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It was obvious Len thought he was joking when Joel told him there would be a new face at morning class. And when Joel stated she had already auditioned and was on the payroll, the understanding being he had not sought Len’s opinion at all, he had to listen to the fallout.
And as much as he wanted to throw his weight back at his cousin’s face, he had to understand that Len felt undercut. For the first time, a member of the company had not been carefully curated by the both of them.
“Who is this woman?” he demanded.
“She was a student of mine.”
“What?!”
“Keep your pants on. She didn’t exactly waltz in here and wink at me. She auditioned.”
“But not for me. You said nothing to me.”
“I’m telling you now. And what was I supposed to do? She sneaks past Melinda and comes into my office saying she doesn’t know where her next rent check is coming from.”
“So, she cried instead of winked.”
“She’s a fucking talented dancer. She won’t be anything but an asset to the company.”
Len shoved a finger at Joel’s face. “She lets that ass get out of line an inch and I rip her a new one.”
“I’m not holding her hand. She’s a grown-ass woman.”
“Seems like we’re talking about her ass a lot.”
Joel swatted the wagging, postulating finger down. “Don’t get crude just cause you’re mad.”
Len made another gesture with a different finger. Pretending not to see, Joel walked ahead of him into the rehearsal space.
She’d be there. The young face hiding tight lines of worry in his office, the look in her eyes when she danced—she wouldn’t pull a stunt the first day. However, he clenched his teeth until he walked in, and a shock of copper hair struck his peripheral vision.
She’d chosen to stand at the end of the barre, an amicable choice, and contrary to the persona he’d known before.
Good.
From all directions, he felt darting glances and downright glares from his dancers, all while being hotly ignored by Len, who was about to run the most miserably astringent class since the month he had a hairline fracture in his left big toe.
From the corner, Joel pulled a chair, knowing full well he had no intention of staying. However, he was proud of her for keeping her body language attentive and respectful. She had come a long way from the adolescent slouched between combinations, constantly admiring herself in the mirror.
If she still enjoyed the way she looked, and with fair reason, she kept it to herself. It seemed like she had always been a member of the company, ready to breathe new life into the audiences of Chicago.
Hiring her had been the right decision. Len could shove all five of his fingers up his own ass. Annalisa was a good fit and Angels was going to be a success.
***
FUNDS FROM THE END of the Spring season had been respectable. Much of the money went back into marketing and improving the rehearsal space. Now, at the start of the fall-winter season, Joel could have skated by on what was left, until ticket sales for Angels started. However, since there were no other small works planned, if anything went wrong between now and ticket pre-orders, he was screwed.
They’d have to fundraise, and the deep pockets were waiting for him in his office.
It irked him. It felt like he was selling out. Taking a hand-out. Big Brother with the pimp hand.
Downstairs Melinda had given them the run-around, as only she could, turning on a mixture between Mommy and Well-Intentioned Looney Bin. The brand reps and suits were primed for an enthused ballet director to stroll in on the strains of Tchaikovsky’s Waltz of the Flowers, deeply grateful for their assistance.
With a practiced smile, he entered his own office and put on a show his dancers would never see.
There were two men and three women, representing two dance attire brands, a popular local performance arts podcast, and two restaurants with reputation enough to open out of state locations. Two of the women and one of the men stood. Their hands were the first to shake, but he made eye contact with the two who stayed seated first. Less eager, more money. The brand rep from Moves Athletic Attire and the owner of Lapis Lazuli Cuisine.
“Thank you,” he began, “for taking time out of your day to visit Ballet La Faire. I spent a lot of time researching who I wanted to reach out to. I wanted to make sure it was the right fit for my company.”
This was only partially true. He did want to make sure it was the right fit, but it had been Melinda who took the criteria and spent the better part of two days combing through brands.
One of the women, taking her seat again, replied. “We were thrilled you reached out, Mr. Dvorak.”
“Joel.” He smiled.
She had the nerve to look flattered.
“Joel. Our brand is comparatively new, but we hit the ground running on social media platforms with almost five hundred thousand followers.”
“We’re playing the same game,” he replied, making sure to keep the easy-going smile on his face matched to the easy-going tone of voice. “And being new doesn’t scare us. The Chicago dance scene has a lot of heavy-hitters, and we want to shake up the stage.”
