Bunheads Page 7

  “Yeah,” I say exasperatedly. “And now unless Emma miraculously recovers, which is highly unlikely, I’ll be dancing every single performance we have left.”

  And it’s always like this. For the corps de ballet, dancing The Nutcracker becomes like a tag team as dancers get injured: The uninjured girls have to double up their parts until they, too, become injured, and then those girls are replaced by others who have to double up, until everyone is doing two or three times the number of parts they were meant to do. If you’re not injured, you’re exhausted, sick, or plain burned out. Jonathan and Luke call it The Nutfucker, which I think is totally appropriate.

  A sweet-looking old woman wearing a royal-blue sequined evening gown walks over to us, the jewels at her throat flashing like Christmas lights. “Hello, my dears,” she says, smiling benevolently at Bea and me. (Zoe and Daisy are at the bartender’s table, probably because the guy looks like a young George Clooney.) “Are you making yourselves at home?”

  We nod and smile.

  “I think this year’s corps de ballet looks the best it has since 1976,” she goes on. “And that Christmas tree seemed larger than I remembered. I love the way it rises up from the stage.”

  Inwardly, I sigh: I don’t have time to go to a party with Jacob and cute NYU guys, but I do have time to talk about The Nutcracker?

  Bea, who is the politest of all of us, says, “Did you know that the tree weighs a whole ton?”

  “Really!” the woman exclaims. “That is incredible. But you know, the Snow dance was always my favorite.”

  Everyone loves Snow. Or I should say, everyone who’s never danced Snow loves Snow. The Snowflakes get showered with fifty pounds of white paper precipitation. This “snow” is swept up for reuse after each performance, so all the dust and dirt and lost earrings that are gathered up with the snow pour down on us in the next performance. The snow slips down into our costumes and gets into our hair and our mouths. It’s flame-retardant, and it tastes like permanent marker.

  “Oh, of course,” I hear Bea say obligingly. “Snow is very popular.”

  While Bea is occupied with the bejeweled woman, I snack on olives and start drinking a second glass of champagne. I’m contemplating finding a corner to sit in, when a tall, well-dressed guy appears in front of me. He leans against the wall and crosses one ankle casually over the other. “You look less than thrilled to be here,” he says, gesturing to the room at large. His voice is a deep baritone. “And you’re doing a terrible job of mingling.” His dark eyes sparkle when he smiles.

  I give him a quick up-down, the way I would if he were another dancer. With tanned skin and dark bangs that he has to push out of his eyes, he’s better looking than anyone else in the room. He’s wearing an expensive-looking charcoal-gray suit but no tie. His smile is dazzling, and I can’t help smiling back.

  “I’m Matt,” he says. “Matt Fitzgerald.”

  “I’m Hannah,” I say. I hold out my hand, but instead of shaking it, he brings it to his lips and kisses it.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he murmurs.

  Matt is probably about Jacob’s age, but that’s where the similarity ends. Jacob looks like a college student: He wears vintage T-shirts and corduroys, and he waits a few days between shaves. Matt, however, looks likes a Hollywood actor—or at the very least, like the kind of person who shops at Jeffrey and vacations in all the fabulous parts of Europe.

  “I’m a huge fan of the Manhattan Ballet,” Matt says. “I’ve been watching you since you performed in the student workshop at the academy. You’re a fantastic dancer. You look like Grace Kelly onstage.”

  “Wow,” I say, blushing. “Um, thanks—that’s really nice.” I look down at my champagne. I like compliments as much as the next girl, but it’s a little strange to meet someone who already seems to know me. Matt goes on to say that he never misses a performance unless he’s in Paris. In other words, he’s a balletomane, which is what we call a rabid fan. (The mane comes from mania.)

  “I’m in the front row every night,” he adds.

  “Wow,” I say. It’s one thing to dedicate your body to ballet every single night. But to just watch, to merely dedicate your eyeballs and your sitting butt—that’s a bit obsessive. I try to push aside these thoughts, though, because I’m pleased he seems to be interested in me; there are soloists and principals he could be talking to. “That’s really dedicated.”

  “I take my extracurricular interests very seriously,” he says, smiling.

