Bunheads Page 2

  I look around for Zoe, but for some reason she’s not up here. An empty Starbucks cup rolls toward me in the slight breeze. The building’s huge air-conditioning unit makes a loud humming noise and spews hot air over the flat black roof.

  I walk to the edge and look down over the plaza. Below me is the vast courtyard of Avery Center. There are clusters of tourists here and there, and I think I see Jonathan, late as usual, hobbling toward the theater because he pulled his ACL in rehearsal yesterday. Behind him the fountain at the center of the plaza sends up sparkling jets of water.

  I close my eyes and breathe in, and all thoughts of Zoe vanish. The first autumn bite is in the air, and it marks the beginning of another year with the company.

  Is Otto really looking for a corps girl to dance a new lead role? If so, then maybe he’s looking to promote one of us to soloist.

  The life span of a fruit fly. “What am I waiting for?” I ask aloud. “This is my year.” I look up at the sky, and the wispy clouds seem to dance overhead. “This year,” I tell them, “I’m going to be promoted.”

  I walk to the other side of the roof and look out over the traffic on Broadway. Two taxis are having a honking war, and on the corner of Broadway and Sixty-Fifth, a man in jogging clothes is doing jumping jacks as he waits to cross the street. A yellow school bus disgorges a group of high school students on a field trip to Avery Center. I watch them walk single file up the steps to the plaza, their mouths open in awe at the grand architecture of the buildings.

  I spend most of my waking hours in the building directly below my feet, but beyond that lies a whole bustling world. I think of all the neighborhood sights that I never actually see: the lights and crowds of Times Square, the restaurants and bars of Hell’s Kitchen, the galleries of Chelsea, the tree-lined streets of the West Village, and the shops and rock clubs of the East Village. If I weren’t a professional dancer, maybe I’d feel more a part of New York City. But for now this theater is my entire world, and I don’t miss the outside one bit.

  I turn and walk back toward the door, scattering a flock of pigeons that had settled on the roof. My pledge will be my secret. “You can do this,” I whisper.

  3

  “Hannah, you on next?” a low, gruff voice asks.

  It’s Harry, one of the stagehands, lingering in the backstage area where I wait for my entrance. He’s about six foot three and probably weighs almost three hundred pounds, with kind eyes and no visible neck. Harry has worked at this theater longer than I’ve been alive. His grandfather and his father were stagehands, too. At this point in his career, Harry knows as much about ballet as anyone I can think of.

  “Hey, you,” I say, rolling my neck to give the muscles a final stretch. “I’m on in a few minutes.”

  “Break a leg.” Harry smiles. His nine-year-old daughter, Matilda, appears from out of nowhere, wearing a half-torn tutu and a battered pair of Nikes.

  “Hannah!” she says breathlessly, her chubby cheeks bright pink with excitement.

  Matilda doesn’t come around the theater often—backstage isn’t the best place for a kid—so I’m always surprised that she remembers my name and that she seems so excited to see me. I guess she’s what they call precocious.

  “Hey,” I say, “I see you’ve got your tutu on. Are you dancing in one of the ballets tonight?”

  She giggles. “I wish! But I have a recital coming up. Do you know the Delancey Dance Academy? That’s where I take lessons.” Her voice is proud, and her little chest puffs out.

  Harry ruffles his daughter’s curly dark hair. “Mattie wants to be a ballerina, too, when she grows up.”

  I look down at this smiling little girl in her pigtails and dirty tutu. Her face shines with delight. The theater must seem like a magical world to her—I know it did to me. When I first became an apprentice, I wanted to sleep on the stage, under the rows of lights that glittered like far-off planets. Sometimes when no one was around, I’d sit on the edge with my legs dangling into the orchestra pit and look out in awe at the vast, empty house with its carved, gilded ceiling and crystal chandeliers.

  “I want to dance in Swan Lake,” Mattie informs me.

  “Good for you,” I say. But I can see already that she has her father’s body, and this does not bode well for Mattie’s future ballet career. Harry is not built like a dancer; Harry is built like a Mack truck. “That’s wonderful.”

  “We’re going to do The Nutcracker this year, though,” she adds.

  “Wow,” I say. “You know, we’re rehearsing The Nutcracker now, too? We dance it every year starting the day after Thanksgiving.”

