PHOENIX
Female octopuses strangle their mates once the deed is done.
And then eat them.
Javi hands me a towel as I walk backstage and I wipe my face and neck, still winded from the performance.
“It was perfect,” he says.
Liar. We both know I could’ve done better in the last act, my triple tours not as clean as I would have liked. I’ll work on that sequence later tonight so it’ll be better for tomorrow’s show.
“Brava,” Mistress Sinclair cheers, clapping briskly. “Well done, Phoenix, Lex, Sami.” She nods to the rest of the dancers. “I will see you all tomorrow at one.”
A “well done” from Mistress Sinclair is what we strive for, so once she says those words, we nod and disperse.
I round the corner of the narrow hallway toward the dressing rooms. The New York City Ballet and the Lincoln Center are iconic; one of the few remaining companies and theaters still standing. I’m fortunate to do what I love.
“She won’t last long if she keeps that up,” Bellange says to her little cluster of parasites as I walk by.
Eyes straight ahead, I ignore them and keep walking, but it strips me of some of the optimism I was feeling. I’ll be better next time. There is always a next time and I try to remember that when this time haunts me. I hear the peals of their laughter behind me, and I know I’m the butt of their joke. Bellange is good, all legs. It is the passion she has trouble with: she dances; she is not the dance. She makes no secret of the fact that she is working to replace me, and as four years my junior, it is entirely possible.
“Armor up,” my mother would say. “Hurt is something you allow.”
I wonder how many noticed the slight pause before my final grand jeté. Lex was especially sweaty tonight, his golden skin so slick I’d slipped. Tonight I’ll dance until this pair of shoes softens, possibly on a slick floor. I’ll see how tired I am.
As soon as I enter my dressing room, the replay of tonight’s performance begins. I fill my cheeks with air and blow out slowly. This is what they do to dancers: play your failures over and over until you almost go mad. Chin up, I walk right through the recap, the image blurring around me, but as soon as I do, I see that my mothers have left me a stream of messages—a different kind of assault. Their faces follow me into the bathroom. I pick up a bottle of mouthwash and take two long pulls of vodka from it before tapping on play. When it opens, they’re sitting side by side on the couch.
“Phoenix!” They speak in unison.
I take a third swig because I know what’s coming. My mothers have perfected the art of verbal harmony. Not only do they say the same thing at the same time, they sometimes sing their most stinging words: a three syllable “terrr-iii-billlll,” or my personal favorite—”you can do bet-terrr…”
“Hi, peanut! We watched you live!” Mama B, who carried me, starts.
“Suuuuper hot weather today,” Moma says. Moma is the mom who drove me to all of my lessons while Mama B critiqued the fuck out of them over dinner. “We took the boat out but made sure to set the timer so we could watch you.”
“Are you getting rest, honey?” Mama B asks. “You looked a little lackluster out there. We think that you—”
I tap End before they can say anything else and turn the shower on. I’m an expert at blocking things out, but I’m not good enough to allow my parents’ harsh critique to affect the rest of my night.
I have pre-show and post-show rituals and it wrecks my mood if I don’t do both. I rub the cold cream on my face and get some of the heavy makeup off while the hot water sluices over my tired muscles. A fusion of colors from makeup, blood, soap—the essence of a prima ballerina—swirls down the drain. Soaking my feet comes later, once I’m home.
With my hair turbaned in a towel, I pop three almonds into my mouth and get the rest of the makeup off. I debate whether to put any on for the after-party. My skin is clear and rosy from exertion and the scrubbing; I decide to re-apply mascara and leave it at that.
Twisting my wet hair up in a messy topknot, I then secure the towel around my body and walk to the scale where I weigh in. Satisfied, I tell my Silverbook to play Lindsey Stirling and then walk to the large picture on the wall. Tilting it up with one hand, I open the safe with the other, and once it clicks, I reach in and pull out the latest score. This bracelet should bring in several thousand, easy. I run my fingers over the smooth stones and nearly lift it to my wrist to try it on. They’d all been so enamored with the End Man, it had been an easy steal. My fingers barely flicked at the clasp before it dropped off her wrist. I wonder how long it took her to notice it was gone. I tuck it in my clutch, a faint smile on my face, and finish getting ready for the party.
Part of our duties with the company require us to attend the after-parties.
The taxi lets me off in front of the hotel lobby, and I take my time walking to the ballroom, plucking a glass of champagne off the tray of a waiter who passes. It’ll have to do until I can get to a little more vodka; I need one glass each night to dull the pain.