Asinine. He was an ass to the nines. He’d rather dance every role in La Bayadere by himself, collapse on the stage at the end of the longest ballet ever, and then get a certain part of his anatomy caught in his pants zipper.
The man that had not stood, dressed in a suit like he’d peeled himself off a Norman Rockwell poster, cleared his throat. “We aren’t new on the scene, Mr. Dvorak.”
“Neither are we,” stated the other woman who had not risen.
“There’s something to be said for establishment.”
“Agreed,” Joel answered, wondering how far up their butt cheeks he’d need to wedge his nose.
“Definitely room for both,” the other man stated, with a wink.
Inwardly, Joel moaned.
The meeting continued. There were real concerns and questions dotted frequently by bad jokes, trite statements, and a great deal of white lies. However, the woman from Moves Athletic Attire and the owner of Lapis Lazuli had neither pithy things to say nor were able to manage anything more than a tightlipped smirk.
“We’re very selective about who wears our line,” she said.
“And I have not spent thirty years ensuring only the finest chefs and produce cross the threshold of my restaurant to pretend just anyone is welcome.”
Kiss my ass.
“And that’s exactly why I’d like La Faire to be associated.”
Deanne crossed one leg. “I’d like to see your dancers and find if any match our brand.”
“And I,” Gervais Boone said, “would like to see whomever Dee picks come with you for an evening at Lazuli with photographers of my choosing.”
There was no beat to be missed. He couldn’t, for one spark of a second, look like what both had just said was absolutely taking it too far. Grin and bear it. Get rocked and stand up straight, like a man.
It was also part of being the owner of a business with people relying on their boss. A big part of nights he woke up sweating and weeks he’d taken half a paycheck.
“Just so happens,” he said, waving his hand towards the door, “they’re in warm-up class now. I’d be happy to take you down.”
Without thanks, both Deanne and Gervais nodded and stood. The other three representatives offered reasons for needing to be on their way, but made sure Joel knew their contracts would be hitting his inbox shortly.
Joel’s inner dialogue yelled at itself. This was ridiculous! Who in the blue blazes did these two pricks think they were, needing to see which dancers fit their image? Some image! The high-end restaurant owner probably kept someone on staff to tie his shoes because if he tried, he’d sweat his expensive cologne off. Ms. Tight Wad had managed to hit fifty with minimal lines on her face because the woman hadn’t smiled since 1996.
But who was really the douchebag now? The question didn’t need an answer and he wouldn’t look in the mirror tonight.
He clenched his teeth. He was a hypocrite. Worse, because he knew it and was going through with it, in the name of eventual good.
At the entrance of the rehearsal space, Joel stated, again, that his employees were in class, as per their contract. This, he hoped, was the polite way of saying “be quiet.”
At they entered, Len glanced over. It wasn’t uncommon for class to be respectfully disrupted. Shoe fittings. Costume fittings and color analysis. Appointments with physical therapy that couldn’t be done at any other time.
Behind him, Joel heard Deanne mumble to Gerry.
“That tall, black girl would do.”
Her name is Kristy,” Joel strangled in a whisper.
Gerry shook his head. “She’s taller than me. It won’t look good in photos. How about the Asian girl in the blue leotard? You can still get your diversity, Deedee.”
“She’s Filipino,” Joel stated, through tight lips.
Deanne shook her head. “Her color is wrong. How about that one?” She pointed. “The carrot-top with the green leotard? Her breasts and butt are perfect.”
Gervais scanned Annalisa’s body like a connoisseur inhaling the bouquet of an aged wine. With an effort, Joel cleared his throat to keep from coughing.
This wasn’t a fair assessment. In the world of dance, men and women get accustomed to having their bodies appraised, be it for form or the “look” of a piece. There are many arguments about the rightness of this, but the reality was the same and dancers know it. Which body type might be good for one choreographer might be worse for another and if you can’t handle the scrutiny, walk. It’s not going to change.
Right now, though, Annalisa wasn’t being assessed for the length of her legs or how she might present as the only body on a large stage. Instead, her body was being tallied, without her consent, for physical appeal alone. Her worth was being measured in cup size and hair color.
