Bunheads Read online

  “Okay, you’re going on,” she says to me. “I’ll stand in the wing and count the last section for you.”

  I look worriedly at Annabelle. She pats me on the shoulder and gives me a thin-lipped smile. “It’s going to be fun.”

  I know that this is the most encouragement I will ever get.

  Lottie moans as her costume is ripped off, and I’m stripped naked in the wing. My wool coat, hoodie sweatshirt, gold necklace, and jeans: They’re all just dumped in a pile. Goose bumps rise on my arms and legs as the other dancers and the stagehands look on. A pair of frantic hands stuffs me into Lottie’s costume—I’m taller and a little wider than she is, and the boning in the bodice digs into my skin—while another pair of hands knots my hair into a high bun. Bea appears with my pointe shoes. I can hear Lottie crying in the background and Christine telling her to be quiet. Then, onstage, Sam puts out his hand. I take a deep breath and leap from the dark wing into the light.

  At first I’m startled by the spotlight. It blinds me; I can feel its concentrated heat. It seems as if time has stalled. I am standing in front of thousands of people without the slightest idea of what step comes next. I try to recall the steps from marking them in the back of the studio, but I’m disoriented from the lights. All I can think to do is count aloud to stay with the music and hope Sam talks me through it.

  I prepare for the turning sequence, but my weight is too far back on my heels. I wobble a little trying to get back on my leg. I steal a glance at Annabelle, who’s standing perfectly still in the second wing, looking glum as usual.

  “The press lift is next,” Sam says quietly.

  I’m so relieved to hear his voice. I realize that I’m holding my breath, and force myself to exhale.

  I’m buzzing with adrenaline. I run toward Sam and jump into his arms, and he lifts me high. My body arches over his. I see the rows of lights spinning overhead, and I feel like I’m flying. Suddenly I forget that I’m not wearing stage makeup and that I wasn’t even warmed up. I lose myself in the music, even though my heart is pounding so loudly I swear the audience can hear it. The rush is incredible. This is why I love my job!

  I concentrate on breathing and on keeping every limb extended to its greatest possible length. Almost imperceptibly, Sam smiles at me. I do a supported fouetté in the air and then dip down into the penchée promenade.

  When the ballet is over, I walk to the edge of the stage and take my bow as Sam takes my hand and waist. I can see the faint outline of the eagle tattoo that he covers with makeup before each performance. I can’t stop grinning. The audience claps loudly, and I can see smiles in the front row.

  “Wow, Hannah, I always thought you had it in you,” Sam whispers in my ear as we walk to the wings.

  Backstage, Bea comes over and hugs me. “You were brilliant,” she says.

  I’m so winded I can barely thank her. I can’t believe I just did that! I think as I bend over to catch my breath.

  Daisy, too, comes bouncing toward me. “Wow, that was so intense! I’d die if I got thrown on. I mean, I’d love it, but I’d just be so nervous! All those people out there and what if I forgot the steps…”

  She chatters happily, and I stop listening. This is exactly how Mai Morimoto, the stunning Japanese soloist who is one of Otto’s favorite dancers, got noticed: She was thrown on as the Swan Queen when she was only seventeen, and she was promoted to soloist six months later.

  And to think it could have been Zoe out there instead of me.

  “Those manèges are a bitch, huh?” Bea says gently, handing me a tissue.

  I’m soaked in sweat. I nod. “Was I really okay?” I ask. “Bea, I hardly knew what I was doing,” I whisper. “I mean, tonight was supposed to be a night of lo mein and reality TV.”

  “Seriously,” she says, “you were great.”

  I look around to see whether Otto is anywhere to be found. I want him to have seen the way I got thrown on and didn’t screw up. I linger backstage for a while, waiting for him to appear. When he doesn’t, I return to the dressing room, where Zoe is sulking in her chair. She narrows her eyes at me but keeps her mouth shut.

  She doesn’t ask me how the performance went, and I don’t tell her. I just take off my pointe shoes and stick my legs up against the wall to drain them while I catch my breath. I’m beat, but I feel amazing. I would never say it aloud, but I’m pretty sure I must be on the path to promotion.

  7

  “So, Ballerina Bea, I have one final question: Do they weigh you?” Jacob asks, holding a wine bottle up to Bea’s face as if it were a microphone.