Mrs. Fiore stops me, her hand on my arm. I smile through my dislike, trying not to look at her belly, which is swollen gracefully beneath her dress. I once heard her telling a friend that she struggled to decide between a six or seven-month swell; she wanted to look ripe, but not too ripe. Since the dawn of time, women have made a trend of strange fashion statements. Japanese women dyed their teeth black in a tradition known as ohaguro, and in medieval England, they plucked their hairlines to make them appear as if they were receding. In my time, women disfigure their bodies to look pregnant.
It’s tragic really, that we can go to all of this trouble to appear pregnant, and yet, there is still something miraculous needed to actually produce a viable pregnancy. There’s more to it than an egg cell and sperm cell combining and fertilizing or we wouldn’t be having trouble keeping the Regions populated. But, by all means, let’s look fertile!
“Lovely performance tonight, Phoenix,” she says, resting a hand on her belly.
“Thank you. How is Leon?”
“Ah, he’s well. Painting his way to the top, he tells me. I can barely pull him from the studio.”
Mrs. Fiore’s husband was born in the Black Region as Leona Fiore. She was going to inherit her family's oil business until she decided she wanted a sex change. With the Black’s new ban on sex change, Leona gave up her right to the family business and escaped to the Blue to become Leon...and a painter.
“Excuse me, I see someone I very much need to say hello to. Have a wonderful night, Mrs. Fiore.”
There is no one, of course, but I move through the crowd quickly, trying to appear as if I am on a mission. I see the same bag of wind who tries to feel me up at each party and skirt to the left, diverting her. She’s old enough to be my mother and then some. These motherfuckers think if they throw enough money at us we’ll bend. I only bend for the stage.
Lex and Bellange round the corner in front of me and I inwardly groan. It’s too late to go in the other direction. They’ve already seen me. I dated Lex for a while after he completed his change, but it got too complicated dancing for the same company. He wanted to get serious; I didn’t. We’re still close, but now that he’s sleeping with Bellange, it’s harder to be around him.
Her grip tightens on Lex’s arm when they get closer. It takes all of my willpower to grit my teeth and not bare them.
“Lex, Bellange,” I greet them first. High road, yada yada.
Lex’s eyes roam over my face and go down, getting stuck on my breasts before meeting my eyes again. I give the two of them three weeks, a month, max, before he moves on.
“Your dress is cute,” Bellange says. “Is that last year’s Vega?”
She tries for a double put-down, as if wearing anything “cute” or last season is the worst.
I frown. “I’d never shop Vega. Their warehouse practices are despicable. Basically, a sweatshop being run right out of the lower end.”
Her mouth opens and closes, momentarily shut down. She perks up when she sees my glass. “Are you really drinking champagne? You’ll be so puffy tomorrow.” She shakes her head and puckers her lips.
“One glass won’t hurt,” Lex says, smiling at me.
I smirk at Bellange and she huffs, pulling on Lex’s arm. I lift my glass to them both and walk away.
“She’s such a bitch,” I hear her say. I don’t stick around to hear Lex’s response.
“Hello, little thief,” I hear behind me.
A tiny jolt surges through my body, heartbeat pulsing in my head. A hand on my arm stops me and I twist around, coming flush with Jackal Emerson. He lifts my chin up to meet his eyes and it looks like he’s studying them. He laughs and I glare at him.
“What are you doing? Let go of me,” I snap.
“I know that voice,” he purrs softly. “But it’s your eyes that give you away.” He gradually drops his hand.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I back up.
He shakes his head, his white teeth mocking me. I want to knock that smile right off of his face.
“So why do you do it?” he asks. “A little rich girl like you pickpocketing like a common thief.”
He steps forward again, and I’m enveloped in the scent of cloves. I’d like it if it weren’t coming from him.
“Not even a good thief,” he tuts. “Since I caught you sticky-handed.”
I grind my teeth, infuriated. That was a fluke; I’ve never been caught. It would be a champagne-drunk peacock who happens to look up at the wrong moment. And how does he even remember anything from last night? He was completely toasted.
“Like I said, you have the wrong person.” I make to turn away, but his voice pulls me back.
“Those aquamarine eyes. Saw you on a billboard this morning—actually—saw you on five billboards this morning, and I just knew. The brown you wore last night really made them pop. Same with the beautiful shade of your skin now. You know, you should really consider changing your eye color for your life of crime.”
