this could be a diamond,” she says touching the tiny crystal. “It’s definitely from Tiffany’s, though,” she tells me. I don’t know about Tiffany’s; I didn’t even know gold could be white. Mom says she’ll call the school.

  On Monday night, after dinner, Mom gives the box back. “Ms. Svenska said they always give students a gift for their thirteenth birthday because the timing usually coincides with their final stage in the pre-professional program. She did seem a bit surprised when I told her where it came from,” Mom says. “She usually buys the gifts, but, apparently, she was very busy, and Mr. Quandt offered.

  Mom says Miss Ingrid told her presentations are planned for next week. “She had no idea he’d given it to you early. She thinks it’s because of the glowing reports she’d given you.” And then Mom hugs me tight. “She said you’re their best student, Angel. They’re proud of how well you’re doing, and so am I.”

  That night, I try on the pendant. It’s pretty, but I can’t forget how Mr. Quandt looked at me. I also remember much I hated when he touched me, so I take it off and put it back in the box and hide it at the back of my dresser drawer—the one I hardly ever open.

  I’m eighteen, and I’m staring out of the window of the apartment that Miss Ingrid and I will call home for the next three months. It was my birthday yesterday, the first one I didn’t get to spend with Mom and the first time since we were five that I didn’t have plans to celebrate with my best friends. I had to settle for phone calls, but we’re planning a celebration when I return.

  Both Mom and I both got teary when we spoke yesterday, and last night, I felt terribly homesick. I reminded myself that I’m no longer a child, that I’m legally an adult, and that many young people move away from home to attend college. “So what if you’re nearly four thousand miles away, so what if it’s another country; Alaska is almost as far. Students move to Alaska, don’t they? Besides, how many have a chaperone?” I chastised myself.

  Given my age, Miss Ingrid’s presence isn’t necessary, but I’m thrilled, anyway, that she’s here. I think Mom’s even happier than me because, in the beginning, after her initial excitement waned, she worried incessantly. I, on the other hand, felt nothing but eager anticipation.

  But, as my departure date loomed ever closer and, finally, faced with the realization that I’d be uprooting myself from everyone and everything familiar, especially Mom, nervousness set in. So, when Miss Ingrid announced that she’d be joining me, I’d been thrilled and, honestly, relieved. I respect her, of course, but I’ve also come to love Miss Ingrid. I’m sure I wouldn’t have enjoyed my time at the Institute as much, and I wouldn’t be here, a world away from Rutherford, if she hadn’t taken a special interest in me.

  I’m not the only one starting a new phase in my life; my friends are also taking their first steps into what promises to be exciting futures.

  Mandi wants to be a film producer and will be attending the NY Film Academy. Sammy plans on becoming a doctor and is about to start pre-med. Bron’s been dating Jamie Drury for a year now, so I guess tagging after us for all those years has paid off. They’re both at City College, following their shared passion and dreams of pursuing a musical career.

  Unlike the girls, I don’t have immediate plans for college, although, I do intend to return to academic studies at some point in the future. My plan right now, given my eleven years of training, is to gain experience with as many reputable ballet companies as I can. My goal, ultimately, is to be signed by New York City Ballet, one of the most prestigious companies in the world and notoriously difficult to get into. That’s why Miss Ingrid and I feel it’s necessary that I gain as much experience as possible, especially with international companies. This opportunity I’ve been granted is a better start on my journey than I’d ever imagined.

  The Institute has a long association with the Leipzig Company, so when I was ready, Miss Ingrid, a former student and performer, suggested I apply for a place in their much sought-after summer program. Mr. Quandt, also with past ties, supported my application, and so, with their help, I’ve been lucky enough to be granted a three-month contract.

  As soon as she learned I’d be accepted, and without telling me, Miss Ingrid approached the company director about opportunities for herself. She secured a position as assistant dance director, also for the summer season. She told me two weeks ago and, aware of Mom’s concern, offered to act as my chaperone. So here I am, here we are, in Leipzig, where I’m about to take the first step toward realizing my dream.

