THIRTY-TWO
Willow
Everything happened so quickly. It was like life had whooshed by. One minute I was playing the role of the hostess at my father’s deli, the next I was about to play the role of The Firebird at Lincoln Center.
While I’d never been backstage at Lincoln Center, the renowned arts complex where every dancer dreamed of performing, it was not much different than the others I’d hung out in. In the hallways, already costumed and made-up dancers were stretching and practicing their moves. Many stopped when they saw me and ran up to me to give me a hug. I was overwhelmed by their warm reception, several saying how much they missed me and how good it was to have me back. Gustave, however, didn’t give me any time to enjoy my welcome back.
“Allez!” he snapped at my fellow dancers as he whisked me away. “There is no time. The performance starts in less than one hour.”
At his command, the dancers scuttled off like mice. A few moments later, I was seated in the dressing room in front of a wall-length lit up mirror. Scattered across the long counter were tubs of eyeshadow, blush, and powder, tubes of lipstick and mascara, hairbrushes, lash curlers, bobby pins, and elastics. The remains of the other dancers who were here before me. Not many outsiders knew that ballerinas did their own hair and makeup. Even the greatest ones. It was our job to make ourselves beautiful.
I stared at my makeupless face in the mirror, meeting the reflection of Gustave, who was standing behind me.
“Oiseau, I want you to shimmer tonight,” he purred. “Make sure you put glitter on your eyes and dust your skin with the sparkling powder.”
Gustave knew exactly how he wanted his ballerinas to look. Perfect for him. He then raked his fingers though my unruly hair.
“And make sure you gather this despicable mess into a tidy bun. Not a hair out of place.” Gustave was obsessed with hair. Or rather the absence of it—except for a solid little knot at the top of our heads or at the nape of our necks.
“You must hurry. The performance starts in forty-five minutes. Now, I shall leave you alone and get myself ready.”
My brows shot up as I processed his words. “You’re performing?” He’d choreographed The Firebird and rehearsed it with me countless times, but I’d never gotten to perform the ballet on stage with him. That fateful night in Vienna—the night I collapsed—had made that dream an impossibility.
A slow, smug smile met my surprised look in the mirror. “Yes, my petite oiseau. Tonight I am playing the part of Prince Ivan and at last you shall be my Firebird.”
A shiver skittered through me. Every nerve in my body buzzed with trepidation.
“Don’t we need to rehearse?”
“There is no time. I believe in you, my oiseau. Trust yourself to light up the stage and trust me to make you shine. I shall be your magic feather.”
Again, he met my gaze in the mirror. His one of smoldering self-assuredness, mine one of crippling anxiety. A smirk crossed his lips.
“Just look beautiful for me, my oiseau.” And with that he was gone.
My heart hammering, I began to put on my makeup, the familiar ritual coming back to me quickly. It was actually calming because I had to focus on getting every detail right. Finally, after applying the fire-red lipstick, I worked on my hair, pulling it back into a tight chignon that hit the nape of my neck with the help of a hair elastic and several bobby pins. I smoothed the top of my scalp, making sure every hair was in place. Then, I stared at my reflection.
I literally gasped. I almost didn’t recognize myself with my glitter-lined, long-lashed eyes, full bright-red lips, and my hair tightly pulled back off my face. Still gazing into the mirror, I heard the dressing room door open … then a tap, tap, tap, tap. Gustave? Was he here to check on me? Craning my head to see who it was, I was in for a surprise.
“What the fuck are you doing in my spot, you bitch?”
Mira! Wearing some kind of fur coat, she hobbled in my direction with the help of crutches. Her right foot was taped up with an Ace Bandage.
“How’s your foot?” I stammered.
“Why would you give a shit? Answer my question. What are you doing here?”
“I’m filling in for you. Gustave asked me to dance the part of The Firebird.”
The expression on her face turned livid. “What!? That’s impossible!”
“Think again, my lovely.” Another voice. Gustave! Loping my way, he was dressed in his costume—a pair of beige tights that exposed every bulging muscle of his powerful legs and that huge package between his thighs…a sparkly belted tunic that opened at the neckline to reveal his sculpted chest… and on his feet, a pair of soft leathery boots that were made for dancing. In a word, he looked formidable. Every bit the part of Prince Ivan.
“You look beautiful, my oiseau.”
Mira’s jaw dropped to the floor with disgust. “You call that fat ugly bitch beautiful?”
Gustave furrowed his thick brows. “My princess, watch your mouth. In fact, I’m going to ask you to leave. Madame Kapinski will be here any minute to help Willow change into her costume.”