  It’s a Monday night—our night off—and the two of them are sitting on my couch together like BFFs. Thanks to the bottles of wine Jacob brought, they’ve gotten tipsy enough to do a mock Larry King interview.

  “Yes,” Bea says, nodding vigorously. “Every morning at seven AM sharp, we report to the weigh-in room, where Otto has us step on the scales. If we’ve gained two ounces, food is withheld. If we’ve gained four, we have to run up and down the stairs for ten minutes. If we’ve gained six, we’re forced to vomit, and we’re forbidden to eat for the entire day.”

  “And what if you gain more than six?” Jacob presses. “Do they start chopping off limbs?”

  Bea affects a very solemn look. “Honestly, Larry, I don’t think you want to know.” Then she giggles. She turns to me and mouths, He’s so funny.

  “I know!” I whisper as I open another bottle of Chianti. I invited Bea and Jacob over together because I wanted to see Jacob again, but I was too nervous to do it alone. I’ve never had a boyfriend—I’ve never had time for one. Bea hasn’t had a boyfriend, either, though this is something we try not to tell everyone. But it’s not like we’re freaks of nature or anything. We’re just a little underdeveloped socially, like nearly every other dancer in the company.

  My plan was that we’d have a drink or two in my apartment and then we’d go out to eat. But Bea and Jacob swear that I promised to cook them dinner. The fact that I don’t remember saying such a thing means nothing to them at all.

  So here I am, in my kitchen, with an apron tied around my 7 For All Mankind jeans (I didn’t even know I owned an apron). Believe me when I say I’m thrilled that Jacob and Bea are getting along so well. But I am not thrilled about the dinner business, because I can’t cook.

  I mean, I can make ice. And I am totally capable of making myself a bowl of cereal, a piece of toast, or a smoothie. Beyond that, though, my skills are nonexistent.

  But somehow the two of them have shamed me into trying to feed them. “Grilled cheese and tomato soup,” Bea said. “How hard is that?”

  That’s what she came up with after looking through my cupboards. Then Jacob came into the kitchen, and for a moment he stood behind me as I gazed dumbly at my empty refrigerator. I could feel the warmth of his body, even though he wasn’t touching me. I didn’t turn around—I was just frozen there, waiting to see what would happen. And then he put his hands on my shoulders. “How come you have about eight jars of mustard in your fridge?” he whispered into my hair.

  “I don’t know,” I said softly. I felt almost dizzy.

  Then he gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and disappeared into the living room.

  So now I’m reaching for the new pan that my mother bought me for my birthday, perhaps in the hope that I would eventually learn how to do something with it. So far I’ve only used it as a holder for unopened junk mail.

  “You okay in there?” Bea yells, though the distance from couch to kitchen is only about ten feet.

  “Yes,” I say, throwing the mail onto the counter. “Everything’s just great.”

  I try to remember how my mom made grilled cheese. She buttered the bread, right? And then put it in the pan with more butter? How many slices of cheese did she use? Two? Three?

  I decide on two. The thought of eating that much cheese and butter makes me feel a little queasy, but I remind myself that I was too busy to eat lunch and that it’s nine o’c
lock, there’s nothing else in the house, and all of us are starving.

  I put a little pat of butter in the pan and watch as it melts.

  “Smells good already,” Jacob calls encouragingly.

  When the butter is entirely melted, I fit the sandwiches into the pan and then stare at them. They look like they can stand to be alone for a little while, so I walk into the living room, where Jacob is now perusing my iTunes collection on my laptop. I feel a jolt of nervousness. God, please don’t let him see my Clay Aiken playlist, I think.

  “Clay Aiken, huh?” he asks, smiling.

  “It was a gift,” I blurt out. My cheeks are burning hot.

  He nods. “Sure, whatever you say.”

  “I loved Clay Aiken so much when I was eleven,” Bea says. She grabs the wine bottle and holds it as a mike. “What are you doing tonight / I wish I could be a fly on your wall,” she sings at the top of her lungs.

  I stare at her in shock. I’ve heard her sing in the shower, but never like this. I start clapping. “Awesome!”

  “Wow—you dance, you sing,” Jacob says. “You’re doing a number on my self-esteem, Bea.”