  Mom’s moved on with her life too. She met Peter Thompson three years ago, and they’ve been married for two. I still miss Daddy so much, but it’s been wonderful to see the sparkle return to Mom’s eyes. Sometimes, when I see her head leaning close to Peter’s sandy-haired one, I feel a pang at the memory of Mom’s blonde hair nestled against Dad’s much darker shade. But Peter makes her happy, and that’s what Daddy would have wanted, so I’m happy for her too.

  With what, we hope, will prove a successful start to my professional career underway and the likelihood of more travel for me, Mom and Peter decided to leave New York. For more than two years, Peter, who comes from Orlando, managed his import-export business by commuting between the two cities. It was hard on him and Mom, and I know he did it so I could complete high school and my training. I appreciate their sacrifice, but it’s time for them to build their life together now.

  Yesterday, Miss Ingrid took me sightseeing to celebrate my birthday. Leipzig enthralled me. Everything was so new and exciting—well old and exciting. The city, I discovered, had first been documented in ten fifty-one in the chronicles of some famous bishop. That’s what, for me, is so amazing about this place—its history. I felt the same sense of wonder when visiting the Opera House, which she told me was founded in sixteen ninety-three and relocated to its current location in eighteen sixty-eight. I can’t believe I’m here, but seeing that stage, knowing that, soon, I’ll be dancing there, made me almost dizzy with delight.

  Miss Ingrid knows the Leipzig Company well. She’d been a principal dancer there, and Mr. Quandt, at one time, served as its music director. Each year, for a four-week run, while their company tours, Leipzig Ballet puts on a performance featuring guest dancers. The production marks their season’s opening, and the cast, signed for three months, is made up of dancers recruited from small companies and schools around the world. Two of the three months are dedicated to rehearsals and the last, to performances. Dancers aren’t paid, but the honor and prestige of performing with a renowned European company are part of every budding dancer’s fantasy.

  For me, that dream is about to be come true because, on Monday, two days from now, I officially become a member of the Leipzig Ballet Company, for a little while at least. Nervous and excited at the prospect of performing with such talented people, I worry that I won’t be good enough. Each time I start to panic, which has been often, I remind myself of Miss Ingrid’s words on the plane. “I was a professional dancer for fifteen years, and I have been teaching for ten. I have watched many dancers in that time; believe me, you are among the best I have seen at this stage of your career, Angelique. You will
continue to improve, and you will become one of the very best among your peers,” she said when I expressed my concern.

  Casting and rehearsals start on our first day, no chance to ease into the process or familiarize myself with fellow dancers or teaching staff. It’s important that I dance well from the start. If I fail to, I won’t be making the most of this golden opportunity, this chance to leapfrog my career in a way, until five months ago, I could only have dreamed of. I simply can’t afford to let doubts or nerves hamper me.

  The season will open with Giselle, one of the most beautiful, but also one of the most technically challenging ballets to perform. I’ve fantasized about dancing both Giselle and Odile/Odette in Swan Lake, of course, which danseuse hasn’t, but I don’t dare to imagine or hope for a principal role in this production. I’m lucky just to be here, a member of the corp de ballet in such a prestigious company, I remind myself each time my mind wanders anywhere near the possibility of something more.

  Monday finally arrives, and with Miss Ingrid’s good wishes and reassurances ringing in my ear, we part company at the entrance to the vast auditorium, where dancers have been instructed to gather. While I wait for who knows what to happen, she makes her way backstage to meet up with the Director and production staff.

  The room’s humming with chatter when I enter. While some dancers stand around talking, others are busily stripping off outer garments. A number, gathered in small groups, are occupying chairs set out around the perimeter of the room. It’s clear, from their animated conversations and apparent ease, that many are already acquainted with one another. I can’t help wondering if I’m the only newcomer.

