Bunheads Page 10

  “Bread,” she says. She slips a basket of steaming rosemary-studded focaccia between us and then turns and glides away.

  I glance down at the bread. Suddenly I’m no longer hungry. I just want Jacob to kiss me again.

  15

  “Do you think Zoe’s leotard is bright enough?” Bea whispers as she tries to smooth down a few red flyaways. “She looks like a highlighter.”

  “That’s because you-know-who is teaching class this morning,” I whisper back.

  When Otto teaches company class, everyone—all one hundred of us—shows up. There’s a mad scramble for the best positions: Who can place herself directly in Otto’s line of sight? Who will be stuck in the back, a half-visible form waving her arms to be seen? Daisy stands next to the piano, where the teacher usually demonstrates, and Zoe positions herself by Lottie, whose ankle has healed. Everyone strips down to leotards and tights when Otto’s around. He calls layers “garbage.”

  By ten thirty, we’re all in our places along the barre. I’m somewhere in the middle, next to Bea, who has wrapped her hair around her ears like Princess Leia (the look is somehow cute on her).

  Even with a limp, Otto has a certain feline grace and a subtle malevolence. He is wearing tight jeans and a billowy button-down shirt, as usual. He is also carrying, as usual, a bottle of Evian. I have never seen him without one; he must drink even more water than Daisy does.

  Within fifteen minutes of the start of class, I have rivulets of sweat running down my chest and soaking my pale pink leotard. My back muscles are burning, and my legs are beginning to throb. Bea’s freckled brow is furrowed as she concentrates on the combination.

  “Don’t think, just do,” Otto barks.

  He doesn’t want us to overintellectualize the choreography, because sometimes it’s better to just take the plunge. But today my muscles ache, and I’m hyperaware of him gliding through the room, inspecting our line, our devotion. Could he be casting a new ballet? Or looking for expendable dancers? Who is getting his attention? Who’s meeting his approval?

  I decide to do everything I can to stand out from the horde of bodies moving in sync. During center, I position myself in front, where Daisy and Zoe usually stand. I can feel them giving me looks, but I ignore them. In the adagio, I create resistance between my limbs and control every muscle fiber as I développé into arabesque. During the promenade, I look out over my fingertips, past the colored blur of dancers staring back. In the grand allégro across the floor, I expand my movements and try to outjump not only the women but also the men.

  I can only hope that Otto notices.

  I have five minutes to eat a banana and change my shoes before Pas de Trois rehearsal. I’m still breathing heavily from class when I enter the studio. Zoe’s already marking through the choreography (she’s been early to everything lately), and Daisy is nursing her water bottle and rolling her calf on a tennis ball. I strip off my warm-ups just as Annabelle Hayes walks in and sets her coffee on the piano. The three of us hurry to our formation. In the previous rehearsal for this ballet, I was placed in the center of the formation, with Zoe and Daisy on either side. They didn’t say anything, but I could tell that Daisy and Zoe took this to mean that I was the preferred dancer.

  “Let’s begin from the top,” Annabelle says, glancing at the pianist as she walks to the front of the studio.

  Daisy and Zoe arabesque tombé away from me while I arabesque toward the front of the room. A moment later Annabelle claps her hands to halt the pianist.

  “Terrible, girls! You’re not watching each other,” Annabelle says, frowning. She motions to the pianist and then to us. “Again.”

  “Terrible” means nothing—it’s only an adjective. I’ve heard it before, and I’ll hear it many more times before the season is over. But “again” is a command: It demands a response, which is complete obedience.

  We step into our poses, and the pianist begins. This time I try to connect more with the other dancers.

  Annabelle nods, though a frown still creases her brow. She was a corps dancer for many years, so she knows how tough it is. She tries to prepare us as best she can (despite limited rehearsal time) by making sure we know the choreography and counts, and also by drilling the ballets over and over so that we have enough stamina for the performance.

  “Okay, better,” Annabelle says when we’re through. “I’d like to run it again from the top, but this time we’ll face away from the mirror.”

  I think I hear Daisy sigh.

