THIRTY
Willow
The cab let me off in front of my father’s deli. With the rain, I dashed inside. Not yet nine o’clock, it was still open and would remain so until midnight. It was a favorite hangout for the downtown after hours hipster set. While my father used to stay until it closed when I was younger, he no longer did, letting the business run smoothly in the capable hands of his loyal staff.
Usually when I was out late, I hung out a bit with the gang and grabbed a late night snack. But not tonight. I was drenched and chilled from the rain, and still shaken from my encounter with Gustave. Making excuses that I was tired, I headed to the back stairs. Taking off my wet shoes, I quietly crept up the steps, hoping not to wake up my father who might be sleeping.
When I got to my room, I immediately stripped off my soaked coat and then the rest of my clothes. Skipping a hot shower, I slipped into my bed, stark naked, and still shivering, snuggled under the covers. Turning off the light, I glimpsed Ryan’s book, which was still on my nightstand. Usually I read a few passages, sometimes even chapters, before I went to sleep, but tonight I couldn’t focus. Seeing Gustave had made my heart, mind, and body unravel. Physically and emotionally torn me apart. And damn Mira had only added to my misery. Poor Ryan had no clue.
I closed my heavy eyes, hoping sleep would claim me. But that was wishful thinking. Tossing and turning, I couldn’t get my encounter with Gustave out of my mind. Memories of my life as a ballerina swirled around in my head. Heated my skin like a fever. Consumed my being like a plague. Drenched with sweat, my heart beating in a frenzy, I threw off the covers and hopped out of bed. Turning the light back on, I darted over to the one bag I’d never unpacked. The one bag whose contents I couldn’t bare to look at until now. I threw it onto my bed and then with my shaking hand unzipped it. The grating sound of the zipper sent a rush of goosebumps to my flesh and I could hear my pulse thrumming in my ears. Hastily, piece by piece, I removed the contents and laid them out on the bed.
My black leotard.
My pink tights.
The roll of tape.
The toe pads.
And lastly, my peach satin pointe shoes.
Sitting down on the bed, I began the familiar ritual.
I taped my toes.
I slid on my tights over my legs and then slipped on the leotard.
I stuffed my shoes with the gel pads.
And then I coddled my square-toed shoes in my hands, as if they were a rare treasure, relishing the feel of the smooth satin and their elegant form. The shimmering ribbons slivered over my fingers like streamers. Every cell in my body fluttered. It had been a long time. Too, too long.
One by one, I slid them on my feet and wrapped the ribbons around my ankles. Rather than feeling alien to me, they felt so natural, like I was born wearing them. Like I’d never taken them off. And my tights and leotard fit like a second skin. With my heart in my throat, I stood up on my toes and bourréd my way over to my full-length mirror. At the sight of myself with my messy bun and long, sinewy legs, I let out a gasp. Yes, I was a little fuller, but that was me, the real me, standing before the glass. Involuntarily, I rubbed the sparkly ballet shoes charm hanging around my neck. Then, I smiled at my reflection, and my reflection smiled back at me.
Lowering myself to my heels, I grabbed the water bottle off my nightstand and with the turned-out gait of a dancer, I headed back downstairs, this time to the basement.
The brick building, which housed both the deli and our apartment, was built in the thirties, a time when city dwellings were built with basements. Originally, my father used it solely for storage, but when I took up dancing, he divided the large space into two rooms—one still for storage and the other he turned into a dance studio where I could practice. I hadn’t been down there since I’d come home. Not even with Violet. It held too many memories for me. But now, I was ready. In fact, as I descended the rickety stairs, it was if a magnetic force was pulling me to it.
The studio was exactly as I remembered it. Shiny, blond hardwood floors, recessed lighting, and mirrored walls. Affixed to one of the walls was a barre, where I’d practiced countless times. In the corner was a small table. On top of it sat an old fashioned, needle drop stereo player that had once belonged to my mother. Under the table was a box of albums, all classical pieces that I’d danced to. Wasting no time, I pranced over to the table, and after setting my water on it, I crouched down and sorted through the albums. They were arranged alphabetically by composer. I knew exactly what I was looking for. Quickly, I found both the Liszt disc and the Stravinsky. Carefully, I slipped out the Liszt one and set it on the turntable. I turned the stereo on, then gently dropped the needle onto the first groove. Liebestraum—his famous Love Dream. As the melodic strains of the piano piece filled the room, I began to stretch my torso and limbs in every direction I could. After several minutes, I was already feeling warm and loose so I made my way to the barre and started my very methodical exercise routine: a combination of pliés, tendus, degagés, and frappés. Grasping the cool, smooth wood with my left hand, I performed the mandatory exercises at different speeds, focusing on nothing but my turnout, posture, lines, and movement. It was if I were in a hypnotic trance; ballet and the concentration it required did that to you. From time to time, I glimpsed myself in the mirrors to check my form. As the piano piece ended, I concluded my workout with a grand battement, surprised by how limber I still was and how high I could kick up my leg.
