by Renee Fowler
In the beginning I thought Penny was perhaps just a spoiled, bratty prima donna. She has been principal here for several years and it sort of comes with the territory, but it didn’t take long at all for me to pick up on the truth.
Penny is only a brat to me.
To everyone else in the theater she’s soft spoken and kind. Andrea adores her. The other dancers too, even most of the hyper-competitive bunch. I don’t know what to make of it. Penny is quietly deferential in practice, but she clearly dislikes me. She’s never been so outwardly rude that I can call her out on it. Maybe she has a problem with authority figures? Not that I try to project that aura too much.
And I don’t care. Why would I care? As long as she does what’s asked of her, and does it well, it’s no concern of mine. In several months time I’ll be moved on to somewhere else. Chances are Penny and I will never cross paths again, which is probably for the best.
It is a lie, of course. I do care for reasons unknown even to myself. Her cool indifference doesn’t hurt me so much as it confounds me. The fact that I can’t figure out which slot to fit Penny Abbott in bothers me more than I care to admit too. Why does she dance? When she’s dancing from the devil, who or what is that devil?
This particular morning I get to the theater early, even earlier than I usually arrive, and I’m surprised to find Penny already here. The door to the smaller of the two practice studio’s is hanging slightly ajar.
Today Penny wears white tights and a black leotard. Her hair is loose and hanging down her back. I stand and watch through the crack in the door while she piles it on top of her head in a sloppy bun, blowing a pink bubble gum bubble towards her reflection as she does.
Penny is all lean, clean lines and pale skin. Parts of her utterly fascinate me for reasons I can’t discern. Her dainty, bird-like ankles and her ears that stick out a touch too far. My fascination with other parts of her is no great mystery. Her tapered waist. The gentle curve of her ass as it connects to the back of her thighs. The soft grey of her eyes is lovely too, not so much when those narrowed eyes meet mine in the mirror.
I’ve been caught.
Her throat moves as she swallows her gum. She bends down to retrieve her coffee in a disposable to go cup resting on the floor and takes a big swig. Penny’s reflection glares at me as I wander in to greet her.
“Good morning, Penelope.” As the weeks have worn on, I’ve started to pick at her a bit. God knows why. I don’t understand it, but I do understand that she doesn’t enjoy being called Penelope.
“Morning,” she says flatly.
I click my tongue and gesture to the prominent sign. “No food or drink allowed in here.”
Penny takes a pointed look at the travel mug clutched in my hand as she takes another gulp.
“I’m just passing through,” I explain. She breezes towards the small waste basket besides the door, and I gently cup her elbow before she can dump her cup in the trash. “Come. Let’s drink our coffees and have a chat.”
“About what?”
About what indeed. About the devil she’s dancing from? About why I lay in bed at night thinking of ways to win her over? “About the gala.”
“That isn’t for months.”
“It’ll be here before you know it, and I’d like your input on a few things.”
Any other dancer at the GCB would be delighted if I asked their opinion on the matter, but Penny Abbott? She gives a tired sigh. She drags her feet the entire way to my office, and seats herself stiffly in one of the chairs off to the side of my desk.
If she were anyone else, I might take the spot beside her. This is supposed to be an informal and friendly chat after all, but since it’s Penny I choose to remain standing.
I lean against the edge of my desk to tower over her. Clearly a power play, and one which doesn’t phase her in the slightest. She crosses her legs, and busies herself picking tiny specs of lint off her black leotard.
Folding my arms across my chest, I wait for her to speak. One minute. Two. Three.
She stares out the window and sips her coffee as if I’m not even here.
“It’s not much of a view,” I say when the silence has grown unbearable.
“No, not really.”
“How long have you worked here?”
“Mmmm. Four years, I think. Almost.” She kicks out her foot slowly.
“Do you like it?”
She nods, and studies her nails.
“Where were you at before this?”
Penny shrugs her shoulders. “Different places.”
“What places?”
“Does it matter?” she bites out. A small line forms between her pale, arched eyebrows. She somehow looks both furious and adorable all at once. “I thought you wanted to talk about the gala?”
I have to swallow back a tiny laugh. “I’m getting to that, but since I’ll be choreographing a role specifically centered around you, I thought it might be nice if I got to know you a bit.”
“There’s not much to know. I’ll do whatever you want, so…” She waves her hand dismissively and stares towards the open door.
Whatever I want? I sincerely doubt that. What I want is to strip her out of that leotard and those tights and see how she ticks. But I won’t of course, for a number of reasons, even if she were interested, which she clearly isn’t.
I want to know how she ticks fully clothed too, and I am tasked with creating something for her to star in. “Where are you from?” I ask.
“I’m from here.” She rubs the tip of her nose, and takes another sip. “I grew up not too far from here.”
“How long have you been dancing?”
“A long time.”
“How long?”
“Since I was three.”
“So twenty five years then.”
Nodding, she blinks up at me a few times, then casts her eyes back on the window.
I wander over to snap the blinds closed, a bit rude perhaps, but her indifference cuts me in a way it really shouldn’t.
