Angel: Counsel Series

by Shenda Paul

  Deciding to leave had been a tough choice, probably the hardest I’ve had to make yet. I changed my mind frequently, but Rachel assured me she’d be there for Mom. “I’ll call every day and visit at least twice a week,” she said, and the girls promised visits too. Mom won’t be abandoned, I’d eventually concluded.

  So, here I am, traveling to my new home and job, which, thanks to Candy, I’ve managed to secure. It’s in a smaller, less established studio than hers, and the pay isn’t as good, but it’s incredibly reassuring to know I have work. I haven’t met my employer, Ruth, yet, but we’ve spoken on the phone a number of times. She seems nice.

  After an exhaustive online search, I found a small apartment, partly furnished. All I have to buy is a bed, a couple of small appliances, cookware, tableware, and flatware—things not worth shipping. The photographs of the apartment looked good, and I’m hoping the reality lives up to my expectations. I’ve signed a three-month lease, and the owners and I have agreed to enter into a long-term agreement, if, after that time, both parties are happy

  My stomach, already trembling with butterflies, somersaults when the captain announces our landing. Forty minutes later, I’m sitting in a taxi, eagerly looking around at the city that’s about to become my new home. “The most Irish city in the U.S. of A,” I mouth, unable to resist a smile. “I hope you can see me, Daddy.”

  The building we pull up to is a modest walk-up, and although bustling, the street’s nowhere as busy as my last address. To me, it feels more welcoming, friendly, even. The driver, who, learning that I’m new to Boston, had regaled me with advice about where to go and what to see, takes pity on me and helps lug my bags to my apartment. Outside my door on the third floor, I thank him profusely and rummage in my bag for a tip, but he waves me off. “Welcome to Boston,” he calls out over his shoulder.

  Inside, I slowly take in my surroundings. The living room’s compact, as described, but the high ceiling and bay window make it feel spacious. The walls are painted taupe-gray and the woodwork white. A light gray two-seater sofa, tan worn, but comfortable-looking leather armchair, and timber coffee table make up the seating area. I wander into the small, well-equipped kitchen, which, to my delight, has a combined washer/dryer. Someone’s even been thoughtful enough to leave the instruction manual out. Then, spying what most excited me when viewing the apartment online, I unlock the door leading onto the surprisingly large balcony. It’s just as I imagined, and I already know I’m going to love this spot. It’s perfect for breakfasts during warm weather, and the Adirondack chair tucked away in one corner just begs to be curled up in with a good book.

  Back inside, I find that the bedroom’s a reasonable size with enough room for a double bed when I get around to buying one. For now, I’ll sleep on the sofa. The tiny bathroom’s painted utilitarian white and is, thank goodness, spotless. I picture it with blue and taupe towels to add a splash of color.

  Three months later, and given that I’ve recently signed a three-year lease, I feel I can officially call Boston home. Other than missing Mom and my friends, life is good. I love my apartment and my job. My dancing’s improved too; my leg, much to my delight, is coping well with the rigorous barre exercises and dance routines I put myself through each day. I may never perform professionally again, but the desire to be the best dancer I can be hasn’t diminished, not at all.

  Each morning or evening, before or after classes, when the studio’s deserted, I dance. That time has become the highlight of my working day. I’m considering contemporary dance lessons—for two reasons. It’s less structured and rigorous than ballet, and classes would provide me with the opportunity to dance with others, something I miss. I can’t afford it right now, but I’m planning on getting a second job, which, hopefully, will allow me to save and pay for weekly lessons.

  I have managed to visit Mom each month as planned, though, and we speak on the phone every night. She’s still happy at the facility, and Rachel’s been an absolute godsend. She calls Mom every day and visits frequently. I stay in touch with my friends too, and we catch up each time I visit New York. Bron and Jamie Drury are married now, and Mandi and her boyfriend Josh are living together. I predict an engagement in the not so distant future. Sammy recently moved to Chicago to be closer to her mother after her parents’ divorce, but we communicate regularly via email and Skype

  The girls nag me about my lack of social life. “Go out, meet people, find someone—fall in love,” they say. I tell them I’m not interested, but the truth is, I really can’t afford to socialize, not even a little bit right now. Besides, our little ballet school is hardly the place where twenty-something, single, good looking young men hang out.

