The Ballerina: A Lesbian Romance

by Nicolette Dane

  “Thank you,” I said, moving past her and walking into the room.

  As I approached Charles’ bed, I could tell he definitely looked ill. His face was ashen and drained and he lay there in the bed unmoving, adding to the frightening stillness of the entire room.

  I took the back of the chair in my hand, adjusted its placement, and sat down next to his bedside, looking over him. The nurse had said he was awake but his eyes were closed, his mouth a solid straight line.

  “Charles,” I whispered. “It’s Mish.”

  “Hmm?” he murmured, rustling a bit and turning his head in my direction.

  “It’s Mish,” I said. “Candace said you wanted to see me.” Slowly his eyes opened up and as he saw me he began to smile.

  “Oh, there you are,” he said weakly. “I’m glad you could make it.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear about all this,” I said. “It was devastating to get that call this morning.”

  “I’m still kicking,” he said. “I just can’t perform any theatrical gestures with my arms right now.”

  “You don’t have to,” I said with a laugh. “You can just lie there.”

  “That’s hardly my style,” he said. “But it will do for now.”

  “Are you feeling okay?” I said.

  “Sure,” he said. “They’ve got this contraption hooked up to me pumping me full of morphine. I think I’ll be quite fine.”

  “You’re a trooper, sir,” I said.

  “That I am,” he said. After we smiled together in a moment of silence, he again spoke up. “Mish, listen. We need you back.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I… well, I don’t know what to say, sir. I’m doing well at the opera, the projects are fulfilling, the pay is good.”

  “Pay,” he scoffed. “Bah.” I could sense he wanted to wag his hand at me but was too weak to do so.

  “I think that I need to stay where I’m at, sir,” I said, pained by my decision, as I didn’t want to cause him more stress than he was already under.

  “I read that article about you,” Charles said. “And it made me infinitely jealous. I should have never let you go over some silly sex drama.”

  “Sir,” I said, embarrassed by his candidness, looking around to make sure nobody else heard him.

  “This is the arts,” he said. “Everybody’s fucking everybody else. That’s just the way it works in our world.” I couldn’t help but laugh.

  “I suppose you’re right,” I said.

  “Mish, I’m obviously in disrepair,” he continued. “I’m advancing in age, my heart seems to be in shambles, and it would be some time before I could get back up on that stage and dance again with a bunch of 20 year olds.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Your feet are probably still all right.”

  “Bunions,” he said. “Gnarled and twisted, they barely look like feet anymore after my lifetime of dance.”

  “I see,” I said with a chuckle.

  “What I’m trying to say, Mish, is that I feel that my duties as Artistic Director are becoming… beyond me,” he said. “It wouldn’t be right for the company, it wouldn’t be right for the board, and it certainly wouldn’t be right for the audience.”

  “You’re stepping down?” I asked.

  “I am,” he said. “I’ve spoken to the board of directors, specifically to Mrs. Trumbull, our most charitable benefactor, you know, and they have agreed with my recommendation that we offer the position to you, Mish,” he said. “If you’ll have us, of course.” A broad smile curled across his lips, obviously excited to be able to make this offer even if it was from a hospital bed.

  “Me?” I said incredulously. It almost didn’t seem real. I couldn’t make sense of it in my mind. “But, I’m so young,” I said. “You didn’t take over until you were well into your 40s. Has there ever been an Artistic Director my age?” I said.

  “No,” Charles said. “But there’s a first time for everything.”

  “I was never even a principal dancer,” I said, still searching for reasons why this position would be offered to me. “I’ve only been doing this 20 years,” I said. “The bulk of that dancing, not directing.”

  “I told you before, Mish,” Charles said. “You’re a better choreographer and director than you are a dancer. Just accept that.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, overcome by fear from too many surprises.

  “The company needs some new blood,” he said. “I’ll be around to advise you, you shan’t be alone.”

  “I just don’t know what to say,” I said, becoming emotional and teary eyed. It was all just too much to bear.

  “I suppose I don’t need an answer right now,” he acquiesced. “But we were just about to put together Midsummer Night’s Dream and we would love to have you run that production,” Charles said with a grin. “My choreography, of course.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Please consider my offer, Mish,” he said. “You’re very important to this company and I can think of no one better to whom to pass the reigns.”

  After that, everything started to feel a little bit murky to me. It was like one of those semi-lucid dreams, the kind where strange stuff happens, surprising stuff, yet you feel like you can control it somewhat because all the things you want come easily and quickly to you. Like if you’re a writer and you suddenly, without trying, have a bestseller and everybody’s fawning over you. Or that person you’re lusting after, the one that you really shouldn’t be thinking sexually about because she’s your current lover’s best friend, you’re all of sudden in her bed and screwing around. Or you’re handed a job that you of course knew would be amazing, but you felt highly under-qualified and unready for.