I look around the room, suddenly desperate to spot someone I know and get away from him. Who knew the End Men were so sinister? Like I didn’t have enough eyes always watching me, waiting for me to slip up.
“Enjoy the party.” I move to walk away and suddenly feel the warmth of a very large hand on my arm.
“Have a drink with me,” he says.
I shake my head. “You’re shitting me, right? You accuse me of theft, insult me, and then ask me to have a drink with you? What type of crazy pellets do they feed you over there on Man Island?”
“If it weren’t true, you wouldn’t feel insulted.” He smirks.
I press my lips together. “You’re an insufferable asshole.”
“I’ve been called worse.” His grin widens, like a Cheshire fucking cat.
I’m acutely aware of how his eyes rove over me.
He bends down and whispers in my ear. “You know what’s missing with your outfit? A bracelet with pretty red stones…”
I glare at him, searching his face. What the fuck is he even getting at?
“You see the woman the governor is talking to?”
I follow the direction of his eyes and find Sean in a heated discussion with a stern-faced blond.
“That’s Lourdes Marques, our attorney general.”
He waves away my comment, not seeming to care about her career choice.
“Yes, yes, but look at her wrist.”
I jerk back. On a normal day, I’d never target someone like Lourdes. The stakes are too high. I steal from housewives and socialites, easy and unsuspecting targets. They stink of entitlement, too busy to notice when their bangles go missing. I spot the heavy gold ornament on Lourdes’ wrist encrusted with tiny rubies. I’ve seen her wear it before.
“What about it?”
Jackal licks his lips. “If you can steal it from her, I won’t tell anyone what I saw at the ball.”
“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”
Jackal shrugs. “It’s like the pot calling the kettle black.” His tone is bored. Every year a new End Man parades through our Region. I’ve had words with a few of them when they’ve come to the ballet. I’ve mostly found them polite in an aloof way. I’ve met the famed Folsom once or twice. He complimented my grand jeté—a complete gentleman.
I glare at Jackal and glance at Sean, grinding my teeth. He has no proof. I’m fairly certain that no one else at the ball saw me. I even wore that dumb deer mask that covered half my face. He’s bluffing, I tell myself. But even if he is, he could still cause a lot of trouble for me.
“Not too big of a job, is it?” he presses. His eyebrows are drawn together in mock concern. He’s baiting me, the bastard.
“I’m the most beloved ballerina in all the Regions,” I sing quietly. “No one would believe you.”
“It would be interesting to see what people are willing to believe…”
I stare at his lips full of mischief. They move in unison with his eyes; there’s a collaboration of seduction between the two of them. I can’t believe women find this tool charming.
“Ruining someone’s life for the thrill of it. History tells us that men are assholes; I suppose I should have believed it.”
I give him my sweetest smile before moving away. I don’t look back, but I can feel him watching me. His approach is predatory, a caged animal trying to catch something between his teeth. The truth is, he’s scared me. I don’t know what he’s capable of and I don’t want to find out. If I were caught, there would be drastic consequences. I try to feign indifference, moving around the room making small talk, keeping a wide berth from the End Man, and pretending my mind isn’t replaying what he said.
My required hour is up. I breathe a sigh of relief. I can take my leave, my excuse being the early hours I keep for my dancing schedule. I walk past the governor and squeeze his arm in greeting. He glances back at me and winks. Sean’s handsomeness is an exact science: broad shoulders, warm brown eyes, and sensual lips. He keeps a beard—which I like—and dresses conservatively—which I don’t like. Before the governor was Sean, he was Kasey. Our mothers were good friends.
He’s still talking to Lourdes, who lifts a hand in greeting when she sees me, not breaking her tirade. I catch a few words of what she says—Society…rebels…the initiative. They’re interrupted by a tray of drinks and she takes one without looking to see what it is. Lourdes drinks too much, mostly behind closed doors, but she can’t resist at a party. There’s a little bump, some champagne on her dress, her cry of shock. Everyone rushes forward with napkins to soak it up and I take that moment to slip away. I head for the door, a small smile on my face. I take the long way so I have to pass by Jackal. I meet his eyes this time, holding onto them as a whoosh of adrenaline courses through me. I walk right past him, no one noticing the slight reach of my arm as I drop something into his pocket. There’s a slight widening of his eyes as I wink and move past. Heat, I feel his heat. And then I’m outside, the air lukewarm on my bare shoulders. I laugh even as I run down the stairs.