Without the pitiful view to hold her attention, she pries off the lid of her cup to peer inside.
“Where did you learn?” I ask.
“I started at a place near the northside of town.”
“What place?”
“It’s not there anymore. That was a long time ago.”
“Where else?”
“Does it matter?”
“It matters to me.”
She laughs quietly down at her cup.
“Is this funny?”
“No, I suppose not.” She laughs harder, then clears her throat and studies the tiny bonsai tree on my desk. There is also a few decorative sprigs of bamboo poking up from a small, clear vase filled with grey rocks. “You need to put water in those,” she informs me. “They’ll shrivel up and die if you don’t.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
“You’re welcome.”
Now I’m the one laughing at this ridiculous exchange. What I wouldn’t give to kiss that smirk right off her face. “So, the gala…” I rub a hand along my jaw, and let my eyes graze down the swell of her calf before quickly averting my gaze. “I want to write a piece for you, a solo piece.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t want to dance alone.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t want to.”
“Why?”
“I don’t like it.”
“You want to dance with Seth?”
She nods, and stares down to where her ankle twists in a slow circle.
“But I’m in charge, right?”
Penny’s eyes meet mine at last. The soft, grey iris’ grow hard with challenge. She doesn’t speak. I wait, and wait, and wait for her to say something, but she remains silent.
“I could choose another dancer for the role,” I threaten.
“Okay.”
Okay? That’s all she has to say is okay? “You’ve been principal here for a few years now, haven’t you?”
“Yes.�
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“And I suppose you’re used to getting your way.”
Penny resumes her search for stray lint on her leotard, but it’s been picked clean. “I wouldn’t say that.”
“I really could choose another dancer for the event.” But both of us sitting there know I won’t. The next most proficient female dancer beneath her is Carrie, maybe Megan, but Penny outshines both of them by a wide margin.
“If that’s what you think is best,” she murmurs.
Definitely not an attention whore. Perhaps the exact opposite? I scratch my scalp and shake my head down at her, not that she’s paying me any mind. “I’m still trying to determine what’s best.”
And I’m still trying to figure her out.
The sound of a quick, soft knock cuts through the air. Roselyn stands in the open doorway with one hip cocked out. The seductive smile she has planted on her face falters when it lands on Penny. “Are you busy?” Roselyn asks me.
I say yes, and Penny says no at the exact same time. Penny pops up from her seat, and scurries past Roselyn before I can get a word in edgewise.
Chapter 5
Penny
Why does Liam know how old I am? And why was he spying on me? It doesn’t matter because he’s a jerk who called me a fat cow. I swear I can still hear his voice in my head, the exact inflection and tone as he muttered beneath his breath, Grosse vache.
His voice sounds different now. Less thick. Less french. People lose their accents after a time, I suppose. They change.
He certainly seems different than I first expected. Less rude and brisk, to everyone else. He’s a bit rude and bit brisk to me, but that goes both ways. I’ve been a bit of a bitch to him. I don’t know why the sight of his beautiful, but smug face ticks me off so much. Sometimes it’s easier not to question things too closely. He’ll be gone before long, and I won’t have to wonder about it anymore.
But his stupid little chat has screwed up my entire morning routine. I like to get here early on days we have rehearsal so I can be warm and limber before everyone arrives. I like to sip on coffee while I stretch at my own pace, and I like to do so in peace and quiet.
Seth is waiting, so no chance for peace or quiet. He doesn’t see me come in at first. He’s too busy staring at his own reflection over his shoulder, checking his form as he moves through positions.
Carrie holds back a yawn. She spots me and waves me over to where she’s splayed out on the floor. “Help me stretch.”
She arranges her legs straight out in front, knees together, feet flexed. I do the same across from her. The soles of our feet press together, and we grasp each other’s hands, then take turns leaning back and forth. She’s taller and more long legged, so it’s a bit uneven, but we manage. “I can’t believe I got here before you,” she says.
I smile, and shrug, and don’t make mention that I’ve been here for a while, or of that bizarre conversation with Liam. It’s best not to bring him up around Carrie. I’m sick to death of her gushing over him.
Seth notices me and skips over. When Carrie is finished, he wants a turn, but he isn’t content to stretch in such a conventional manner. Before long he has one of my ankles resting on his shoulder while he presses himself down over me, supposedly to stretch my hamstring. “Don’t you miss this, Penny?”
“Nope.”
“If you wait too long, cobwebs will form in that thing.”
“That thing?” I laugh. “It hasn’t been that long.” I pause to count the weeks, and realize I haven’t shed a tear over John in several. He tried to contact me about a week after I walked in on him and that girl, having a change of heart, but I didn’t even bother to respond. I told him once a long time ago that it was the one thing I could never forgive and I meant it.
“It’s been long enough,” Seth says. “Let me fix you up.”
“No,” I say firmly.
“Then practice with me.” He pretends to hump me until I’m breathless from laughing.
“You’re disgusting.”
“You think this is disgusting?” Shaking his head down at me, Seth pulls my other leg up so both my ankles rest on his shoulders and I’m doubled up beneath him. “Penny, I could show you some truly disgusting things.”