“If” Joel began tightly, “you’ve made your decision, then I think we’ll let the class continue without us.”
Deanne held up a finger. “Well, I’ll need her availability.”
“And I want you two to come to Lapis after Dee announces this girl as the new brand rep.”
Moving to open the door, Joel answered. “Her name is Annalisa. I’ll send you her free days and times before five.”
***
BEHIND HIMSELF, HE slammed his office door. With a litany of expletives, he strode to his desk and swiped everything, save the computer, off. Paper, pens, paperclips, envelopes, and a succulent clattered and fluttered sidelong, like a cubicle derecho. More than once, he slammed his fist onto the sturdy wood, the names he mentally called himself getting profaner by the moment.
Anger management. It was a key aspect of corporate life.
Barely another hour had ticked by before his cousin burst into the office, rightly demanding to know why his class had been interrupted and what the further fuck was going on.
With a sharp gesture to the mess on the floor, as if it was part of the answer, Joel’s reply was hot. What was going on was the running of a business which he (Len) should know damn well wasn’t always ideal.
With equal heat, Len fired back. It wasn’t ideal the company was dancing an aged ballet with zero relevance to draw audiences. How big did he (Joel) think his codpiece was to fling it around like an ape?
Joel didn’t miss a beat. Len could bang his chest and sling shit all he wanted. Money had to come from somewhere. He wasn’t idiot enough to think all his decisions were the right ones, but he did know how to be practical.
The instant he said that, though, he regretted it; the practical answer should have been performing Nutcracker.
Len rolled his eyes. “Big man flexing, huh? That’s the end of the conversation? My classes and rehearsals are a mess because I have to kowtow to those two pricks?”
“No. Things will work around company scheduling.”
With a nasty sneer, Len clasped his hands together like a pleading orphan. ‘Thank you, Sir! We are most grateful that your decisions won’t get in the way of your decisions.”
“Get back to work.”
He strode out. “Get fucked.”
Already am, bro. Already am.
Joel stooped to pick up the only mess he could straighten.
***
STUFFED BEHIND HIS desk, immersed in emails that had been put off from the previous day and the mound of ones that needed answering today, he did not immediately see Annalisa walk in until she pretended to cough.
From his laptop, he looked up. Confusion, mixed with worry, pulled lines her face was too young to have.
“Len said I should come see you?”
Joel rolled his neck. “Yeah. And I’d rather you heard it from me before it gets around the company.”
She tipped her head, somewhat prettily, like a bird, unsure of a new sound in its environment.
“The man and woman I came into class with earlier.”
“I saw them.”
“You and everyone else. They came to La Faire today because...”
Because I sunk my teeth and whatever other metaphor there is for being a selfish, prideful prick, when I decided not going for the sure money ticket was the right thing. I decided for Chicago audiences that what they wanted to see during the holidays wasn’t the charming ballet of enchanted dolls and childhood wonder but a ballet with no story, accompanied by music they haven’t heard.
Aloud, he continued. “Because advertising for a ballet company can be difficult.”
“I can only imagine,” she answered, mildly.
“The woman was the president of Moves Athletic Attire, and the man is the owner of Lapis Lazuli. Both of them agreed you had the look.”
“For what?”
“To be the new face of Moves and come with me to Lazuli so the owner can run a special update on the restaurant’s social media pages.”
Her brows furrowed. “What?”
“Yep!”
You were already in a difficult spot, suddenly appearing in the company. But now! Now you can look forward to getting nastier looks and struggle with finding your groove here. Aren’t you excited? Shit. When I said no favors, I meant it.
“So, what’s that mean, exactly?”
“I’m getting your availability over to Moves today. None of this will affect your class or rehearsal schedule. I don’t know if you noticed,” he offered, trying to withdraw the doomed tone from his voice, “Len isn’t an understanding man.”
She smiled. “I noticed. If looks could kill, he might be a sniper.”
“Couldn’t have said it better. You won’t have to deal with any of this, Annalisa. Scheduling will go through me, but you’re going to be expected to do some photo shoots and tag the brand regularly on social media. With the restaurant, it’s just one dinner.”
“With you?”
“With me.”