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IGOR WAITED FOR ME in the locker room when I entered, everyone else having cleared out. “He almost caught us,” he whispered to me as I started changing.
I shook my head. “It was too risky this morning!” I said harshly. “Do you think we’ve got them all?”
Igor flipped open his locker, revealing the black trash bag of shredded pictures. Snatching them from the mail boxes had been easy, but it had taken time to dispose of them. We had been so late to practice we hadn’t even had time to dispose of the bag. “Except for Sasha and Svetlana.” He sounded defeated.
I swore loudly, slamming my locker shut. It bounced back open and I caught it, squeezing the handle hard. “What are we going to do?”
“I hate to say it, but you might ask the new girl for more of her money. It talked well with Misha.”
“No, I’m not involving her again,” I said quickly. “We will just have to approach Svetlana first. She’s got eyes for Sasha, if we get the picture from her, maybe she can convince Sasha to give it over.”
“Better yet, we could have Mira ...”
“No, no more investigative journalism,” I told him, shaking my head, “this is my problem, I’ll deal with it. Thank you for your help, Igor, but I’d rather not jeopardize your time here anymore than I already have.”
He nodded at me and hoisted the bag over his shoulder. “I’ll take over this.”
“Thank you, friend.”
“Petrov!” Pytor called in the locker door at the end of the hall. “Fourteen hundred in studio V, for private tutoring. Be prompt!” the door clanged shut before I could answer. I stared at the metal door perplexed.
Igor turned and eyed me. “Private tutoring? With who?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Probably our new ‘assistant.’” He chuckled, eyeballing me smugly.
I glared at him, daring him to keep teasing me.
“You saw her when we walked in. She’s good. Better than the others. It’s her that deserves the role as fairy.”
I shook my head. “She’s injured, and not strong enough to perform.”
“How did you know that?”
“She told me, in her letters,” I said, pulling my shoes on and tying them swiftly.
Igor sighed. “You were growing close, Mira and I had hoped ... well, never mind. See you in cafeteria, Vasily,” he muttered, and headed to the main door with the bag still over his shoulder.
***
OF COURSE, MY PRIVATE tutor was Jaquellyn. I held my head down when I saw her in the room, her black leotard traded for a gray sweater over crimson leggings. A pair of pink pointe shoes, worn with love—but used as gently as was possible in dance—sat in a corner, abandoned for now. I puzzled over them, an extension for any ballerina as much as her arms and legs, but yet so sadly unused for the time being. Her face was twisted in pain, her eyes squinted, as she watched me enter. I remembered a line from her letter last month: I know I won’t be able to go on pointe again, she had written, when I can barely stand for long.
“We don’t need to do this,” I told her, setting my bag next to her folded shoes. “I was fine being an angel, or Arabian, or whatever Pytor had chosen.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand, Vasily, where this comes from,” she said, “yesterday you were so confident, and now ... this ... you’re worth so much more.”
“You don’t even know me,” I told her as I stretched out. She continued to stand in the middle of the room.
“Where do we start?” I turned to her.
“Adagio,” she said, and I began the slow, fluid movements. “Now grand pas,” she added.
“Aren’t you supposed to check my form for the allonge?”
She shook her head. “No, that is good.”
I practiced a careful balance, swinging into an attitude as I danced towards her.
“Your second position is excellent,” she said, lightly chasseing backwards and away from me.
“And yours?” I stopped short.
Her arms curled in front of her, she moved into a slight dedans, twirling on one leg.
“You are good,” I nodded.
She circled around me. “The part of the prince requires the attitude of full composure,” she said softly. “Show me again.”
I obliged with my right hand up, executing the move.
“Left leg more pointed,” she chided me. I tried again.
“No, like this,” she spun from fourth into an attitude.
I tried again.
“Better. Now this.”
I watched her float around the room in the form of the Sugar Plum Fairy. She was everything Svetlana wished she possessed: grace, fluidity, agile practice. Pytor was right. She was light years ahead of the other ballerinas. Breaking the spell, she stumbled, and I raced to catch her around the waist.
“You know the pas de deux,” I said softly.
A panicked look crossed her face and she shoved my arms away, backing up fast. “Don’t touch me.”
The fire in her eyes was clear, but I wasn’t about to give up. “How can we practice the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy if I cannot touch you?”
“I don’t like being touched.” She danced away from me, snatched her shoes and pushed through the door before I could stop her.
A week went by, with Pytor insisting on more private lessons now twice a day, morning and night. Since the first day, however, Jaqui refused to dance with me, instead just watching and correcting me patiently. Every day, her pointe shoes sat in the corner, judging me silently, calling out how they missed being in action.
“Leap into it, like this,” Jaqui said during one of our early morning practices, hours before anyone would be awake, pointing her arms out and performing the move. I copied her exactly.
“Good!” she called.
I spun, stopping in front of her. “None of this is good without the pas de deux.” I winced. We hadn’t discussed it since earlier in the week.
“The pas de deux,” she repeated, sarcastically. “Why do you insist on that dance every day?”
“The dance is no good without being on pointe, anyway.” I shrugged. I had decided the ‘I don’t really care one way or another’ attitude might work better to avoid her ire.
“I told you—”
“Then why bring your shoes?” I interrupted, pretending I didn’t care what she thought, watching her face carefully. I wanted to touch a nerve, to get her to believe in herself the way she wanted me to believe in myself. “I mean, if you’re scared, that’s fine ...” I trailed off.
She glared me, then strode across the room. “You want pointe? Fine. I’ll wear them. But you’ll have to explain to Pytor when I fall ...”
“You won’t. I’ve got you.” I watched as she expertly tied the shoes around her ankle, and hoisted herself up on the barre.
“Are you ready?” She awkwardly balanced in a relevé.
“I thought you said ...”
“Doesn’t matter. Let us do this.” Her voice was strained.
I held her as she spun, her arms out expertly, as I felt her shift on the injured ankle. She nearly fell, but my grasp on her waist was firm. “Again,” I whispered in her ear.
“I can’t...” She pulled away from me and ripped the ribbon from her feet, stomping out of the room. I followed her, right through the women’s locker room, where she didn’t bother to stop and change. I pressed my back to the locker, hoping she would see me.
The door to the hall opened before she reached it, and Misha reached for her. Without looking back, she pushed past him, letting the door slam behind her.