Stretching my legs on the barre, I was warmed up and ready. Taking a break, I returned to the table. After taking a sip of the water, I lowered the Stravinsky album onto the turntable and dropped the needle to the center of the disc. The dance of The Firebird— the part where the Firebird takes center stage and performs a solo. I quickly moved to the center of the studio, and at the sound of the first familiar chord, my heart leapt into my throat. I swallowed hard. While I hadn’t danced to this piece in months, I knew every move like I was born dancing it. Every nerve in my body buzzed with excitement as if I were about to dance in front of The Queen.
My nerves calmed with the pitter-patter of my pointe shoes as I glided across the wood floor, working my feet and arms. Every step was like a word, communicating my feelings and emotions. Transforming me into the magical bird, who was both a curse and a blessing. Much like Gustave.
As I performed the intricate dance, I felt Gustave’s presence. His hawk-eyes scrutinizing me, his ubiquitous cane tapping against the floor like a metronome. The cane that would come crashing down on the barre if I failed him, filling my eyes with tears of disappointment and frustration.
“You need to shimmer more,” I heard him bark in my head as I threw my head back and smoothed my imaginary feathers.
“Work harder.”
“Faster!”
“More emotion!”
Oh, how I wanted to please him! Such burning desire! As the electrifying music played, every move fell gracefully into place. My arms fluttered like a bird’s wings, and with every leap, I felt like I was flying. I lost sense of time and space. Right now, I was The Firebird. I owned The Firebird and it owned me.
Suddenly, a husky familiar voice broke into my mindset.
“Willow?”
Coming down from a sauté, I landed on my feet and pirouetted around. It was my father, wearing his pajamas and a robe.
“Pop!” My voice registered shock and surprise. As much as I loved him, he was the last person I wanted to see right now. Though he didn’t know the extent of the damage, he knew that ballet had been a destructive force in my life. He didn’t make it a secret that he never wanted me to return to that world.
“What are you doing down here?” I asked, my heartbeat slowing down.
“I heard some music playing. I thought maybe I’d left the TV on. What are you doing down here?”
“Dancing. I couldn’t sleep.” I kept things as simple as possible, not wanting to create a conversation that would stress him out or raise eyebrows.
To my relief, my father didn’t question me further. “It’s late, pumpkin. You should go back to bed.”
I twitched a small smile to placate him. “Okay, Pop. I’ll be right up.”
He nodded. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Night, Pop.”
And with that, he lumbered out of the studio. The music still playing, I could hear him thudding up the stairs. He still wasn’t in good shape and that worried me.
A few minutes later, I was back in my room. Untying them, I slipped off my pointe shoes and next peeled off my damp tights and leotard. I put them all back neatly in my ballet bag and then put on my PJs. Hopping into bed, I removed the tape from my toes and massaged my aching feet. My eyes jumped from a photo of six-year-old me performing in a lilac tutu to the cover of Ryan’s book.
Undying Love… Was ballet my undying love? Dancing had awoken me. I felt more alive than I had in months. Enervated. Yet, at the same time, I felt more conflicted. My chest constricted as a torrent of emotions whooshed around inside me. My eyes stayed on Ryan Madewell’s beautiful face. My heart was torn. I wasn’t sure if I belonged to him, but I knew I belonged to dance. Was I ready to return? Should I? Would Gustave take me back? And if he did, would that be the best decision of my life or the biggest mistake?
Overcome with anxiety, I clutched my little plush monkey, Baboo, and gazed at the ceiling. Thank goodness, I was seeing Dr. Goodman on Monday. Maybe he could help me figure things out. With so many unanswered questions bombarding my mind, it was a miracle sleep claimed me. I was dancing in my dreams.