  “Lucky for you that you have time for them,” I say, taking a sip of my drink. “I don’t even have time to do my laundry.”

  He takes my elbow and leads me to a pale blue sofa, where we both sit. “You need an assistant,” he says.

  I brighten at the thought. “An intern!” I say. “Aren’t high school and college kids always trying to gain work experience? Maybe I could get myself a straight-A student from Nightingale-Bamford. She could dust my shelves and take my laundry to the cleaner.”

  “Excellent idea,” Matt says. “She’ll be gaining real-world experience in multitasking and proactivity. She could do your grocery shopping, too.”

  “Yeah, and if she’s really good, she can be promoted to writing letters to my grandmother in Florida.”

  Matt laughs. “Allowing her to opt out of English 101. See? We’ve solved your problems.”

  I grin ruefully. “If only.”

  Matt leans back against the cushions and crosses his long legs. “Hey, I interned for a lawyer in college, and all he ever had me do was manage his golf outings.”

  “Sounds rewarding,” I say. I settle back on the sofa. This is definitely more fun than talking to old ladies about The Nutcracker.

  He shakes his head. “Nope, but I did get college credit for it.” A waiter passes by with a tray of drinks. “Are you sure you don’t want a sugarplum-tini?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “I have to work tomorrow. Also, I try not to drink things that look like melted Jolly Ranchers.”

  “I admire your conscientiousness.” Matt waves the waiter away. He gets a faraway look in his eye, and he clears his throat before he speaks. “Sometimes you dance as if you’re all alone out there, like we’re all there to see only you. It’s an amazing energy you have.” He leans in closer. “And you’re even more beautiful up close,” he says.

  Although this remark is a little forward, it also seems simply nice.

  “You were better than Lottie in Division at Dusk,” Matt goes on. “She used to be amazing, but if you ask me, she’s past her prime. You’ll get bigger parts in winter season, I’m sure of it.”

  “Hey, I’ve got an idea,” I say. “Why don’t you do the casting instead of Otto?”

  He laughs. “I would if I could,” he says. He clinks his glass against mine.

  Then Daisy and Zoe come rushing over. “Willem Dafoe is in the other room,” Daisy cries. “And Sarah Jessica Parker, who is wearing, like, this totally insane silver dress. It makes her look like an icicle.” Daisy is practically bouncing with excitement.

  “It’s a Carolina Herrera,” Zoe says knowingly. She has on a formfitting red satin cap-sleeve dress with a low cowl neck (designer, I’m sure). “My mom took me to her Fashion Week show.” Then she notices Matt, and I see a sudden gleam in her green eyes. She pouts her lips ever so slightly. “I’m Zoe,” she says, holding out her hand and tossing her shiny hair.

  But Matt doesn’t kiss Zoe’s hand—he only shakes it politely. And then he turns to me. “Well, if you’ll excuse me,” he says, meeting my eyes and touching my shoulder. “I should go make small talk with some of the members of the ballet board.”

  “Who was that?” Daisy asks, watching him glide through the crowd.

  “Matt,” I say.

  “Matt who?” Zoe asks.

  I shrug.

  Zoe watches his broad, retreating shoulders. “Did you see his Patek Philippe?” she says.

  “His what?” I ask.

  “His watch,” Zoe says.
“It’s worth, like, at least three hundred thousand dollars.” She pauses. “Did you get his number?”

  “No,” I say, elbowing her.

  “Well, you should,” she says, narrowing her eyes, “because if you don’t, I will.”

  Daisy waves her hand at us. “Hello? Can we get over the hot guy for a second? There are movie stars to talk to. Willem Dafoe is totally short, and Sarah Jessica Parker has, like, the most incredible highlights in her hair.” She touches her black waves. “Do you think blond highlights would look too weird on me?”

  “Yes,” Zoe says definitively.

  A few feet away, the woman in the sparkling blue dress continues to monopolize poor Bea. I hear about her love of opera and ballet, as well as her recent health problems.

  “Ever since Mr. Fitzgerald made a fortune in finance, he’s been such a loyal patron of the company,” she says. “He and his boys come nearly every night! He is such a generous man, and isn’t his apartment beautiful?”

  I nearly choke on my caviar blini. This is the apartment Matt grew up in? I assumed he was rich, but not this rich.

