Terence, our aerial coach, has sandy-blond hair he wears in a long ponytail down his back. That was him on the rope last night, dangling from one foot during the staff show.
When we walk into the area of la palestre where the tissu and climbing ropes are, Terence is sitting on a black vinyl cube. “We’ll spend the morning reviewing basic climbs and descents,” he says after we have introduced ourselves.
He begins by demonstrating a basic climb. “Base foot square,” he says, looking down at his foot. “Base leg slightly forward. See how I’m using the ball of my upper foot to push the rope against my base foot, and how I’m pulling my shoulders down and opening my chest as I climb?”
“What does he think this is—kindergym?” Genevieve whispers to me.
Terence is up near the ceiling in no time. “If you climb a rope right,” he calls down to us, “you’ll never do a single chin-up. Because you’ll never pull with just your arms. You step up the rope with the help of your arms and legs.”
Genevieve nudges me. “Does he really think we haven’t figured that one out yet?”
Later, Terence watches carefully as each of us demonstrates a climb.
“Flatten your foot a little more when you stomp down on the rope,” Terence tells me. “That’ll create more friction and give your arms a break.”
He doesn’t say a thing when Genevieve climbs the tissu. Just nods. He nods again when she slides down the tissu, making big circles with one arm at a time. That girl sure likes to show off.
We get four fifteen-minute breaks during the day. Some of the kids hang out on the mats. They stretch or chat or stare into space. Others go to the cafeteria for a snack—carrot sticks, bran muffins, herbal tea. Besides our three meals, we can get snacks at the cafeteria until five o’clock every day.
I’m thinking of grabbing a muffin, but Genevieve offers to show me how to do the frog move she demonstrated yesterday. I don’t know if it’s because she really wants to be helpful or because she wants to make sure I know she’s a better climber than I’ll ever be.
But I really want to learn that move.
Genevieve demonstrates. She starts with her back pressed flat on the mat. “You hook one leg over you, like this,” she says. “Then you take the tissu—or in your case, the rope—with your opposite hand and grab the loose rope underneath with your free hand. Hold the rope tight with your knee, then wrap it once over your free leg and let go with both hands. It’s easier than it looks.” She gets up from the mat. “Your turn,” she says.
Is it my imagination, or is there something snooty about her tone every time she says rope? “It sounds like you have something against rope,” I say.
“There’s nothing wrong with rope. I just happen to prefer tissu. It’s more…” She pauses, as if she’s searching for the right word. “Feminine.”
“You mean old-fashioned,” I say.
Genevieve sighs. “I mean feminine.”
I know it’s an insult—she’s saying I’m not feminine enough because I don’t wear eyeliner and blow-dry my hair. I won’t let her get away with that. “There are more important things than what a person looks like.”
“Yeah,” Genevieve says, “that’s true. Things like making a living. Maybe you haven’t had to think about it, but there are more work opportunities for female aerialists who do tissu.” She flips her hair back. “There are also more work opportunities for female aerialists who put some effort into their appearance.”
“I’d rather put effort into my climbing,” I tell her.
“Well, go ahead then,” Genevieve says. “Show me your frog on the mat.”
Genevieve watches closely while I try out the move. “Bend your legs when you let go with your hands. That’s better. You’ve almost got it. Almost.”
After lunch, we work on our non-specialties. Mine’s juggling. So, it turns out, is Genevieve’s.
I am surprised when Suzanne walks into the small gym and announces that she’s our juggling coach. But I shouldn’t be—not after we saw her juggle those textbooks at the staff show.
Suzanne drags a crate of colorful squishy balls to the front of the gym. “No, no, no,” she says when Leo and Guillaume each grab three balls. “We start with one ball.”
“One ball? You’re kidding, right?” Leo exclaims.
“One ball,” Suzanne says, and I remember how she scowled during her performance. I’m starting to think Suzanne is tougher than she looks.
We spend the first ten minutes on our backs, tossing a squishy ball up into the air and catching it—or in my case, occasionally catching it. “Lying down like this means you don’t have to worry about your balance—and it’s easier on your backbone,” Suzanne tells us. Then, with our arms bent at the elbow, we lob the ball from one hand to the other. Even though the ball is soft and weighs practically nothing, I don’t like the feeling of something flying into my face. Once, when Suzanne walks by the spot where I am practicing, she catches me closing my eyes when the ball is about to land. “Eyes open!” she says. “Never lose sight of the ball.”
Before we move on to two squishy balls, Suzanne gets us to do some neck rolls. I’m glad, because although I don’t want to be whiny, one side of my neck is already sore from tossing and catching one dumb ball.
“What comes next,” Suzanne explains, “is all about rhythm. Wait for the first ball to reach the top of its arc.” She gets down onto the mat to demonstrate. “When it does, you toss the second ball up into the air.”
Only it isn’t so easy to know when the first ball has reached the top of its arc, and now I have two flying objects to deal with. I fight the urge to shut my eyes.
I hear Genevieve laugh. When I turn to look at her, she is juggling her two balls in a way that looks effortless. Why does Genevieve have to be so darned good at everything?