  But things may change soon—well, the bit about not being able to afford going out, at least—because I have a job interview with Starbucks in Beacon Hill after work this evening. I’m already well acquainted with Boston’s public transport system, known to locals simply as The T, which will ensure I make my appointment on time. It will also make traveling to and from work easy, if, of course, I’m lucky enough to be hired.

  I do get the job, only three shifts a week, but the extra money will come in handy. If I manage to pick up some extra hours, I may even be able to afford those dance classes.

  Three weeks later, I’ve settled into my new work routine, and, as I hoped, I’ve also managed to pick up an extra shift. I had my first contemporary dance lesson last week at a studio near home. In fact, I’m on my way there now.

  I love the old, shabby building; it has character, and everyone’s friendly. I enjoyed every moment of my first lesson, especially being in the company of adult dancers again. And, because contemporary dance is new to me, I’m also enjoying a new challenge, especially given that a number of students are incredibly talented. I hadn’t mentioned my formal training when signing up, but Jeanette, the instructor and owner, recognized it immediately and approached me after class. She asked whether I’d been trained, and I divulged only basic facts. Yes, I’m a trained ballerina, but was, unfortunately, injured before my career could take off. I didn’t elaborate about where I studied, the circumstances of my injury, or my time in Leipzig. Jeanette, thankfully, didn’t seem overly curious. She was more interested in telling me about the school’s bi-annual repertory performances and almost begged me to participate. “I’ve always wanted to incorporate classical ballet in my choreography. You know, a solo performance within a contemporary sequence,” she enthused.

  “I’m sure we could work something out,” I said, but stressed that I was there to learn more about contemporary dance.

  Jeanette had been more serious than I thought because, at the end of class, she raises the idea with the wider group. Most appear uncertain until she tells them I’m a trained ballerina. Soon, practically everyone’s offering ideas. I remain quiet throughout their animated discussions. I’m packing up when two women, who introduce themselves as Sarah and Amy, invite me for coffee. They’re so warm and friendly that I readily accept, and, at Sarah’s suggestion, we visit a coffee shop just around the corner.

  “So, you’re a ballerina?” Amy asks as soon as we’ve ordered.

  “I was. I was injured and can no longer perform professionally,” I correct her with a smile.

  “Oh, that’s a shame; you’re very talented. We’re all intimidated, aren’t we, Sarah? Where did you study? You’re not from here, are you?” She hardly takes a breath, her hands waving as she speaks.

  “Slow down. Give Angelique time to get to know you before you give her the full Amy Sanders treatment,” Sarah admonishes her in a way only close friends can and often do.

  “Sorry, she’s over-the-top and often comes across as a busybody bulldozer,” Sarah apologizes.

  “I’m not a busybody,” Amy objects with a laugh. “I’m interested.”

  “My best friend Mandi’s very much the same, so I’m used to the onslaught,” I respond lightly. “I’m from New York and moved to Boston just over three months ago,” I add to app
ease her curiosity.

  Sarah, clearly more perceptive about my reluctance to discuss my past, asks about my life in Boston. I tell her the little that’s happened since I arrived, and then divert the attention from me by asking about them. They both work as dancers at a club in Beacon Hill, called Liaison, Amy tells me.

  “I work at the local Starbucks in the evening. Perhaps I could watch you perform some time?”

  They stare at each other, a look I interpret as amusement crosses, Amy’s face.

  “That would be great, but it’s a members only club,” Sarah explains. “Thanks for the thought, though.”

  Amy, for some reason that escapes me, giggles, and Sarah throws her a pointed look before turning back to me. “Have you met any of Jeanette’s other students?” she asks me.

