Bunheads Read online

  “Happy birthday to me!” she screams, grinning wildly. “Happy fucking birthday to me!” Then she lifts up her arms and yells, “Bombs away,” and the paint comes pouring down on us, coloring us, making us indistinguishable from everyone else.

  “That’s what I’m talkin’ about,” hollers Dreadlocks Guy.

  “Vive les pedestrians!” Zoe shrieks.

  The following morning I awake with the worst headache of my life. I consider skipping company class to spend another hour sleeping, but I know I shouldn’t, so I drag myself out of bed. I put on dark sunglasses and have the deli guy fix me a coffee the size of my head just to get myself to the theater. My ears are still ringing and I feel dizzy, not to mention a little nauseated. During barre I think I’m going to be sick, so I run into the hallway to get a sip of water. On my way back into the studio, I see Mr. Edmunds gazing straight at me. It’s the first time he’s noticed me in weeks.

  “You will show now,” he says, making a flicking gesture with his fingers. “You.”

  My heart sinks. He knows perfectly well that I don’t know the combination, because I’ve just stepped in from the hallway. He raises an eyebrow and coolly motions to the pianist. The music begins, a simple Chopin étude. I just stand there with my eyes cast down, trying to make myself as small as possible. I can feel every single person in the room staring at me. After a moment the music fades out awkwardly.

  “What’s wrong?” Mr. Edmunds demands.

  “I don’t know the combination,” I whisper.

  Behind me a person coughs, and someone giggles. I wish I could turn into a puff of smoke and disappear.

  “I know it.”

  The voice is, of course, completely familiar. I turn to see Zoe stepping up, a deferential smile on her face.

  “Excellent,” Mr. Edmunds says, and turns his attention to her.

  I go back to my place, humiliated.

  And angry. I wish Zoe was able to keep herself, just once, from being a total suck-up. And how she seems to feel so good after all that vodka, I don’t know. I only know that my first impulse of the morning was the right one: I should have stayed in bed.

  Because the day goes on, and it gets even worse.

  That afternoon in the final run-through for Stormy Melody, Otto claps his hands and brings the rehearsal to a halt. The music stops, and everyone steps out of position as he marches over to me.

  “What is this?” he demands. He flings his arms around as he marks the brisé volé.

  I can feel everyone looking at me, and my cheeks burn. I show him the step again; it’s one of the most difficult petit allégro steps.

  He does not look pleased. “What is the matter with you? Cross them!”

  I jump again, crossing my ankles in the air as much as I can.

  “Again!” Otto says.

  I do what he says, but he only frowns.

  “Again.”

  This time my legs are becoming fatigued, and I stumble.

  “Again!” he shouts.

  By now he isn’t even looking at me anymore; he has turned his back and is walking away. I can’t get enough air, and I feel the tears coming, although I will them not to.

  “Again.”

  A dozen other corps members are watching me struggle. I can feel their eyes on me. Otto finally turns around as I gasp for air.

  “From the top!”

  This is a command to all of us. The other dancers groan in unison and return to their original formation. We’d been three-quarters of the way through the run, and now, thanks to me, we have to do it all again.

  “Jesus Christ,” I hear someone say.

  My chest is heaving, and my calves feel like they’re about to rip. But my body is not nearly as depleted as my ego. In the privacy of the wing, I bite my lip to keep the tears at bay. One escapes, though, and I dab at it with my sleeve before anyone can see it.

  22

  “Otto wasn’t even looking at me,” I moan to Bea. “He kept saying ‘again,’ but his back was turned.”

  “He’s a sadist,” she says, tilting her black beret just so. “There’s just no getting around it.”

  I nod. “It’s like he feels the need to break people so they’re more obedient.”

  Bea laughs. “Totally. He can’t have free spirits running rampant around the theater. Too hard to control. You know that last year he told Mai she was fat? Mai! That girl is a stick!”

  “That’s sick,” I say. But then I shake my head. “I didn’t mean to bring this up. Let’s pretend we’re regular people. What do regular people talk about?”