  “Get over it,” I chide myself about being shy and claim a chair toward the back of the room, where, after placing my coat on one beside me, I do what everyone else appears to have done. I strip down to my tights and leotard and tie my slippers before pulling on legwarmers and a crossover top.

  Looking up from stowing my bag under my seat, I notice a young man watching me from across the room. The women with him smile and then politely turn away. He, however, keeps staring, and I blush as we lock eyes. He’s very handsome with sandy-blond hair. His eyes are either blue or gray; I can’t tell from this distance. His full mouth curves into a smile, revealing even, white teeth. I return it, quickly, shyly, before, embarrassed, I avert my gaze to stare at my hands clasped in my lap. I’m not comfortable around boys and never know how to act or what to say.

  Two distinctly male feet in black ballet shoes appear before me, and I raise my head to stare into twinkling blue eyes. “Hello, I’m Luke Grantham. You must be new; when did you arrive?” he asks in a distinct and extremely attractive English accent. My face heats to what I know must be a deep crimson.

  “I’m Angelique,” I manage to say. “I arrived from New York a week ago.” He offers his hand, eyes sparkling even more intensely if that’s at all possible.

  “Welcome, Angelique. This is my second summer here; so, if you need any help, at all, please ask. I’m from Chelsea, in London, and I’m looking forward to dancing in your hometown one day.”

  He’s still holding my hand, and at any other time, I’d feel uncomfortable. But, for some strange reason, I feel comforted by the warmth of his hand wrapped around mine. “May I sit?” he asks, not letting go, and I nod dumbly, failing desperately to portray even a hint of the ease he exudes. He sinks into the chair beside me gracefully, all long, lean limbs and good looks. I withdraw my hand, and he smiles. “Sorry,” he says, his expression conveying he’s anything but.

  Further conversation is interrupted when an elegant, white-haired man taps a cane on the floor. The room falls instantly silent. “Good Morning, everyone,” he says in a strong German accent.

  “I am Gustav Reinhardt, Artistic Director. Welcome to Leipzig all first-timers and welcome back to the many familiar faces I see around me. When your names are called, you will be asked to move either to the left or the right. Please do so without delay. The two groups will then be shown to separate audition rooms. Thank you,” he says and steps aside as a dark-haired woman, clutching a clipboard, steps forward.

  I glance up at Luke nervously, and he graces me with another heart-stopping smile. “You’ll be fine,” he assures me.

  “I hope so,” I whisper as the woman, who introduces herself as Miss Karlin, assistant dance director, starts announcing names. I’m called before Luke and asked to move to the left. Luke reaches forward and squeezes my hand as I gather my bag and leave.

  Name after name is called, and my nervousness escalates with each as dancers are told to move either right or left. Finally, and with only three people still seated, Luke’s called. My heart feels like it’s lodged in my throat until Miss Karlin says, “Left, please.”

  Relief floods me, and I feel I can breathe again—silly, really, because I’ve only just met him. Luke and I have exchanged only a few sentences, but, for some odd reason, I feel comforted by the fact that we haven’t been separated.

  4

  S ix weeks before we arrived, dancers were instructed to rehearse the pas seul sequences for Giselle. I feel sure I’ll be asked to perform one or more of those dances today—that each of the twenty dancers, seven males and thirteen other females, who, like me have traveled to Leipzig, will be asked to do so. I’m almost as positive that at least some of them must feel as anxious as I am right now. If not, I’m even more out of my depth than I feared.

  I’m surprised and greatly relieved when entering our designated room, I see Miss Ingrid standing with Master Gustav and Miss Karlin. She points out the barre across the studio and instructs us to warm up. I breathe deeply to steady my racing pulse and stow my bag under a seat before making my way over. I’ve only just settled into place when a whisper of breath washes across my ear. “Good luck,” Luke says before he steps back a suitable distance.

