PHOENIX
The honey bee caste system is matriarchal.
The queen and worker bees are all female.
The males only exist for fucking.
Once they’ve mated with the queen, the males die, no longer needed.
I’m still feeling the endorphins bouncing through my body as I walk down the corridor to the after-party. Not even a glossy floor could’ve stopped me tonight. I strive to never show anything less than my best, but occasionally, something extraordinary happens and every single nuance is executed perfectly…not just by me, but by everyone. These are the nights I live for.
“Good job tonight, Phoenix,” Laurel calls as she walks by.
I smile, though I never know if they’re making fun of me or not. Laurel seems to be one of the nicer girls, but you can really never tell.
The lobby is sparkling with evening wear, crystal glasses filled with champagne, and trays of hors d’oeuvres passed around by white-gloved waiters. A few years ago, the company began a yearly tradition of auctioning off ten lessons with me, wherein all proceeds go to the arts. The girl who won last year was accepted by my alma mater’s dance program. I’m looking forward to working with this year’s protégé. I look around to see if I can spot who it might be. Sometimes the same eager dancers that have grown up watching me have wealthy mothers who see how far they can outbid one another to win the coveted role. If it weren’t for a good cause, it would be embarrassing.
I can’t afford to get sick this season, so I take a glass of champagne when it’s offered to me; it helps put off all the hand clutches and cheek kissing.
“You look beautiful tonight,” Sean says, his hand touching my waist.
Everything with Sean is done lightly, like he’s afraid too much pressure will crack his position in the world.
“Will tonight be the night you agree to go out with me?” He smiles as if he’s teasing, but his eyes are earnest.
He should just tell me that we’re going out. Tell me where to meet him.
“And ruin one of my favorite friendships?” I respond, voice light. He’s one of the few people I genuinely like; I’ll never go out with him. “No one can put up with me for long, I’ve told you that.”
“Give me a chance and we’ll see how long you can put up with me,” he says.
Mistress Sinclair clears her throat in the microphone and I look away, relieved by the interruption. She does her routine speech and then with a glance my way, says, “Phoenix, would you like to open the envelope this evening?”
I step forward and take it from her hand, quickly tearing it open. There’s just one name on it. Unusual, but there’s likely only one. I lean into the microphone.
“Ruby,” I announce. “Ruby, you are the winner of this year’s auction.” Everyone looks around to find Ruby. The pause becomes awkward when no one comes forward. “Ruby? Are you here?”
“Well, this is odd,” Mistress Sinclair finally speaks up. “If you’re here, Ruby, come see me in the next half hour; otherwise, we will announce another winner.”
I stand near the cake table, contemplating a piece of white cake with raspberry filling. The frosting looks delicious, a thing of beauty. I don’t have to eat it to enjoy it, I remind myself.
Mistress Sinclair taps me on the shoulder and leans into my ear. “Our winner showed up. Looks like you’re set to begin at ten in the morning.”
I nod. “Great. Where is she? I’d like to meet her—”
“Oh, long gone.” She titters. “Long, long gone,” she repeats under her breath.
I won’t complain about anything that gets me home earlier. I edge toward the exit and pick my moment to escape when a toast is being made.
Bright and early, bright and early. I don’t know who coined that phrase, but it makes me angry that anyone can be bright this early. I pull sweats over my oldest and most comfortable leotard, so threadbare I should feel embarrassed. Ruby, whoever she may be, will most likely be more focused on the lessons than on what I’m wearing. Or maybe not. Some of the girls who come through are young versions of the dancers in the company, already so catty they can barely focus on the art. I sigh as I grab my bag and head out the door.
Forty minutes later, I’m warming up at the bar when the door opens. I hear the squeak of rubber soles on the polished floors. I finish my rises before turning around, my smile already in place. It drops off as soon as I see who walks through the door.
“What are you doing here?”
He strolls in, tossing a duffel bag onto the floor, his grin enough to ease the panties off any woman—all the women. Not this one. I fold my arms across my chest. He still has his sunglasses on; I watch as he slides them off his face and tucks them into the pocket of his sweatpants.
“I’m here for my lessons.”
“Not unless your name is Ruby,” I say. My arms drop to my sides. “No…” I say, shaking my head.
He grins wider. “My mom said that if I had been a girl, she would have named me Ruby, and I’ve noticed you also seem to have an affinity for them.”
“It’s not allowed…”
“Men aren’t allowed to practice ballet? Or an End Man isn’t allowed?”
I shake my head. I don’t know. What I do know is that I’d rather dance naked on stage than spend hours at a time with this pompous asshole.