  Amy takes over then with stories about our fellow students. Sarah’s already heard most of it, I’m sure, but she, apparently, finds her friend as entertaining as I do. I enjoy myself thoroughly and feel pleased when Sarah suggests a repeat outing the following week.

  A couple of weeks later Jeanette, Roberta, her assistant dance teacher, and I progress her idea to include ballet into the upcoming repertory show. Jeanette’s planned on eight performances for the repertory and wants to close with classical dance. After much toing and froing, I suggest an adaptation of La Bayadère.

  “Great choice!” Jeanette replies.

  “I don’t know if our regular audience will be familiar with it. They’re not really ballet buffs,” Roberta says.

  “We could do something else, something you think they’ll be more familiar with?” I offer.

  “No. La Bayadère is one of the famous ballets, and I like it. It’s exotic—a perfect fit for us. If anyone in the audience doesn’t know it beforehand, they will after,” Jeanette decides.

  La Bayadère, meaning temple dancer, tells the love story of dancer, Nikiya and Solor, a noble warrior, who, the Rajah decrees should marry his daughter. Usually performed in four acts and seven scenes, I recommend we adapt two of those scenes. The first, the temple sequence in which several bayadères and fakirs dance. The High Brahmin unveils Nikiya and orders her to perform a solo dance. Solor and Nikiya meet and, later, promise themselves to each other over the temple’s sacred fire. I propose that the bayadéres and fakirs perform a contemporary dance routine, while I, as Nikiya, dance a specially choreographed, classical sequence.

  The second scene I suggest is the one, where, in an act of revenge for the Rajah and his daughter murdering Nikiya, the gods destroy the temple. Nikiya and Solor are reunited in the afterlife, the Kingdom of the Shades. Again, in their pas de duex, I recommend that Solor’s dance be contemporary, while Nikiya continues with ballet. Choreographing their routine will be challenging, I warn, but Jeanette and Roberta instantly agree.

  Jeanette and Roberta will, naturally, concentrate on the contemporary dances, while I work on the classical. Together, we’ll decide how to meld the two styles. The repertory performance is just two months away, and, given our decision to dedicate four or five weeks to rehearsals, we have three weeks to finalize the choreography. Music will pretty much dictate what we do, so we swap ideas on that next before ending what, we all agree, has been a successful meeting.

  On the way home, with my mind occupied with music and dance sequences, I can’t help thinking of Luke and how nervous and excited we’d been at the prospect of trying out Mr. Gustav’s innovative choreography. I find I can smile at the memory, my thoughts of him no longer tinged with heartache and regret. All I experience is happiness at how wonderful our time together had been.

  Two weeks out from our performance, we’re all but ready. The mood among students is exuberant, and Jeanette, Roberta, and I are over the moon that the choreography has been so enthusiastically received and well executed. Now, all that’s left to do is refine, refine, and refine.

  I’m especially thrilled at how well we’ve managed to combine the two styles. My pas de deux with Solor is, in my view, a perfect example of how classical ballet and contemporary dance can be melded into a performance lovers of both forms can enjoy. Also, after a month of vigorous rehearsals, I’m just as pleased that my leg’s holding up so well, and I’m especially excited about performing again.

  Mom and my friends share my excitement. Mom insists on knowing every detail, what happened at rehearsals, everything I know about the cast, their personalities, the costumes, and every bit of gossip. Mandi plans on flying to Boston for the weekend of our performance and has promised to record it for Mom, Bron, and Rachel to watch later. When Samantha found out, she demanded a copy, and, despite having no interest in dance, Samuel also asked for one. He’s called each week to see how my leg is faring; not only out of professional interest, I know, but because he loves me. I count myself lucky to have such supportive friends.

  My friendship with Amy and Sarah is also growing. They both have roles as temple dancers, so we see a lot more of one another, at rehearsals and after when we’d go for coffee or a quick bite to eat. On one such occasion, after much persuasion from Amy, I reluctantly agreed to visit a pub. Several men approached to chat and offer us drinks; some flirted outrageously. Amy, outgoing as she is, lapped up the attention. Sarah, although not quite as extroverted, accepted it with an ease I almost marveled at. I, however, politely, yet determinedly shunned any overtures. Not only am I uncomfortable with such overt attention and sexual innuendo from men I don’t know, I’d learned, with Luke, just how wonderful it is to have someone to share something special with. No man I’ve met since has made me feel that combination of comfort and anticipation I experienced with him, and I’m determined not to settle for anything less.