  “I’d make you mine tonight/If hearts were unbreakable,” she sings.

  “Please don’t come to Gene’s,” Jacob begs. “They’ll fire me and hire you.”

  Bea blushes. Then she turns to me. “Hey, Hannah, do you think you should check on the sandwiches?”

  I dash into the kitchen, convinced that they’re burning. But they’re not. The side that was down is now perfectly golden brown. I flip the sandwiches over, feeling very proud of myself, and turn up the heat under the soup.

  Jacob puts Bob Dylan on the stereo, and Bea sings along to “Tangled Up in Blue” as Jacob accompanies her on air guitar. Looking at them, I realize that I hardly ever have people over to my apartment. I’ve been here two years, and I’ve never had a housewarming party; I never even invited Daisy, Zoe, and Bea over for takeout.

  I remember the excitement of moving out of the MBA dorm and the thrill of finding my own apartment. It’s a four-story walk-up the size of a closet, but I love that I have a space that’s just mine. I ordered a sofa from Crate and Barrel and a table from IKEA; my parents brought my bookshelves from Weston. I even bought plants.

  But I stopped there. I haven’t had time to paint the bathroom, which was a violent shade of turquoise, and I haven’t puttied the holes in the walls from the previous occupants’ thumbtacks and nails. The plants have slowly withered and died from neglect.

  I did, however, buy soft rugs and pillows, and I hung curtains from Urban Outfitters. It’s cozy, and anyway, it’s my own private space, a refuge from the world of the theater.

  “How are those sandwiches coming?” Jacob calls.

  “Shit!” I say. Once again I’ve forgotten all about them.

  But they haven’t burned—they are perfect, golden, and ready to eat. Cheese oozes out the sides, and my mouth waters.

  Jacob joins me in the kitchen, and while I arrange the sandwiches on three mismatched plates, he ladles soup into three mismatched bowls. I stand close to him, and our arms sometimes touch.

  “Dinner is served,” I say, proudly carrying the plates into the living room.

  We sit around my table, and I light the two candles in the centerpiece.

  “How elegant,” Bea says. “Ms. Ward, you set a lovely table.”

  “Looks great,” Jacob agrees. His eyes meet mine across the table, and I blush.

  “To Hannah!” Bea says. “Chef, hostess, and brilliant dancer, who got thrown on in a principal role and killed it.”

  “To the chef!” Jacob cries. Then he takes a big bite of his sandwich. As he chews, I watch the expression on his handsome face turn from contentment to confusion to distaste.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask. “I didn’t burn them!”

  Jacob is still chewing, and Bea takes a bite. Her freckled nose wrinkles, telling me that something is definitely not right with the sandwiches. Hesitantly, I try one. What should taste like bread and butter and gooey melted cheese tastes like… well, it tastes like a mouthful of soap.

  “Oh my God, it’s terrible,” I say, spitting out the bite into my napkin.

  “It’s not that bad,” Jacob says charitably.

  Bea looks as though she’s about to gag, and then she starts to giggle.

  “I don’t get it! What happened?” I ask, half-panicked, half-laughing.

  “I bet it was the pan,” Jacob says.

  “But it was brand-new!” I wail.

  “Maybe there was some kind of coating on it from the factory,” Bea says helpfully. “Something that didn’t get completely washed off.”

  I put my head in my hands. I hadn’t even remembered to wash the pan—not that I would admit that to them. “I can’t believe it,” I say. “Am I completely incompetent? I can’t even make a damn sandwich!” And I collapse into laughter. It’s so pitiful that it’s hilarious. “I’m only fit for the ballet,” I gasp.

  Bea’s bright blue eyes flash with glee. “You and me both, babe,” she says.

  “I thought I was so Martha Stewart—I had on an apron and everything!” I cry, flinging my napkin over my head.

  Jacob picks it up and hands it back to me. “Martha Schmartha. You’re perfect the way you are, Han,” he says. He touches my cheek with the back of his fingers.

  And suddenly I wish Bea would leave. Even though she’s my best friend in the whole world, I want to be alone with Jacob.

  “Let’s get takeout,” Bea says brightly as she chews on the end of her braid.

  “Pizza it is,” Jacob declares as he whips out his cell phone.

