The second act goes on without me. There isn’t much for the understudy to do in that part. Just be pushed out of the bedroom by the Lilac Fairy. Still, it hurts to be replaced. I text Blitz, who immediately abandons his seat and comes backstage.
The nurse who travels with us cleans the wound and wraps it. “I wouldn’t dance on this for a couple days,” she says. “But it’s a small cut. It only bled so much because you were dancing. It’s nothing that knocks you out for the season. I’ve seen blisters that were worse.” She pats my leg.
“I don’t care,” Ivana says. “She’s out. She was barely keeping up before, there’s no way she’ll do it now.”
I don’t know who she’s talking to. She’s the highest-ranking person back here. Dmitri and Alexei are still watching the ballet in the seats. Maybe she’s getting her argument ready.
But Blitz is here, and he’s pissed at her attitude. “If she’s not in the New York production for the DVD recording, I’m backing out of the deal,” he says smoothly. “The contract explicitly states that Livia must be Carabosse.”
“I couldn’t care less about your DVD,” Ivana snaps back. “Classical dance isn’t improved by camera angles and close-ups.”
I can’t look at anybody. They’re arguing my fate like I’m the sleeping princess, not the powerful villain. Yet, I say nothing. I don’t want to admit that I went outside after getting upset and let this happen. I have handed Ivana the opportunity she was looking for.
“Protocol will be to call a meeting of the financial backers before you kill a major deal like that,” Blitz says. “You’re cutting out a lot of money for a lot of people, including yourself.”
“I don’t do choreography for the money,” she says. “I do it for love. You television people will never understand that.”
I want to walk away from this scene, but my foot is wrapped and propped on a chair. The nurse has busied herself with putting things away.
Blitz looms over us, his arms crossed.
Ivana leaps from her chair. “I have more important things to do than babysit a silly girl,” she says. “We are almost to the end of the ballet.”
I can breathe easier once she’s gone. The nurse pats my leg and heads for her little corner of the dressing room.
The dancers who serve as my minions come in. They have nothing else to do until the curtain call. I guess my understudy will do that for me.
“You okay, Livia?” one of them asks, a friendly man who leads them. He lifts his crow mask.
“Just a little cut. I’m out for a couple days.”
The rest of them nod, their black beaks bobbing up and down. “Glad to hear it’s not serious,” another one says. I’m not sure which one in all those feathers.
They head back to the stage area to await the curtain call. The big wedding dance is happening. It’s very close to over.
Blitz kneels next to me. “You want me to take you back to the hotel?”
“Okay,” I say. “What about Ted?”
“We have a local driver. We can wait in the limo.”
I heave myself up, keeping my injured foot off the floor. Blitz stands. I lean on him to head to the costume rack to leave my tutu and bodice for tomorrow. After a few awkward steps, though, Blitz scoops me up in his arms, costume and all.
The tutu slides up and almost hits him on the nose. “Dangerous business, carrying dancers,” he says.
“It’s easier on your shoulder. That’s why they do it that way in the show.”
He shifts me on his arm, then his hand on my butt lifts me to his shoulder.
“Huh,” he says. “It is easier.” The tutu goes off to one side now.
We head to the curtains. If I hurry, I can be changed and gone before the others arrive. I still don’t know if Carla saw me witness the moment with her daughter.
Even thinking the word makes my stomach drop. I don’t know how to look at her. I’m sure she has a story. We all have stories. But it’s so hard.
But now I get why she was so subdued at dinner last night. She must have known she’d see the little girl, who obviously lives with her father.
Who doesn’t allow her to dance. What did he say? Dance was what destroyed them?
Blitz sets me down carefully and I quickly strip off the bodice and tutu. The tights are ruined, so I peel them off and tug them over the bandage. The nurse had already cut the foot of them away.
Blitz watches every movement. “Do you always get this naked in community dressing rooms?” I only wear a thong now.
“Only if everyone is watching me,” I say, turning to dig in my bag for a pair of silky workout pants and a T-shirt.
Blitz lets out a groan. “You’re killing me.”
“I’m just kidding,” I tell him. “But you do learn not to be too shy. There’s other curtained areas, and bathrooms with stalls. You can find places to go.”
I don’t tell him how we all have to try on our costumes in a big fitting area and you never know when a seamstress is just going to remove your top unexpectedly to change something.
The noise level increases. The show has ended. I jerk my T-shirt over my head and sit down to pull on the pants. By the time dancers start filling the room beyond the curtain, I have zipped up the bag.
“Shall I carry you again?” Blitz asks.
“I don’t want to be obvious,” I say. “But I will let you take these out to the costume manager. Large woman with a beehive.”
He nods and takes the tutu and bodice.
I stand up and test my foot. It doesn’t really hurt, but the bandage makes it impossible to fit my shoe on. I rummage through my bag and pull out a pair of plain ballet slippers, the sort you warm up in. I think they might fit.
They do, and I instantly feel better.
Blitz ducks back inside just as the makeup artist also appears.
“Do you need me to get you ready for the after-party?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “I’m not going.”
“Why did you not do the final scene? Her makeup was completely different from yours since I didn’t do it.”
I point to my foot. “I got a small injury. I’ll be out a few days.”
“Oh!” she glances down. “So you won’t need me tomorrow?”
“I don’t think so. I’ll let you know how it all goes down.”
She nods.
I put my arm around Blitz’s. “I guess carrying me is the easiest thing,” I say to him.
“I’ll make it look like I’m rescuing you from your drudgery, like in that movie An Officer and a Gentleman.”
“I haven’t seen it,” I say.
“I only saw the Simpsons version of the scene,” he says with a laugh. “But I get the gist.”
Only a few of the dancers turn to look as Blitz sweeps me up and carries me across the dressing room. We head out the back hall door, not the bar side, but the one where Carla was. There’s a small parking lot for theater staff only.
Ted is already there with the limo. He’s not driving, but sitting in the back. He scoots over as Blitz deposits me on the end of the seat. I push around to make room for Blitz.
“Some other girl was you at the end!” Ted says. “What happened?”
“Injured,” I say. My face flushes as I realize how many people will ask. And I can’t tell them the whole story.
“How long will you be out?” Ted’s face is full of concern.
“Just a few days.”
“Well, that’s good.”
The driver closes the door. Soon we’re pulling away from the building and crossing through the throng pouring out the exits.
I lay my head against Blitz’s. Only now that we’re away from everyone do I start to feel everything. The sting of the cut. The tightness of the wrap. The downward pull of the thoughts of Gabriella. The grief that I will not be performing tomorrow.
I should have known I would screw this up too.