  If I thought the way Zoe thinks, I’d fling myself at him. But I don’t really know what to think of Matt. All I know is that I’m tired and my brain is beginning to feel fuzzy from the champagne. I wonder if I should just go home.

  Then Bea wraps her pale, freckled arm around my neck. “Deck the halls with boughs of holly,” she sings into my ear. Giggling, I push her away.

  “Let’s go find the guy with the lobster rolls,” she says.

  “Have you ever noticed that lobsters look like giant red bugs?” I ask.

  “Does that mean you won’t eat one?” she demands.

  “Of course not. But what about that fruit diet Daisy was trying to talk you into?” I ask.

  “Screw it,” she says. “It’s the holiday season!”

  Later, as I’m leaving, Matt tries to persuade me to go with him to the Boom Boom Room, a bar at the top of the Standard Hotel.

  “It’s after midnight,” I point out. “Remember how you admired my conscientiousness?” My coat is on, my scarf is wrapped around my neck, and I’m ready to be home.

  “Yes, but there’s a party for Chloë Sevigny there,” he says. “You should meet her—she’s totally cool.”

  But I am exhausted, and tomorrow is another long day. Also, Matt—despite his charms—is not Jacob, who five minutes ago texted me a Still thinking about you message.

  “Thanks so much, but I have to work tomorrow. Plus, I don’t know if I’m really Boom Boom Room material,” I reply.

  Matt smiles good-naturedly, but I see a look of slight surprise in his eyes. He’s probably the kind of guy few people turn down.

  “Give me your number,” he says, touching my arm.

  “Fine, hand me your phone,” I say, surprising myself. I don’t normally give out my number to guys (not that many are asking). But there’s something about Matt that I can’t ignore. He’s exotic to me: He’s debonair and confident, and his wealth seems to cling to him like an invisible but perfectly tailored suit.

  And I can’t pretend that his appreciation of me and my dancing isn’t gratifying. He gets it—all of it. He knows the art and all the hard work and dedication it takes.

  Matt puts me in a cab and hands the driver twenty dollars. “Take good care of her”—he cranes his head into the backseat to read the cabbie’s name on his badge—“and I mean really good care of her, Qusay Adnan.”

  “Whatever,” I hear Qusay mumble, but he nods dutifully.

  Then Matt opens my door and gives me a quick, light kiss on the mouth. It lasts less than a second, and yet I seem to feel it in my whole body. It’s like a tiny electric shock—not entirely pleasant, but not unpleasant, either. I’m taken aback, and I guess this shows on my face.

  Matt smiles. “Sorry,” he says. “Couldn’t resist.”

  Then he closes the door, and Qusay Adnan puts the car into drive. Closing my eyes as we head west to my apartment, I feel tipsy and happy and more than a little confused.

  The next morning the lobby of my building is full of red balloons. There are dozens of them, gathered in clusters like rosebuds on steroids. Taped to my mailbox is a note in a neat hand: I think you’re great. –M.

  I smile and bite my lip. This is sweet; this is totally embarrassing; this is like nothing anyone’s ever done for me.

  11

  Daisy turns to me. “Balloons!” she exclaims. “Two dozen red balloons?”

  I blush. Daisy has some inexplicable superpower when it comes to unearthing gossip. I think it’s because she can literally read lips—or else she’s just so little and unobtrusive that people don’t notice her eavesdropping. She was the one who first spread the news that Lily was pregnant. She was also the one who claimed to have seen Otto driving off with Julie in his Mercedes, his arm around her shoulder and her head buried in his neck, their destination unknown but obviously illicit. Or so she says. So of course Daisy has heard about the balloons, even though I told only Bea.

  “Just so you know,” she says to me as she stitches a ribbon to her pointe shoe, “I did some recon work, and Matt sent balloons to Serena last summer and to Joanna last year.”

  She’s probably right, and I should not take his extravagant gesture too seriously. But I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of admitting to that, perhaps because, thanks to Caleb, she’s more experienced than I am—even though she’s only sixteen. “Really,” I say blithely. “Thanks for the info.”

  Bea wanders in from the hall, sipping from a giant bottle of water. “And anyway,” she says, joining the conversation as if she’d been in the dressing room all along, “what about Jacob? I love him.”