“This is for serious dancers. It’s to give someone the chance to improve their technique so they can—”
“Bullshit,” he interrupts. “Do you know how much I paid for this? Ten lessons with the company’s principal dancer. It’s for anyone who’s willing to shell out the cash.”
“It’s to help people,” I argue.
“Well, I’m sure there are plenty of girls in the lower end who dream of doing something like this. Why don’t you donate your time to teaching them?”
My face heats, red embarrassment climbing up my neck and into my cheeks. It’s true, of course, the company never donates anything to the lower end except its contempt. Only last year I’d suggested we start a program to take dance to the lower end, and they’d denied me.
I hate him. I walk toward the door. I will go directly to Gina, tell her I’m not going to spend a minute with this bleating goat of a man—
“But you do donate things to the lower end, don’t you?” he says.
I stop. No, I freeze, blood rushing to my head.
“What are you talking about?” I don’t turn around. I keep my back to him, stiff and square, but my heart beats like the opening drum in La Bayadère’s Indian Dance.
I can feel him getting closer, my body conditioned after two decades to know when another dancer draws near or away. He’s two feet behind me—if I swing around, he could lift me in a fish dive. His breath is on the back of my neck now. I close my eyes as it runs warm heat along my spine. Gooseflesh erupts across my arms.
“Robin Hood,” he says softly.
“W-what?”
I turn toward him and he has the most insufferable look on his face.
“Robin Hood. I’d like to learn a dance from the Robin Hood ballet.”
Air hisses from between my teeth. “That’s not what the company is working on.”
He grins.
“What do you really want, Jackal?”
He blinks, never taking his eyes off of my face, then his gaze drops. Slowly…slowly he takes in the rest of me, his eyes climbing my skin like hands.
“You can’t have that,” I say.
I want to back up, back away from that look, but I stand my ground.
His laugh echoes across the studio. “So presumptuous.”
I eye him for a good minute before he finally sighs.
“Should we get started then? Or I can talk to Gina,” he points in the direction of Gina’s desk in the lobby, “about your hobby. Whatever you like.”
I march toward the bar and gently lay my hand on it, caressing the metal with my fingertips.
“We start here,” I say. “Get thy stupid smile off thy face and come warm up.” My grandfather got a kick out of the Robin Hood movies; Jackal’s reference fills me with nostalgia.
“So she does have a sense of humor.”
If Jackal wants to dance, I’m going to show him exactly how hard we work. No mercy. He’ll be lucky if he can walk tomorrow. He tears off his sweatshirt, revealing a tight-fitting tank underneath. He’s muscular—knotted shoulders, tapered waist, arms that would have no trouble lifting me in a pas de deux. I’ve seen this body on other male dancers; if he wants a bravo from me, he won’t get one.
“It starts right here,” I say. This is my speech. I deliver it every year to the person standing in Jackal’s place. “Every dancer begins here at the bar: humbly…hardworking.” I don’t look at him when I take my place. “Hand on the bar like this,” I instruct.
When I look up, he’s already in first position, his face serious as he waits for his next instruction. In the early morning, this part of the studio gets the best light, the sun piercing through the windows of the skyscraper next door and dappling the floors with a hazy, honey glow. The glow sits around him, giving a halo to his whole body. A predator shouldn’t glimmer like that, it’s dangerous. And why do I think him a predator anyway? According to the Regions’ new conscience—Gwen Allison—the End Men have no choice in the matter. Which makes Jackal more of a zoo animal than a wild one. I ignore the messy hair, the rough stubble on his jaw, and the soft lips that unfairly belong to a man. A man. My eyes fall to his sweatpants, wondering…
I begin with a series of warm-ups, my face stern, void of anything but focus. He imitates my movements perfectly as I talk him through each one. By the time we’re done warming up, I’m so irritated with him. My shoulders are tense like two tennis balls—the opposite effect a warm-up is supposed to have.
“What?” He has the tiniest hint of a smile on his face. I almost answer him.
“Let’s get started.” I move to the center of the room. “I don’t know if you’re ready for something like this. Usually these lessons are for someone with a ballet background—”
“I’m ready.”
I turn from him, my teeth grinding together. Arrogant. And then I clap my hands once, signaling the sound system to life. “Start the music.”
After thoroughly running him into the ground, I turn off the music to signify that we’re done and put my hand on my hip.
“Well, that was…” I pivot around and busy myself with the Silverbook.
“Electrifying?” he finishes, breathless. “Awesome? The best you’ve ever danced with?”
I flash him an annoyed look and he waves his hand for me to continue.
“What? What was it?” he asks, his expression hopeful.
“We’re done here. See yourself out.”