  Bea glances around the NYU auditorium I’ve brought her to, which is slowly filling up with college students. “I don’t know—movies? Homework? All the dates they went on?”

  “Yeah, maybe they just talk about how fun their lives are.” I smile. “But we’re having fun, right?”

  In an attempt to redeem myself from the debauchery of the paint party—and to further investigate the mysterious life of a pedestrian, as well as to engage in yet another thing Otto wouldn’t approve of—I persuaded Bea to come with me to a poetry reading on our night off. I even put on a dress for it: a navy short-sleeve mini that I paired with tights and my second-favorite pair of ankle boots. (My favorite ones now look like a Jackson Pollock painting, even though I kicked them off before joining the paint-splattered dance mob.)

  Okay, I also wanted to see what Jacob’s college life might be like. And maybe I had this tiny idea that I might even run into him.

  “Fun? I don’t know yet,” Bea says, prompting me to poke her in the arm. “All right, yes,” she says, “this is fun. You just have to promise to leave if any of the poems involve car crashes or bodily fluids.”

  “Okay, I know you’re squeamish.”

  Bea shifts in her seat and wraps her flowered scarf tighter around her neck; like me, she probably feels out of place and slightly nervous. I look around at the NYU students, studying them as I would a foreign species.

  “She gave me a C,” I hear someone say. “She said I hadn’t effectively articulated Derrida’s theory of logocentrism and its relationship to Lacan’s theory of consciousness as a semiotic system.”

  “Bummer,” her friend says. “But that whole structuralism/deconstruction/post-structuralism thing is really hard. I mean, I can hardly remember what’s the signifier and what’s the signified.”

  I don’t have any idea what they’re talking about. But still, I could be one of these girls, couldn’t I? Maybe even here: NYU is my dad’s alma mater.

  “Do you ever imagine what it would be like to be in college?” I ask Bea.

  “Huh?” She furrows her freckled brow.

  “Like, you know, back in school—”

  Just as Bea’s about to answer, a professorial-looking woman in a flowing red caftan steps up to the podium and clears her throat. “Welcome to the tenth annual student showcase of the NYU MFA program,” she says.

  Immediately Bea turns to me, without waiting for her to finish. “You brought me to a student reading?” she whispers. “I thought we’d see a famous poet or something.”

  “Sorry,” I whisper as the first reader sets herself up at the front of the room. “Slim pickings on a Monday night. It was this or amateur comedy night at the Dew Drop Inn.” Truthfully, I hadn’t looked very far in the listings section of the Village Voice—I just saw that there was an event at NYU and decided that’s where we should go. Because maybe, just maybe, we’d run into Jacob.

  I write down Signifier? Signified? Derrida?

  “Are you taking notes?” Bea demands. “Because I don’t think there’s going to be a quiz.”

  “No. But I like to be prepared. Maybe poetic inspiration will strike.”

  In my notebook is a line from Rimbaud (we read his work during my senior year at School of the Arts): “I have stretched ropes from steeple to steeple; garlands from window to window; golden chains from star to star, and I dance.” I don’t know what it means, exactly, but I’ve alway
s liked the image. It makes dance sound like something that exists in the larger world and not just in a dark theater.

  Also in my journal—for contrast—is a line from the ballet movie The Red Shoes. “Sorrow will pass, believe me,” says the ruthless director to his most gifted dancer, whose heart has just been broken. “Life is so unimportant. And from now onwards, you will dance like nobody ever before.”

  Which is the more accurate take on dance, Rimbaud or The Red Shoes? It’s hard to say.

  Once the readings are over, I look at Bea and see that she has nodded off.

  Before I wake her up, I sit and think about Jacob, who is very possibly studying in the library five hundred yards away from me. When I get home, I send him an e-mail.

  Hey Jacob. How’s life? I called you a while back, but I didn’t leave a message because Otto was force-feeding me some cayenne-and-lemon drink he said would increase my metabolism. Winter season is almost over and I’ve been totally frustrated with my parts. Anyway, I wonder if you want to hang out sometime. I’m still off on Mondays. Oh, and Sunday nights. I used to go to the gym after the matinee, but I don’t do that so much anymore.