  I lean back in my chair and sigh. “Do you think we’ll ever be normal?” I ask Bea.

  “Nope,” she says, taking the braid out of her mouth and reaching for the wine. “Definitely not. Here, have some more red.”

  8

  By the end of the week, I don’t even have enough pointe shoes to get me through the weekend, so before I head to the stage for my performance, I go down to the shoe room. Daisy trails behind me, chattering about her part in Haiku. We’re both in full stage makeup and hair; I’m in the first ballet, and Daisy is in the second.

  “… and Adriana always makes this face when she does piqué turns,” she says, but I’m hardly listening. At this point Daisy is kind of like white noise.

  “Greetings, beautiful girls,” Marco says, looking up from his newspaper as we approach. “Welcome to my humble domain.”

  Marco is in charge of the shoe room, a small, windowless chamber lined with cubbies that are stuffed, floor to ceiling, with pointe shoes. Each cubby is labeled with a dancer’s name and kept stocked with shoes that have been custom-made for her feet.

  We go through about eight pairs of pointe shoes a week, so it’s a good thing they’re free to company dancers. Pointe shoes, Band-Aids, and Advil: If we had to pay for these three things, we’d barely be able to afford our rent.

  I reach into my cubby and pull out twelve satiny pairs. Even though they’re handmade and customized for each dancer, we can’t just slide them on and wear them. We have to break them in. I first stick the front of each shoe between the hinges of a door and then slam the door to smash the box—that’s the toe part of the shoe. Then I step on the sole until I hear the pop of the shank (the stiff midsole) as it separates. Next, I peel back the fabric covering the shank and cut it down about half an inch, and then I put water on the outside edges of the box to soften it.

  At this point I can wear the shoes, but I still have to break in the demi-pointe. When I hear the glue crunching, I know I’m getting close. And as the water dries on the satin, the shoes mold to my feet. The goal is to feel as if the shoe is just an extension of your foot.

  “I’ve got a dozen pairs,” I tell Marco, “and Daisy has…”

  “Twenty,” she says. To me she whispers, “I feel so greedy!”

  Marco writes this information down in his ledger and smiles. “Good
luck tonight,” he says.

  We thank him, and then I hurry upstairs to the Green Room to put on Lottie’s costume. Helga, who is the meanest of the Green Room dressers, is practically seething as she grips Lottie’s tutu in her hand.

  “You should have come in earlier,” she says in her thick Long Island accent. “You’re on in two minutes.”

  This isn’t even close to true. Helga always exaggerates—she seems to want to instill panic in us, as if we weren’t already high-strung enough.

  “Jesus, Hannah. I can barely close this!” she mutters as she struggles to fasten the hooks on the bodice. “Ech! How many more performances left? I think we’ll have to take this out.”

  Lottie has a second-degree ankle sprain, so the part is mine for the last few performances of the season. “I asked Maria to take it out last week,” I say, looking worriedly at myself in the mirror. My breasts are squashed inside the bodice.

  Laura—another dresser and a friend of mine—puts a hand on my shoulder. “You look beautiful, Hannah,” she says, smiling at me. “I can sew some elastic into it. I think that would make it more comfortable for you.”

  I smile back gratefully and then leave the room with Lottie’s costume hugging my every curve. I know that a female dancer should have the body of an adolescent male: long, lean limbs; narrow hips; a flat chest. And I know that the way we look is considered a reflection of our work ethic and our devotion to our craft. But there’s nothing I can do about it tonight.

  I hurry backstage, where burly stagehands are carrying ladders, adjusting lighting equipment, and checking the rigging on the scrims while Christine goes over the spot sequence on her headset. There are dancers here and there—slouching on tall stools, leaning on steel ballet barres, or rolling out their muscles on Styrofoam cylinders or tennis balls on the floor. Like mine, their faces are caked with thick makeup, and their hair is pulled back tight and shellacked with hair spray.

  I warm up at the barre until my muscles burn and sweat beads on my forehead. I pause to sew my ribbons and then step into the rosin box. I breathe deeply and concentrate on the choreography to come. I love dancing Lottie’s part. I love having the chance to show Otto what I’m capable of, and not just as a part of a swirling mass of corps dancers.