“Her costume? That’s my costume!! It was custom made for me. It’ll never fit the fat pig!”
My mother had always told me, “Sticks and stones will break your bones, but names will never harm you.” Usually my nemesis’s insults stung despite my mom’s words of wisdom, but somehow at this moment my mother’s bold, courageous soul came alive in me. I stood up and squarely faced Mira.
“Mira, I’m sure it’ll fit just fine.” I held my head up high, narrowing my eyes at her. “It’s my turn. Now, please get out of here.”
Rage washed over her face. “Gustave, how can you let her talk to me like that?”
Gustave grew angry. “Mira, if you don’t leave, I’m afraid I shall have to call security to escort you out.”
She scrunched up her face. “Fine. But trust me, Gustave, you’re going to be sorry.”
“Is that a threat, Mira?”
“It’s just a statement.” Pivoting on her crutches, she glared at me, venom pouring from her eyes. “And you, fat cow, break a leg. And I really mean it.”
A few minutes later, I was alone with Madame Kapinski. She was the company’s longtime wardrobe mistress. She was of French-Russian descent and in her late fifties. We all adored her, including me. She was like a mother to all of us. I was overjoyed to see her and the feeling was mutual. We exchanged hugs.
“My little bird, how good you are back. We have all missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too.”
“You look wonderful. The sabbatical has done you well.”
“Really?” I asked, Mira’s cruel words circling my head.
“Mais oui! You look like a beautiful woman in love.”
I felt myself blush. Indeed, I was. Playing with Ryan’s ballet slipper charm, I smiled wistfully. If only he could see me dance.
Madame Kapinski noticed the pendant. “A gift from your lover?”
Heating, I nodded.
“He has beautiful taste. That eez the reason he chose you.”
I smiled again, thinking again about Ryan.
“Unfortunately, you cannot wear it during the performance. Monsieur F. wants no distractions.”
Reluctantly, I let Madame take the necklace off me. She promised she would personally watch over it and hand it back to me once the performance was over. That made me feel a little better as she slipped it into a pocket.
Five minutes later, I was in The Firebird costume. It fit me like a glove. A stretchy fire-red body suit with an attached skirt composed of red and gold tulle fragments resembling the plumage of a bird. The skirt also included one genuine feather—the magical feather I would give Prince Ivan in my first scene.
“I’ll get my pointe shoes,” I told Madame Kapinski, already heading to my ballet bag. Pulling out a pair, I sat down on a nearby chair and began to put them on.
“Stop, ma chérie,” said Madame as I began to coil the pink ribbons of the right shoe around my ankle. “Monsieur F. eez insistent you wear only zee red shoes.”
The red shoes? The memory of that tragic, eponymous movie—my first real date with Ryan—flashed into my head. I shuddered. Would this ballet be my undoing?
“Are you okay, ma chérie?” asked Madame, sensing my malaise.
My stomach knotting, I floundered for an answer. “I-I don’t have red shoes.” My eyes flitted to a pair hanging from a hook on the wall. Most likely Mira’s. “Should I borrow Mira’s?”
Madame Kapinski shook her head, frowning in deep in thought. “Non, non, non, that eez not possible. She wears a size smaller than you, and even eef you were zee same size, they would fit you differently.”
She was right. It took days to break in new pointe shoes. Days that often took banging the shoes and stretching them until they molded your feet. Everyone’s feet and needs were different. Panic gripped me. “Madame, what are we going to do?”
After furrowing her brows, her face suddenly brightened. “I have a crazy idea, but I think eet might work.”
So close to showtime, I was all ears. “Madame, what do you have in mind?”
Five minutes later, we were both seated at her seamstress table, each of us frantically coloring my pink pointe shoes with king-size red Sharpies like preschoolers doing an arts and crafts project.
“Eet eez working!” beamed Madame as any trace of pink rapidly disappeared. Within ten minutes, a pair of bright red pointe shoes graced the table.
“What about the ribbons?” I asked Madame.
Smiling, she slid open a draw beneath the table and then held up a pair of long red satin ribbons. “Voilà! Ma chérie, you stretch while I sew them on.”
Fifteen minutes later, I was loosened up and in the red pointe shoes.
“Come, ma chérie. The industrious woman smiled again. “We have one final thing to do.”
Following her to the full-length mirror, I stood as still as a statue as she put on my magnificent headpiece. A gold sequined band with layers of spiky red tulle and gold-dipped feathers. Motionless, I stood before the mirror in a state of shock.
I was The Firebird.
And I was ready to dance.