  Harry smiles indulgently. “It’s not the real Nutcracker,” he whispers. “They’re just going to have Sugarplum Fairy costumes. My wife is slaving over the damn thing already.” He laughs. “But Mattie loves to dance. Don’t you, girl?”

  Matilda nods happily. “I want a costume like yours someday,” she whispers. Her pink cheeks flush even pinker.

  I glance down at the silvery satin costume and touch one of its hand-sewn pearls reverently, protectively. “I hope you get one,” I whisper back.

  Then Luke, my partner in Four Winds, appears, wanting to practice the pirouettes we do together in the first section. He doesn’t acknowledge Harry or Matilda but reaches out and grabs my hand. To a lot of dancers, the stagehands are simply invisible, like familiar pieces of furniture. Those dancers don’t appreciate that without the stagehands, nothing—and I mean nothing—would work as it should.

  “Please,” Luke says. “I’m nervous.” He blinks at me with his large, slightly watery green eyes.

  I feel sorry for him, and so I nod. “All right, come here. Hold your arms out.” I’ve danced this ballet dozens of times, but it’s not easy, so I can sympathize. I step into his arms.

  Matilda’s eyes grow even wider. Now she’ll get an impromptu performance.

  I count off four counts, just to give Luke time to prepare, and then I start to turn. I fall to the right on the first pirouette, though, because Luke has me off my supporting leg.

  “Hold me more firmly,” I tell him. “You won’t hurt me.”

  The second time he keeps me on my leg, and I rotate three times. Matilda applauds.

  “Good! You’ll be fine,” I say reassuringly.

  But right at that moment, Otto Klein glides by, frowning slightly as he sips from a bottle of Evian, and Luke visibly pales. “Is he watching tonight?” he whispers.

  “I doubt it,” I say, shaking my head, because I know Otto’s presence will only make Luke more nervous, and then he’ll forget what I told him about holding me right.

  Of course, Otto probably will watch, and the thought of it makes my heart beat a bit faster.

  I wave to Harry and Matilda, and then Luke and I go to join handsome Jonathan and gangly Adriana, who are waiting in the wings. The lights from the stage stream through the wings in pink, yellow, and blue beams that look like the sun shining through the clouds. We count our eights to make sure we come in on time. It might be overkill, but I like to count them on my fingers so I don’t lose track.

  On the end of the ninth eight, we walk onto the stage in unison and into our formation. As soon as I make the transition from wing to stage, I grow about two inches. I listen to the music and it cues my muscle memory. I tombé-glissade-piqué into Luke’s arms. Then, preparing for the pirouette, I take a breath. On the first rotation I’m off my supporting leg, but I use my core strength to put myself back over my toe for the second turn.

  “Sorry!” Luke whispers.

  “Don’t worry,” I whisper back, even though I’m annoyed at him.

  We run into formation and he lifts me high and quick for the pas de chat as we cross with the couples on stage left. I pose on the side in B-plus (one leg gracefully crossed behind the other) and then curtsy to the couples on the right and the left of us as if to greet them: “Hello, Adriana. Hello, Olivia.”

  Onstage we’re all on the same team; worries about competition, c
asting, and promotions vanish, and we revel in the dance itself.

  When the music stops, the audience erupts in applause. As I curtsy, I feel the adrenaline coursing through me.

  “Thanks for not dropping me,” I whisper to Luke as we take our bow.

  “Anytime,” he says with a grin.

  Still trying to catch my breath, I walk backstage to check tomorrow’s schedule. The schedule tells us which ballets we’re dancing in, which ones we’re rehearsing for, and which roles we might have a chance of getting. Dancers study it as if it’s the word of God. If your name is printed under a soloist or principal part, it means that Otto sees potential in you, and your career is in the ascendance. Continually being cast in smaller corps parts, though, means the opposite. Since we perform so many different ballets in a season, each ballet is, in theory, an opportunity for a great part. So we’re always hopeful—even if we’re often disappointed.

  All the lights are off except for a single blue bulb that burns dimly above the bulletin board, barely illuminating the schedule tacked there. I scan the paper for my name, and when I see it, my breath catches in my throat: I’ve been called to understudy Lottie Harlow for the lead in Otto’s new ballet—the part that Zoe and I were angling for.