  I debate for a long time how to sign it: xo, Hannah? xH? Later, HW? In the end, I don’t sign it at all. I just send off the e-mail with my fingers crossed.

  23

  Jacob calls me a day later. His voice is friendly but slightly cool. “So you’re coming up for air,” he says.

  “I’m cutting back a little,” I allow.

  “I hope Otto doesn’t know about this,” he says.

  Involuntarily, I shudder a little. What would Otto or Annabelle say to me? You look like cooked asparagus in class, and you want to cut back on your workouts? “I hope not, too. But it’s not like I’m skipping class or rehearsal. I’m just bailing on Pilates and the gym.” Because why kill myself if no one notices? “I tried to find you at that party, you know,” I go on. And I was hoping to somehow catch sight of you the other night when I was at NYU, I think. I pause while I work up the nerve to say what I already said in the e-mail. “So, do you want to hang out sometime?”

  It takes Jacob a little while to reply, and in those moments I imagine a parade of pretty NYU girls, each one of them more than willing to make time for him.

  Eventually he says, “Yeah, but under one condition.”

  “What?”

  “I want to see what it is that keeps you so busy,” Jacob says. “I want to see you dance.”

  My stomach does a somersault of nervousness, but what can I say? I dance for strangers every night—I ought to be able to do it for a guy I’ve got a crush on. “Um—all right,” I say.

  “Great,” he says firmly. “When?”

  “I’ll get you a comp ticket,” I say. Then I picture him alone in the audience, too far back in the vast, ornate theater to even see which one of the corps girls is me. “Or no, never mind that,” I say. “Come on Saturday night. Are you free?”

  There’s another pause. In my imagination, a lovely brunette slips Jacob her number in the library. “Uh, yeah,” Jacob finally says. “I am free, actually.”

  “Great,” I say, erasing the brunette from my mind. “You can stand backstage.”

  “That sounds awesome,” Jacob says. “I can’t wait.”

  Half an hour before the Saturday evening performance, I have all my makeup on. My hair is up in a high bun, with a silk flower pinned to it. But I’m still wearing my sweats and a loose-fitting T-shirt.

  I take the elevator down to the stage door at street level. Arden, the security guard on duty tonight, gives me a smile. Thank goodness it’s not Frank working tonight. He won’t even let delivery guys come into the building, much less allow guests backstage.

  “Hey, Arden.” I smile sweetly at her.

  Arden looks up from her sudoku book and tosses her braids off her shoulder. “Hi, Hannah-girl.”

  “Hey, is it cool if my friend comes back for a sec?” I point to Jacob, who’s sitting on a bench by her desk, waiting to get buzzed in. He looks up and waves.

  Arden inspects him, a slight smile on her face. “He looks trustworthy,” she says after a moment. “No problem.”

  I motion to Jacob, who rises. As he comes closer, he looks at me carefully, sort of like he’s not really sure who I am.

  “Hey, bunhead.” He turns his head slowly from side to side. “Wow, you really shellac that stuff on.” He reaches up and touches my eyelashes gently with his finger.

  “They’re fake,” I say, fluttering them at him.

  Jacob laughs. “Yeah, I thought they looked a little longer than usual.”

  As we walk up the stairs to the stage level, Jacob reaches out and takes my hand. “I’m kind of nervous,” he whispers.

  I smile at him. “You’re nervous? You’re not the one who has to go onstage!”

  “True,” he acknowledges. “But you gotta admit, I stick out a little.” He points to his sneakers and jeans. “I would have worn my leotard, but it’s at the cleaner’s.”

  I wrap my fingers tighter around his. I’m so glad to see him, even if I’m too shy to show it. And having him here makes me feel better about everything—even the terrible rehearsals I’ve had. “So, I’m not really supposed to do this, but you’re going to watch from the wing.”

  His brow furrows with concern. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

  “You won’t. Just stay out of people’s way. And don’t make a sound.” I realize that sounds a little harsh, so I smile and squeeze his hand again. “You’ll be fine. If anyone gives you a problem, just say you’re my brother.”