  As we begin to dance, I realize how tired I am. My legs feel weighted, and I can’t seem to get enough air into my lungs.

  “Okay, girls, take five for water,” Annabelle says, and we all sigh in relief. I go out into the hallway to catch my breath; my legs feel like they’re made of jelly. Jonathan wanders by and waves at me; I lift two fingers in response, which is all I can manage. I wipe the sweat from my neck with a hand towel and lean briefly against the cool cinder-block wall.

  Zoe pops her head out the studio door. “You okay out there? Annabelle says we have to run the finale.”

  I smile grimly at her. “I’m great,” I say. “I’m ready.” And somehow I make it through.

  When rehearsal is over and we’re gathering our things to leave, Annabelle motions to me. “Hannah,” she says, “could I please speak to you for a minute?”

  But it’s not really a question. And it’s rarely a good thing to be called over by a ballet master or mistress, so I approach warily as I use my sweatshirt to mop my damp neck and chest. A tiny part of me hopes that she’s noticed how hard I’ve been working. Maybe she’s about to offer up a rare compliment?

  Annabelle, who is tiny and birdlike and wears her hair in a short, severe bob, places her hand on the white keys of the piano and hits three high, atonal notes, plink plink plink. She points her thin, sharp nose at me; she’s as wispy and dry as a thistle. “Hannah,” she says, “you’ve gained weight. Something must be done about it.” Plink. The piano sounds one more time, like a punctuation mark at the end of a sentence.

  Then the room is silent. I stand there, dumbfounded and horrified. I glance over Annabelle’s head to find myself in the mirror. I have to stop myself from putting my hands on my hips or covering my chest.

  “Before Otto says anything,” Annabelle goes on, “you must lose weight in your breasts.”

  “What?” I whisper.

  “I don’t want him to pull you from Momentum,” she says. She purses her lips and waits for me to reply.

  Momentum is a notoriously and ruthlessly exposing ballet danced in white leotards and pink tights. We are already rehearsing it.

  I am speechless, so Annabelle goes on. “And if I were you, I would consider wearing an undergarment.”

  “An undergarment,” I repeat. My cheeks are hot with embarrassment. In the wall of mirrors, my body is reflected back to me, and suddenly I can see only curves and softness.

  Annabelle nods curtly as she pushes the bangs of her fine brown bob away from her forehead. She means a bra, of course, something no dancer should ever be big enough to need.

  “Yes, an undergarment,” she says. “Something to bind…” And she motions to her own nonexistent breasts. “You understand.” Then she picks up her purse, nods at me once more, turns, and exits the room.

  After she’s gone, I can still smell the faint hint of her perfume; it smells like the lavender sachets my mother keeps in the linen closet, and the familiar scent makes my knees weak with longing. I feel like I’ve just been punched in the stomach.

  Eventually I leave the studio, my head spinning. If anyone asks me what’s wrong, I’ll cry, so instead of going to the dressing room, I take the elevator down to the basement, where the costume shop is. An ugly piece of fabric serves as a door to the shop—it looks like someone shot a 1970s couch and then skinned it and hung its hide up to dry. I hurriedly brush it aside. Peering in, I see Bernadette, one of the three costume makers, and I feel like I can breathe again. She’s always been so s
weet to me—the opposite of Helga, the dresser. She’ll know what to do, I tell myself.

  “Hey, lady, I need your help,” I say. My voice wavers as it comes out.

  Bernadette, who has a kind, round face and an orangish wig that’s slightly askew, looks up from the bodice of a costume. She’s sewing black piping onto maroon satin. A pile of tulle lies at her feet. “Anything, my dear.” Her voice is warm and maternal.

  I put my mouth right up to her ear and whisper, “Do you have anything that will make me look flatter?” I point to my chest, and my cheeks flush again.

  Bernadette smiles gently. “Oh, my dear, I can do better than that. I will make something just for you. A special…”

  She, too, seems to have a hard time saying the word bra. Once again, I feel like crying. But instead I just smile and touch her round shoulder. “Really? That’s such a relief. I’ll pay you for it, you know.”