  I feel a rush of excitement. Okay, so I didn’t actually get the part, but Otto wants me to learn it! If something were to happen to Lottie, he trusts me to carry the ballet in her place. I smile and give a happy little hop. This could be a sign of good things to come.

  Bea hurries up next to me, still breathing heavily from her performance, and looks for her own name. “Are you serious? I’m dancing Unraveling in G again?” Her red lips look black in the dim blue light, and her pancake makeup covers her freckles completely. “It’s like I’m still an apprentice,” she says grimly.

  “That sucks,” I say. Then, unable to help myself, I blurt, “I’m understudying Lottie in Otto’s new ballet.”

  “Really?” Bea immediately brightens. “Good for you.” She reaches out and gives me a quick squeeze. “See? Otto was watching you.”

  Then Daisy and Zoe come over, eager to find their own names. Zoe pushes past us, knocking Bea off balance.

  “God, Z,” Bea says. “Shove much?”

  Zoe ignores her and two seconds later gives a little yelp. “I’m understudying Lottie,” she says, turning to us and smiling, her teeth white and perfect.

  Immediately my heart sinks a little. Of course Otto put us together again.

  “I guess Otto was giving me the up-down, too, huh?” Zoe says slyly.

  “Uh, yeah,” I mumble.

  “Hey,” Daisy says. “You guys? Where am I?” She tries to catch a glimpse of the schedule, but we’re all in the way. She jumps up and down, attempting to look over Zoe’s shoulder.

  “Looks like you’re in Symphony in G and Haiku,” I say.

  “Yes!” Daisy pumps her little fist. “I’ve always wanted to dance Haiku.”

  Zoe leans over and whispers in my ear, “What a dork. That’s, like, the lamest part in our rep.”

  “She’s oblivious,” I whisper back. “But at least her delusion will keep her happy. You know how she stress-eats when she freaks out.”

  Zoe giggles.

  “It’s so cool you guys are learning Lottie,” Bea says loudly, trying to make sure Daisy doesn’t overhear us calling her a dork for being so excited about an apprentice ballet.

  But Daisy doesn’t even notice; she bounces off toward the Green Room, her dark hair unraveling from its bun.

  Zoe turns toward me and speaks with deliberate casualness. “You know, Otto will probably rehearse a second cast, which means one of us will dance it.” She thrusts her shoulders back and gives me a little smile. “I wonder which one of us he’ll choose….”

  I shrug and turn away, although inside I’m practically seething. We all want bigger and better parts. It’s ingrained in us—the drive to succeed is as natural to us as breathing.

  Behind me I hear Zoe snickering. I guess she thinks she’s funny.

  Honestly, I don’t think Zoe and I would have been friends if she hadn’t sought me out when I first came to the Manhattan Ballet Academy. Like me, she was one of the youngest girls in Level C, and she stood next to me in class. I was too shy to talk to her much, but I was happy to have an almost-friend.

  Over the course of a few weeks, we started talking more, and eventually Zoe invited me to dinner at her apartment. Since I’d been surviving on the slop they tried to pass off as food in the dorm cafeteria, I was thrilled at the idea of having a home-cooked meal. And I was also—though I would never admit this to Zoe—aching for a mother figure, even if it wasn’t my own. I was fourteen and on my own in New York City. It wasn’t easy.

  As I entered Zoe’s Park Avenue foyer, a yappy Pekingese nipped at my ankles.

  “Hello, Hannah,” Zoe’s mother cooed as she leaned against the doorframe. “I’m Dolly. Zoe has told me so much about you.” Dolly’s hair was a darker shade of gold than Zoe’s, but mother and daughter had the same striking green eyes. Dolly wore a crimson velvet robe wrapped snugly around her tiny frame. When she reached out to hug me, holding me tight to her bony sternum, her perfume overwhelmed me. Then she stepped back and craned her neck.

  “Zoe!” she shouted down the hallway. There was no answer. “She is so lazy.” Dolly sighed. Then she smiled broadly and picked up a martini glass that had left a circle of condensation on the hall table. “Her room’s the fourth on the left.” She rested her elbow in the indentation of her hip and swirled the liquid in her glass while looking me up and down. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  As I later found out, Dolly was the daughter of a Texas oil tycoon and, according to Daisy, a big donor to the Manhattan Ballet. Her partying and bed hopping made her a regular on Page Six. Dolly was hospitalized for stress twice, but everyone said it was anorexia. Once, and only once, I saw her eat. It was a single stalk of celery that she retrieved from her Bloody Mary.