  “You too,” I glance around to reply, and then, bolstered by his presence, concentrate on banishing everything but the familiar routine from my mind. “This is what I know and love,” I remind myself as I relax into the pattern that’s become second nature to me. It doesn’t matter if I succeed in winning a principal role or whether I dance in the corp de ballet. I’m here for the love of dance and the incredible experience of sharing an international stage with some of the best among my peers.

  A while later, I watch, nerves on edge, yet thoroughly entranced as, one by one, my fellow dancers are called to perform. The males have already danced. The outstanding performances, for me, have been Luke and a guy named Nikolai Averin. It’s the danseuses’ turn now, and an ash-blonde, young woman with gray eyes, called Adriana Andres, is currently onstage. She’s magnificent, in my view, and the rising star of the first international ballet school in Prague, I hear someone behind me say. Gillian Appen performs next, and she’s fantastic too.

  “Angelique Bain,” Miss Karlin announces, causing my heart to leap into my throat.

  “Two routines, Angelique. First Giselle’s Act One solo and then the one in Act Two,” she instructs. I remind myself to breathe like I’ve been taught to do when calming myself, and my nervousness, thankfully, evaporates with the musical strains that herald Giselle’s entry. I give myself over to the now familiar dance, thanks to the endless hours of rigorous rehearsal Miss Ingrid subjected me to. At the end of my performance, no one speaks; all I can hear is the sound of my breathing and the rapid thump-thump of my heart.

  “Five minutes and then your second routine,” Master Gustav’s voice cuts through the air, and I retreat to the wings, trying not to wonder about how I well or badly I did. I concentrate on recomposing myself before taking to the stage once more.

  “Thank you,” Master Gustav announces when I finish. That’s all. Everyone’s received the same response, of course, but it doesn’t make a difference to my state of mind. My nerves return with a vengeance.

  Luke’s moved from his place with the other danseurs and is now sitting beside my empty seat. “You were breathtaking,” he says,
grasping my hand. “I knew you’d have to be good to be here, but I had no idea you’d be that good.”

  “Thank you; I thought you were wonderful too,” I tell him, feeling myself blush. He responds with a smile, squeezing my hand as we turn our attention back to the stage.

  Luke remains at my side for the remaining performances. “You were better than anyone else,” he leans close to whisper at the end. I blush again, more deeply this time, not just at his words, but also at the sensation of his breath on my skin. The way he makes me feel is new, exhilarating, and just a little scary. I think he may be flirting, but I can’t be sure because I’ve had no real experience or practice at it. I’ve never actually dated, but I’ve accompanied friends of the girls’ various boyfriends on group outings—dates, Mandi insisted they be called. None of my companions then stirred up this feeling of nervousness anticipation in me. Not even when Jamie Drury’s cousin, Jesse, when he held my hand and, later, kissed me. The experience had been dreadful, embarrassing, actually, because he’d leaned forward unexpectedly, and I, startled, had pulled away. He missed my mouth, and when our lips did touch, it felt like I was being kissed by an over-enthusiastic puppy. Jesse had been a boy at the time. Luke’s a man. He’s like no one I’ve met before.

  “Adriana’s much better, she’s stupendous,” I manage to respond to his compliment.

  “I don’t agree at all.” He turns to me, his face, so close to mine, his accent, so alluring, that my knees go weak. “She may be more technically correct, but her performance lacked emotion. She dances Giselle; you are Giselle,” he says, his eyes sincere, his voice filled with conviction. If my face had flushed before, I swear, my entire body’s on fire now. Unable to think, I simply stare at him

  “Attention, please, everyone!” Master Gustav’s voice saves me from looking like a complete idiot. “If you are called, gather to the left near the door. If your name is not called, remain seated, please,” he tells us. Miss Karlin stands to read name after name from her list, this time, seemingly, in no particular order. As the numbers around us dwindle, I glance around, taking stock, trying, unsuccessfully, to discern a pattern.