  Bernadette waves away my offer. “It would be my pleasure,” she says.

  In the privacy of my apartment that night, I inspect my body in the full-length mirror that hangs on my bedroom door. With the exception of my breasts, my body is firm and taut, even hard to the touch.

  To anyone on the outside—to a pedestrian—I look thin and willowy, without an ounce of extraneous fat. But in the world of the Manhattan Ballet, my figure is apparently unacceptable. It’s so repugnant, in fact, that Otto would keep me from performing in order to shield the audience from seeing me in a white leotard.

  Bitterly, I flop down onto my bed.

  After a few minutes of stewing, I pick up the phone and call Bea, but she doesn’t answer.

  “Bea, where are you?” I whine into the phone. “Call me.” I pause. “Or don’t, it’s late, whatever. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I flop over on the bed and bury my face in my pillow. I knew that the Manhattan Ballet body standards were strict, but I never thought I’d be pulled aside for getting breasts. I mean, I had to go through puberty eventually; it’s a biological necessity!

  But the reason for weight gain doesn’t matter to Otto; only the fact of it does.

  Am I supposed to diet now? It’s not like I eat bonbons all day: I eat small meals of protein-packed, high-energy foods, and I drink gallons of water. What is there to cut out?

  I don’t know, but I have to figure out something, because Momentum goes on in only a week and a half.

  16

  “It’s just the same old crap,” Bea says, hurling her leg warmers into her theater case.

  “Tell me about it,” I say. It’s February, and Sammy Gordon, the Manhattan Ballet office manager, has just posted another winter season casting, and we’re all dancing the same corps roles we’ve done for three years now, along with the apprentices and first-year corps members.

  My stomach rumbles, and I take a giant bite of my apple. I skipped breakfast, but then in rehearsal for La Mer I started shaking.

  “What do I need to do to get them to pay attention to me? Should I wear neon lights around my wrists and ankles?” Bea asks, her freckled face nearly white with anger.

  “Well, there are always other parts later in the season,” I say. I’m trying to be philosophical about it, even though I feel demoralized. “I mean, they’ll post another casting in a week or two.”

  Bea scowls as she twists her hair into Pippi Longstocking braids. “You’re right. But still. Why am I dancing with Daisy? No offense, Daze.”

  Daisy thinks about this for a moment. “I know I’m young,” she says. “But I want better parts, too, you know.” She reaches into her backpack and pulls out a bag of Doritos and holds them tightly in her tiny fist. She glares at the nutritional information on the package and then looks up at us. “I’m going to go call Dr. Shapiro,” she says.

  She leaves, letting the door slam behind her.

  Abruptly, I stand up and face Bea. “Do I look like I’ve gained weight?” I ask.

  “What, are you insane? You’re gorgeous, Hannah,” Bea says, fastening a braid with an elastic.

  I poke her knee with my toe. “You’re not even looking at me.”

  She lifts her head and smiles. “Okay, now I am.”

  “Listen,” I say. “Annabelle said Otto might pull me from Momentum if I don’t lose weight in my breasts.” I feel like I’m going to cry just saying the words aloud. “That’s why I called last night.”

  “That’s absurd!” Bea yells, and I shush her, even though no one else is in the room. “But come on,” she says, her voice quieter now. “It’s not like you’re a Scores dancer or whatever.”

  Bea is right, of course: I’m hardly huge. But all my friends are small enough to wear halter tops or training bras, and suddenly I need a special contraption to mash my boobs against my rib cage.

  I rip out my ponytail holder in frustration and toss it onto the counter. “She told me to lose weight in my breasts! How is that physically possible? Oh, I’ll just direct the calories like a traffic cop toward my extremities and shoo them away from my chest?” Tears start rolling down my cheeks.

  “Well, you do look curvier than you used to,” Zoe says as she appears in the doorway. She clasps a pack of cigarettes in one hand and a Diet Coke in the other.

  “Wow, thanks, Zoe,” I say. “Your support is really meaningful to me.” I hate that she overheard this conversation.