  I remember walking down the hall to Zoe’s bedroom and knocking hesitantly.

  “Come in,” Zoe called. She sat on the floor blowing on her freshly painted toenails. A music video blared from a wall-mounted flat-screen TV. “You want to order some sushi?” she asked. She tossed a menu at me. “It’s the best in the city. I like the spider rolls.”

  I looked around at her huge bedroom, with its expensive furniture and its modern art (I saw one of Andy Warhol’s panda screen prints by the window). Zoe fit in perfectly there: Even her upturned nose and pronounced cheekbones seemed like evidence of a genetic predisposition for wealth.

  I picked just a few things off the menu, but still I could see that I was ordering more than sixty dollars’ worth of food. “I’ve got Mom’s credit card,” Zoe said. “Order more.”

  “Should we order something for her?” I asked.

  Zoe shook her head. “She’s going out. Robert De Niro is having a party at Ago.”

  “Oh… okay.” What else could I say?

  As we waited for our sushi delivery, we heard Dolly clattering around, getting ready to go out, but she never knocked on Zoe’s door to say good-bye. It was as if they were roommates rather than mother and daughter—roommates who didn’t even like each other much.

  We ate in Zoe’s massive living room, with the lights of Park Avenue twinkling far below us. We left a pile of sushi trays and soy sauce wrappers on the coffee table. “Don’t worry about it,” Zoe said. “Gladys’ll get it in the morning.”

  “Who’s Gladys?”

  “The housekeeper,” Zoe said matter-of-factly. “Can I have some of your salmon skin roll?”

  Obviously, I didn’t get my family dinner that night. And I never did, even though I went to Zoe’s house dozens of times and sometimes even spent the night.

  I haven’t been invited over in a long time, but then again, we’re not kids anymore. I don’t need a mother figure. I just need to dance that part in Otto’s ballet.

  4

  In celebration of b
eing selected to understudy Lottie, I decide to go downtown after Saturday night’s performance. I forgo my usual post-dance body-maintenance routine and just rub arnica gel on my bunions. Then I slip into a pair of boots and a wrap dress that my mother used to wear in the seventies. The cab takes me south on Seventh Avenue to Gene’s, which is my cousin Eugene’s West Village restaurant. I skipped lunch and I’m starving.

  It’s raining, and the streetlights seem to bleed yellow-and-white streaks on the windows of the cab. I see a few people hurrying along the sidewalks, their black umbrellas hovering above them. Puddles gather at the curbs, gathering little boats of newspapers and coffee cups.

  When I first came to New York City, it was impossible for me to think that someday it might feel like home. Though I put on a brave face, during my first few weeks of school at the Manhattan Ballet Academy, I was scared to leave the Upper West Side or to go outside after dark. Still, New York was thrilling. Sure, people on the sidewalk were sort of pushy, and they rarely made eye contact, but that was because they were ambitious and driven. The city’s energy was palpable. Just to be outside, to walk down Broadway, was like drinking a shot of espresso.

  It’s probably how all the new kids at MBA feel right now. They’re fresh enough to look around themselves in amazement and awe. And I envy that.

  But I envy Zoe, too, who was born to all this. She grew up practically around the corner from the Met, and she started at the MBA when she was eight years old. She’s as ambitious and as jaded as a nineteen-year-old possibly can be, and the attitude seems to be working for her.

  I wonder if it’s the city or the ballet world that toughens you up. It seems that either could do the job.

  “Seventeen forty,” says the cab driver, jolting me back to reality.

  The receipt prints out noisily as I fumble for a twenty. “Keep it,” I tell him, and dash into the warm dimness of my cousin’s restaurant.

  Trudy, the bartender, waves in my direction and starts pouring me a glass of red wine, even though she knows I’m two years away from being legal. I look around nervously, just in case there’s someone who might ask for my ID, but there’s only a group of silver-haired old men drinking wine and arguing about baseball in the corner and a young, laughing couple in the back.