  Was I dreaming? Maybe I wasn’t even together with Dinah. Maybe it was I who was in the hospital bed, suffering from some illness, hallucinating all this insane stuff that was happening to me.

  Charles and I said our goodbyes, I wished him well and told him that I would see him very soon. Turning from his bedside and making my way to the door, I felt in a daze, confounded and lost, almost bumping into a gurney as I exited Charles’ room. Slipping down the long, antiseptic hallway of the hospital, I tried to imagine what life would look like once I stepped out of the hospital and back out onto the cold and busy New York City street outside. But I couldn’t really even see that far ahead. All I could see was right here, right now, the hallway, the medical staff passing me by, the black and white tile floor below me. The present. It felt very portentous and very powerful.

  *

  I sat in my office, slumped slightly in my chair, wearing a black strapless satin dress, my matching black heels kicked off to the side of my desk. My hair was freshly dyed a lighter shade of blonde, luminous and full, recently curled and pinned up to expose my neck and shoulders. Tapping my stocking covered feet under the desk, I fumbled with a pen and a piece of paper, crossing out words, striking entire sentences, rewriting them, editing down my speech. While I didn’t expect to be on stage very long, I wanted to make sure everybody appropriate was thanked and considered. It was spring, after all, donation season.

  Charles had certainly helped me succeed in my succession. When I first stepped in as artistic director, he was there to assist in my choreographing Midsummer Night’s Dream, one of my favorite ballets, yet he humbly took a backseat to my leadership of the company and crew. And here we were, opening night of Midsummer for benefactors, members, press, and VIPs. Not only that, but it was the introduction of me as Artistic Director to the public.

  Somehow I still felt like a phony, out of place, like I didn’t deserve to be in this position, but I think ultimately that’s how everybody feels. You wonder how you got to this level, you criticize yourself and think “Am I mad, or are they?” and you question whether or not it’s just all in your imagination. I didn’t mean for this to happen, none of this, all I ever wanted was to be a ballerina. But here, on my 30th birthday coincidentally, I was being introduced as the new Artistic Director o
f one of the most renowned ballet theaters in the world, presenting my favorite ballet to a privileged world of important people.

  As my eyes glazed over staring at my speech, I heard a soft knock at my office door.

  “Come in,” I said.

  Opening the door and slinking in was Dinah, dressed in her full costume for the show, looking ravishing and fair in a flowing pink dress. Her dark brown hair was tightly done up with flowers and her face was plastered with makeup. She closed the door behind her and grinned wide at me.

  “Hermia,” I said with a wry smile. “Shouldn’t you be backstage?” I stood up from my desk and sauntered over to her.

  “I just wanted to wish you merde!” Dinah said with a laugh. In the ballet, rather than wishing good luck or saying break a leg, a traumatizing proposition for a dancer, we say merde, literally “shit” — encouraging one not to step in shit.

  I embraced Dinah as we closed in on one another, careful not to rumple her costume or upset her hair and makeup. She, in turn, attempted to keep her pained face away from my black dress.

  “Thank you, dear,” I said. “I am feeling a bit nervous.”

  “You’ll do great,” she said. “It’s all so exciting!”

  “It doesn’t feel real,” I said. “I feel like I’m going to wake up at any second, sitting next to Charles with a notepad, daydreaming of being with you, far from this weird elevated life of, you know, having everything I want.” Dinah just laughed.

  “Well,” she said. “If you do wake up back then, at least you know how it’s all going to turn out.”

  I smiled.

  “It’s ten after seven,” I said, looking at my clock. I leaned over my desk and grabbed my speech. “Can I walk you backstage?”

  “Yes Mistress,” said Dinah with a beaming smile.

  I stepped into my black heels, took a deep breath, and checked myself out in a mirror on the wall. The woman looking back at me seemed so glamorous and put together. I just had to accept it. I just had to let go.

  *

  The cast was milling around backstage, smiling and filled with excitement for the opening of the show. Merde was being liberally flung around with quiet goofy laughs, dancers were primping one another, straightening the frills of each other’s ornate fairy costumes, and the occasional cast member would suddenly plié and then gracefully leap up into the air in last minute preparation.

  Dinah was off with her Lysander, practicing a few moves together, and apart from a few cast members approaching me and wishing me merde, I was alone with my thoughts, peering out onto the stage, watching Charles give his farewell speech. The theatre was packed, not a seat available, the lights low and tinted blue, a bright white spotlight on Charles, as it would be on me very soon.

  I kept reminding myself not to lock my knees, for fear of passing out and cracking my head on the stage. While I had certainly been on that stage before, performing for a full house, I was always in the back, always synchronized with the corps, never the one in the spotlight. But as I thought about it, this was exactly what I always wanted. I wanted to be front and center on one of the world’s largest ballet stages. I wanted to perform for all of these people. And while I wanted to dance for them, I realized I now had the opportunity to bring the ballet to these people in such a grander scope than I ever could have as just one single dancer. I would be bringing dance to them for decades to come.