  He shoots me a doubtful look. “Maybe we should stop holding hands if we’re related,” he teases.

  “No one’s going to notice you. Just make sure to turn your phone off,” I tell him, and watch as he slips his phone from his pocket and switches it to vibrate.

  We take the back hallway to stage right in order to avoid Christine, who’s jabbering into her headset as she tries to deal with a loose scrim.

  Backstage, Adriana is stretching her near-skeletal limbs at the barre, Julie is running her solo, her dark eyes fierce with concentration, and Daisy is putting on her shoes by the rosin box. Jacob’s eyes grow wider as he takes it all in. I want to stay with him, but I’m anxious to get my shoes and costume on, so I place him in the front wing, nestled between the black velvet curtain and the scaffolding that holds up the lights.

  I slip on my shoes and sew in, and then I hurry to the Green Room to put on my costume. I’m jittery as Laura helps me into my flesh-tone chiffon dress.

  “What’s with you tonight?” she asks. “Days of moping around, and now you’re bouncing like a Mexican jumping bean.”

  “I had a big coffee,” I lie.

  I hurry backstage again to find Jacob watching intently as Julie marks through her pas de deux with Sam. I sneak up behind him and tap his shoulder. He whirls around, a look of near panic on his face. Then, when he sees it’s me, he smiles.

  “Wow, I thought I was busted,” he says.

  “Nope, just me,” I say, poking him.

  “You look…” He pauses as he steps back to get the full ballerina effect. “Well, Hannah Ward, you look amazing.” Then he leans close to me again and whispers, “I’d give you a kiss, but I don’t think your lip gloss would look that great on me.”

  Beneath my pancake makeup I can feel myself blushing.

  “Places!” Christine calls, clapping her hands together.

  “Whoa—gotta go.” I flash Jacob a smile and then dash off to find my opening position onstage next to Daisy and Adriana.

  “Merde,” I say to Daisy, and I give her butt a little pat.

  The lights go down as the orchestra tune their instruments. Then the strings begin the overture. I smooth my costume and wait for the curtain to rise.

  “That’s him, isn’t it?” Daisy whispers, grinning.

  I glance over toward the first wing. It’s almost pitch-black, but as the lights illuminate the st
age, I can make out Jacob’s profile from behind the boom.

  “Yes,” I hiss.

  “Merde,” she says, winking at me.

  Then the curtain rises, and the cool air from the house is released like a billow of wind over the stage. I’m aware that Jacob’s watching, but instead of being distracted, I’m fueled by his presence. I piqué arabesque, tombé toward the wing, and soutenu opposite Daisy. I look over to the front wing to see Jacob smiling broadly.

  When the violins begin the adagio section, we bourrée and pose in a semicircle around Julie as she executes her first solo. We sauté, chassé, tour jeté, and kneel as Sam enters for the pas de deux, and then we turn and bourrée into the wing.

  I catch my breath and take a quick sip from my water bottle. I have a few moments before my next entrance, so I walk over to Jacob. The expression on his face is one of amazement.

  I touch his shoulder lightly. “So, what do you think?”

  “This is the coolest thing ever,” he whispers. “I love being back here—it feels like I’m right onstage with you guys.”

  I smile as I dab the beads of sweat from my brow. “I should have gotten you up in the flies. The view’s even better from up there.”

  “The what?”

  I point up to where Harry is sitting at his desk. “Way up there,” I say. “Well, maybe you can try that next time. I’ve got to go. See you in a few!”

  I jog to the last wing, feeling his eyes on me. I like knowing he’s there, and I want to impress him.

  I reenter for the coda with Emma and Daisy, and I push myself as the music reaches a crescendo and we near the finale. My lungs feel like they’re going to explode, but I make it to the final pose without a single misstep.

  Moments later, during the bows, I glance over to see Jacob clapping with such enthusiasm that I’m afraid Christine’s going to yell at him. As the curtain comes down, I go over to him, breathless but energized. He holds his arms out as if I should step right into them, but I don’t, because I’m dripping with sweat.