A loud clap rings through the air. “Is everyone ready to get started?” Liam’s voice is a thick growl.
Tipping my head back, I see Liam scowling at me. I remember that look of displeasure from years prior. Perhaps his voice has changed, but that particular expression is exactly the same.
Seth hops to his feet and offers me a hand up. We stand off to the side, while Liam gets the others going. This new production is… different. It’s an original piece that Liam wrote, choreographed, and directed in a few other cities already.
Everyone else is raving about it, but I don’t really understand it. There’s no story. It’s just big sweeping movements, and no special costumes. We’re dancing barefoot, in flesh-colored leotards. I’ve watched a video online of the final production when it was done in Houston. The stage was decorated with these large, black cubes, and there were ribbons hanging from the ceiling, and the two lead dancers wind in and around the boxes with a huge length of fabric that ends up in a tangle.
The whole thing reminds me of those modern art paintings, you know the ones that are just big, clumsy brush strokes. The ones that may or may not have been done by a five year old but everyone stands around pretending like they mean something.
It’s pretentious nonsense, is what it is, but I guess people will pay to come see it because of him. We’re still doing The Nutcracker in december of course, because it’s popular and people will come to see it no matter who is directing.
The gala is a one night, one show sort of deal. I’m kind of surprised he is bothering to write something new for it. Usually we do a short mismash of popular pieces, then everyone gets drunk and mingles. I hate the galas. There are two, sometimes three a year, and they are frequented by richie rich people who come to rub elbows, and after we perform, we’re expected to rub elbows too. In costume and makeup, I feel protected up on stage, but that face to face schmoozing it a bit beyond me. It’s necessary though. That’s where most of the funding for the rest of the year comes from.
But that’s months away, and Unravel is coming up in only a handful of weeks, so I do my best to pull my thoughts back to the present.
With the exception of Seth and I, the rest of the dancers are divided into two groups, and they will come in from either side of the stage, leapfrogging over one another. It’s utter foolishness, but Seth watches it all with a small, faraway smile. Is he impressed because Liam Thibault wrote this travesty, or is it actually impressive? Maybe it’s one of those things I’m incapable of understanding.
Contemporary modern dance. Blech.
Now that Liam has the other’s going, he wanders over to us. This isn’t the first time we’ve rehearsed for this show, but today we delve a bit deeper into the choreography. Parts of it are almost acrobatic. I’m not used to moving my body this way, and neither is Seth.
He has Seth roll forward in a ball, then sprawl out on his back like a starfish. Then I’m supposed to come over and tug at his hand.
Liam’s palms are huge and warm on my hips. “Off center a bit,” he instructs. “And stagger your stance. Bend this knee.” He maneuvers me to his liking, and after some more gentle correction, he stands aside.
Seth comes to his feet, mostly under his own power, but guided by me. Then he chases me in a wide circle. On stage we’ll be running around one of those goofy cubes. The second time around, Seth stops, turns and goes down on one knee. I plant my foot on his thigh and balance in an arabesque.
“Stop pointing your feet,” Liam says.
“What?”
“Stop. Pointing. Your. Feet.” Liam taps the arch of my foot lightly. “This isn’t ballet. And whatever you’re doing with your hands, stop that too.”
Why aren’t we dancing ballet? I want to scream the question at him. H
e’s a freaking ballet dancer, or he was, and so is everyone in this room. Yet he wants us to stomp and crawl around like animals. Where is the beauty and grace in that?
“Do you have something you’d like to say, Penelope?”
My jaw aches from grinding my teeth. “It’s Penny.”
“Do you have something you’d like to say, Penny?”
Squaring my shoulders, I force myself to look him in the eye. “I don’t like this.”
“What don’t you like?”
I tip my chin up towards him. “All of it. I don’t understand it, and I don’t like it.”
Liam smiles. Not a sarcastic smile either. A real, genuine smile, and he looks gorgeous doing it, which I hate him for. I hate him for looking like that, and for calling me a fat cow all those years ago, and for making me dance in such an ugly way.
“You don’t have to like it or understand it,” Liam says. “You just have to do it. Let’s try again.”
We try it again and again and again. Eventually he is satisfied by my unpointed feet, and off kilter arms. I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror and grimace.
Next we move onto the first lift. It starts as a simple fish lift, but Liam chastises me for the elegant reach of my arms and legs. I guess I’m just supposed to let them flop. Ugh. Then Seth swings me up, behind, and onto his shoulders in a sort of soldier carry. And again I’m reminded to relax my body. I’m supposed to just dangle loosely while Seth trudges in a circle.
Ridiculous.
We practice the lift a few times more, speeding up as we go.
Liam’s face pinches. “No! Wrong.”
I throw my hands up in the air. “I’m doing it like you said.”
“Not you.” Liam points a finger at Seth. “You. That is sloppy, and lazy. Keep that up, and you’re going to drop her.”
Seth sighs quietly. His shoulders sag beneath me.
“He’s never dropped me yet,” I point out sharply. “And you’re asking him to lift in a really weird way. There’s not even a name for this. We’ve never done this crap before.”