  “You should try cutting out wheat,” she says. “Or you can take up smoking. I’m heading up to the roof. Want to come? Or you, Bea?”

  Both Bea and I shake our heads. “No way,” Bea says.

  When Zoe’s gone, I turn to Bea. “Seriously, do I look fatter to you?”

  She shakes her head vehemently. “Don’t be ridiculous. You have a beautiful figure,” she says. After a moment she picks up Life & Style Weekly, which Daisy left on her chair. “Oh deary. Britney has made another tragic fashion mistake.”

  I want to hug her and kick her at the same time, for trying to make me feel better and for lying to me.

  A few days later, I find a little, unmarked brown-paper bag at my dressing room spot. Inside is a nude bra constructed of a tightly woven, thick mesh fabric. I take it into the bathroom stall with me because I don’t want the girls to know that I need such a thing.

  The door in front of me is Daisy’s Bad Plastic Surgery Wall, and taped to it are dozens of pictures of Hollywood celebrities, each of them—with the help of expensive plastic surgeons—trying to be bustier than the next. The irony of my own position vis-à-vis big breasts is not lost on me. I glare at Heidi Montag as I shrug into the bra and then pull up my leotard.

  Back in the dressing room, I stand in front of the mirror. The bra is perfect. Virtually invisible underneath my workout clothes, it holds my breasts close to my body. I don’t look flat, but I look flatter. I’ll be able to wear it during class and rehearsals, and under costumes as long as it doesn’t show. I sigh with relief and sink down into my chair.

  Just then my phone rings.

  “So, you ready to see that Fellini movie tomorrow?” Jacob asks. “I’ve been working on my Italian verbs.”

  My heart does a little leap when I hear his voice—but then it sinks when I realize what I have to tell him.

  “Jacob, I actually can’t make it anymore,” I say. “I’m so sorry. It got crazy around here again.” Because I have to lose weight in my breasts, I think. And then I get this crazy image of a pair of boobs on a treadmill, which almost makes me laugh but then makes me depressed all over again.

  “You know, you’re making me feel like a reject,” Jacob says. There’s a humorous note in his voice, but I can tell he’s confused.

  I clutch the phone to my cheek as I search for my water bottle in the bowels of my dance bag. “I have to prepare for this upcoming ballet. It’s kind of a big deal,” I say.

  I can’t explain to him the sudden importance of taking Pilates and Bikram yoga during my break and then spending an hour on the elliptical at the gym before the performance tonight, because it makes me sound pathologica
l. Especially to a guy whose only real commitments are four college classes a week and a part-time work-study job.

  “Okay, I can take a hint,” he says.

  “It’s really not about you,” I say earnestly. “There’s no hint to be taken.”

  I locate my water bottle and take a swig. With my other hand I’m clutching the phone, as if squeezing the life out of it will somehow make Jacob understand why I’m saying what I’m saying. And I don’t want to have this thought, but I do: If I were dating another dancer, none of this would be an issue. Or—and this is Zoe’s voice I hear—if you were dating Matt.

  “I thought we had a nice time the other week. What’s with the mixed messages?”

  “You think I want to bail on you? Because it’s actually hard for me.”

  Jacob scoffs. “Yeah, I can tell you’re really broken up about it.”

  “I am. Give me a break, okay?” I plead.

  “My friends have been telling me that I should give up on you, and I’m starting to think they might be right. Maybe I should just try hanging out with someone from NYU. Someone with more time…”

  “Jacob, listen, in another week or two, things will slow down a little,” I tell him. “Then we’ll see each other. We’ll totally watch 8½, or any Fellini movie you want.”

  “Okay, okay,” he says. He still sounds irritated, though, and I understand why.

  I’d be irritated, too, if I were him.

  17

  During my afternoon break, I take the elevator down to the darkened stage to find the sweatshirt I left there after a rehearsal. I’m in a hurry, and I almost don’t see Mai standing at the front of the stage, wearing a white spaghetti-strap leotard and a pale gray chiffon skirt, moving her arms in a graceful arc.