  Life can be funny like that.

  Returning my attentions to Charles’ speech, I could tell he was wrapping up. I looked down at myself, straightened out my dress, made sure I had my speech notes in my hand, and took a deep breath. I was trembling, my heart beating fast, scared and excited and joyful all in the same moment. With my head down, I listened to the end of Charles’ words, thanking everybody in the room for coming out and supporting the ballet, thanking them for all the great years he had with the company, and wishing many more years of success for the theatre under my direction.

  “And without further ado,” Charles said. “The new Ballet Mistress and Artistic Director of our prestigious theatre, Miss Michelle Beauchene.”

  Applause roared from the theatre, and from all around me as the dancers behind me clapped along with the audience. I heard Dinah’s small voice calling in a high hoot, saying my name, and crying out “Merde! Merde!” persuading some of the others to do the same in unison. I took another full breath, raised my head, and began my walk out onto the stage, the spotlight quickly finding me to illuminate me and guide me on my new journey.

  *

  Opening my eyes, I found myself lying in my bed, surrounded by warm blankets, staring up at the ceiling above me. I quickly looked around my room, almost frantically, as something just didn’t seem right. “Dinah,” I worriedly thought to myself. Looking to her side of the bed she was not to be found, just a half folded over comforter, tussled and wrinkled from a night of sleeping. I felt panic set in. Where was I? Who was I?

  Did last night actually happen or had my worst fears actually come to fruition? Leaning over to my bedside table, I pushed the button on my phone to see that I had 17 unread text messages. “Deep breath, Mish,” I told myself. The messages were a good sign.

  But I felt so alone there in bed, missing Dinah next to me, wondering where she could be. I tried to remember the previous night though it felt like such a blur. The speech, the applause, the beautiful performance, and the incredible star-studded after party. Had I really met the mayor? Celebrated British actress Dame Helena? Author Nicolette Dane? It just didn’t seem real.

  Swiping my phone from the table, I navigated to the unread messages and began to sort through them. They were all congratulating me, wishing me well, celebrating a new chapter in my life. I inhaled and then slowly exhaled. It had happened. I wasn’t crazy. I dropped my phone to the bed.

  And then, out from the bathroom, came Dinah. She was nude and smiling, and she soundlessly broke out into a dance in front of me — plié, relevé, sauté. Sauté arabesque. Sissonne, sissonne, sissonne. Cascading across the room, cutely attempting en pointe on her toes without her pointe shoes, Dinah was a beautiful sight to behold. Her lithe body thin and muscled, feminine yet defined, her backside round and sculpted. She deftly sashayed in front of me and performed an arabesque penché, her body bent over and her leg thrown high into the air, doing the splits and quickly giving me a glimpse of the soft, sweetness between her legs.

  I knew then that this was not a dream.

  I sat up further in bed and adjusted the pillows behind me, as I continued to watch as Dinah danced for me. It was the perfect morning to follow such an amazing night. My phone buzzed a couple of times, indicating more incoming text messages, but I couldn’t pull my eyes away from Dinah, spinning and dipping and gliding. She was my muse, my true call to choreography, and as I watched her able and precise movements there in front of me, I could see the lines, the arrangements, the positions, all come together in some strange and novel cosmic way. It was like my approach in perceiving the world had changed right then. It wasn’t simply dance anymore.

  It was art.

  *

  Thank you so much for reading The Ballerina! I write these stories for you and sincerely hope you enjoy them. If you liked this novella, please leave a positive review on Amazon and let me know what you loved most. Reviews not only help to inform potential readers of a good book, but they also let us authors know we’re on the right track. Writing and publishing is a tireless profession, and there’s nothing more rewarding than positive feedback from readers. Thank you so much for your support!

  Love,

  Nico

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  From Nicolette Dane

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  SWEETHEART STARLET: A NOVEL

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  AN EXCERPT FROM: DORMITORY DEAREST

  *

  I NEVER THOUGHT college would be this weird. I mean, I was really excited about it leading up to the big move but I didn’t really know what to expect apart from what you see in movies. None of my close friends, of which I had few, went to the same college as me so it was like I was going off on this new adventure all by myself. Nobody knew me, I could reinvent myself if I wanted, I could be a totally new person and carve out a completely different path if I so chose. But once I got to school, I found that I simply couldn’t help but be me. Geeky, introverted, freaky me.

  Nerdy Natasha. Lucky I ended up in the same small arts dorm with all the other nerdy outcasts and not in one of the huge student ghettos filled with roving bands of bleached bimbos looking for an easy target like me to sink their teeth into. No, as an English major I had been asked by some benevolent cosmic force if I would like to enroll in the residential college for Arts & Letters students and without even knowing much about the program I dutifully accepted. The program was called ALOHA, which stood for Arts & Letters Organized Housing Association, and it was a total lifesaver for a girl like me.