  It’s our big night—finally. The area backstage is a chattering, laughing hive of activity. No tranquil dressing room for me here. Instead, I’m one of many performers getting ready in two very cramped spaces, one for males, the other, for females. We crane around each other to do hair and makeup and jostle to get dressed. In short; it’s organized chaos and, to my great surprise, I love it. It can never replace the incredible feeling of having your own dressing room, seeing your name on the door, or preparing to perform a routine immortalized by legendary ballerinas, of course, but I’m getting such a thrill from being part of this bunch of crazy people. The fact that I’m about to perform publicly, something I thought I’d never do again, only adds the sense of occasion.

  As she promised, Mandi’s here to watch me dance. She arrived yesterday and is in the audience now. Last night, we met up with Sarah and Amy for drinks. The three of them appeared to get along well. A lot of Mandi’s enjoyment, I could tell, was her delight in knowing I’ve made friends and that my life is, at last, coming together. Watching her and Amy have a conversation had been like watching a good tennis match and almost as entertaining. Sarah and I simply sat back and enjoyed the spectacle.

  The next night in class, everyone’s talking about the rave reviews we received in the local press. Critics complimented of every performance. One writer described my sequences as captivating. ‘Grace Personified’ she called me and praised the combination of contemporary and classic styles. Accolades for Jeanette’s studio continue to pour in, and she’s already planning the next event, because, as she said, “we need to strike while the iron’s hot.” And, for her, best of all, the publicity has resulted in a flood of new enrolments.

  On, Saturday, the week after our performance, I’m with Mom, who, despite already having viewed the DVD Mandi brought back—several times over probably—insists we watch it together. She cries during my performances, and I get up to hug her. “Oh, Angel, you’re such a beautiful dancer. I just wish—” she laments.

  “Shhh, Mom,” I console her. “It is what it is,” I say, repeating what she’s told me on many occasions when I’d been upset about her situation.

  Some weeks, later, we’re hit with more bad news. A large corporation has acquired Mom’s care facility, and the letter detailing its ownership advises a twenty percent fe
e increase. There’ll be improvements in some areas, it states, but overall, the facility had been losing money, and the increases are necessary for it to remain viable.

  I assure Mom that we’ll work it out. In reality, though, it’s going to be tough because our finances are already stretched to the limit. We can pay the higher costs, but we’ll run out of capital much sooner than planned. We can’t afford for that to happen. I can’t allow it happen because Mom’s going to need specialist care for the rest of her life. “I’ll contact Mr. Jamieson; he and I will work on getting more government funding,” I say, withholding the fact that we’ve all but exhausted that avenue.

  The next day, I ask Ruth about teaching some extra classes. She’s apologetic, explaining that we have just enough students to keep us both busy and paid. She promises to advertise additional classes but cautions that it would probably only generate a couple of extra students. Our current numbers would simply end up being dispersed over the advertised classes. I manage to get two more shifts a week at Starbucks, but that’s hardly going to make a dent in what’s needed to cover the extra fees.

  Later that week, over coffee, Sarah notices my preoccupation, and I share more of my life by telling them about Mom’s accident. I reluctantly reveal the news about the rise in costs, and how I just don’t know how I’m going to afford it. For once, Amy’s subdued. “What you’re doing for your mom is amazing,” she says. “There’s no way I’d have coped.”

  “Of course you would,” I insist, and Sarah waves her hand to silence Amy’s protest.

  “Angelique, I get the feeling you’re somewhat…umm…innocent…about life, but—” she hesitates, glancing at Amy, seemingly in silent conversation, before continuing. “There could be a way to earn some money, and it would pay better than your teaching and Starbucks combined.”