  “I don’t know,” I answer. “He lives on the Lower East Side. He wants me to come to his shows, but they’re always in, like, Brooklyn. He’s so cute—some other girl is just going to snap him up while I’m stuck here dancing Snow again.”

  Daisy leans close to the mirror and inspects her teeth. “Zoe says Matt’s your man. He’s friends with Chloë Sevigny.” She points to the wall of the dressing room where she’s taped up Us Weekly pictures of badly dressed celebrities. There’s an unflattering snapshot of the actress in a lacy teal cocktail dress that looks like a costume from Alice in Wonderland.

  “Interesting criterion for a boyfriend,” Bea mutters.

  “Well, ladies, thanks for your input in the romance department. But let’s get ready for the show, okay, and drop the subject?”

  The other girls smirk at each other, but I ignore them.

  It’s time to put on my stage makeup, which I’ve always loved. I can go from a blond girl-next-door type to a dramatic, dark-lashed vixen so quickly my own mother would hardly recognize me.

  “All right, whatever you say,” Daisy says, shooting one last longing glance at Chloë. “Still. You could at least get me her autograph.”

  I ignore her as I apply pancake foundation with a moist sponge, then wait for it to seep into my pores. I use a big powder puff to press in a thick layer of pale powder so that my face is completely matte white.

  “But you know what Zoe says about dating,” Daisy goes on. “You’re a dancer, and you’ve got social currency. Why waste it on a college guy? Pedestrians go to college.”

  In the world of ballet, pedestrian is the word for a normal person. It’s somewhat derogatory, especially when Zoe says it. I face Daisy, my blush brush in my hand. “One, I thought we were going to drop the subject, and two, why are you parroting Zoe?”

  Bea snickers. “Yeah, she’s not exactly a role model.”

  “Well, she has a terrific work ethic,” Daisy says. “She’s learning Lasting Imprint—which Julie, like, always dances—just because she wants to.”

  “You don’t say,” I respond, trying to sound as if I don’t care. I don’t want to think about Zoe right now. I hold my blush brush firmly and create contour with the pink powder, accentuating my bone structure. Next I apply brown and shimm
ery purple shadow in the outer creases of my eyes and along my lower lash line.

  Beside me, Bea reaches for her own brushes and powders. “Why don’t you go ask her for her autograph?”

  I snicker as I swipe dark liquid eyeliner along my top lashes, followed by dark pencil on the lower outer edges of my lashes. I reach for my mascara and apply a thick layer on the upper and lower lashes.

  “Very funny,” Daisy says, and Bea giggles.

  I secure my false eyelashes with glue. This last part can be tricky—the first time I did it, back when I was a brand-new apprentice, I almost glued my eyes shut—but now it’s practically second nature. Finally, I apply a berry-red lipstick, blot, and then last, but certainly not least, I dab on lip gloss. I can’t go onstage without shine on my lips.

  Done. I look in the mirror and sit up a little straighter; a ballerina stares back at me.

  After Bea, too, has put on her stage makeup, we go down to put on our Snow costumes, then hurry to watch from the wings. The Christmas party is over, the grown-ups are fast asleep, and Marie has shrunk down to the size of a mouse. She must defend her beloved Nutcracker against the evil Mouse King, and so she hits him with her shoe, distracting him long enough for the Nutcracker to kill him.

  “Just another day in the life of a Victorian girl,” Bea whispers.

  Then Marie’s house splits open and snow falls in through the ceiling. The snow is steady and thick, and it falls all around Marie, who’s in her nightgown and wearing only one shoe. Hand in hand with her Nutcracker Prince, she wanders through the woods in silence as the snow lands in their hair and on their warm faces. The blue lights make it feel like night; the snow seems to cool the air. If you can forget what that snow tastes like, it’s absolute magic to see.

  I’m on in moments. I stand in the darkness of the front wing, waiting for my first entrance. I smooth the bunched-up tulle of my skirt, adjust my jewel-encrusted crown, and slide my fingers into the wiry webbing of the fanlike contraptions I carry in both hands. On the ends of the wire are small white pompoms that seem to float through the air, following the movements of my arms.