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Jaidev
“I DO NOT CARE.” AVRIL says the words with so much venom and ferocity that I actually recoil. Look at me, a grown man scared of the woman who adopted him and raised him for the last fourteen years.
But Avril can be scary. Hell, everyone here says it. Madame Troisière is formidable and angry and a lot of worse words that the others use. Only I don’t normally see this side. Even last year, after the.... Well, even after that, when I told her I wouldn’t be joining the Paris Ballet Company but instead would be enrolling on the school’s training course to become a ballet teacher—to teach kids’ courses, as then I wouldn’t even need the higher qualifications—she wasn’t angry like this. No, then she was amused, and then she was insistent that I was in shock because I clearly hadn’t thought it through. And she was right, as it happened—why would they let someone with a criminal record work with children? I ended up just staying at her school, doing another year of general training and studying dance-teaching in my own time, but with no goal to strive toward. But the point was Avril wasn’t even angry then, and that was a way more stressful time, what with the cops constantly around.
So, I thought the sharing of my decision today would go smoothly. Easily.
But I guess there’s only so far you can test any human. Even if she is your adoptive mother.
I lean back in my seat. The fabric is too soft. Hell, everything in this room is too soft. Avril and I have vastly different decor tastes. Her whole office is furnished with feathers and felts and fluffy wall tapestries.
“You are really going to waste all this training? All this money?” She shakes her head, then mutters something in French. She still thinks I don’t know French swear words, which is kind of amusing since I moved here with my grandmother when I was five. I learnt French swear words at the same time my French peers at school did. But Avril made sure that I kept speaking Vietnamese, paid for classes for me, and encouraged me to read Vietnamese literature; a lot of the time, I’m sure she expects me only to swear in Vietnamese.
She narrows her eyes on me and gesticulates wildly. “And what will it look like to the other companies, if my own son decides he does not want to dance at all anymore?”
“Look, I’ve thought about it long and hard.” I lift my head, making eye contact with her across the desk. Maintaining good posture is important to her, even in arguments. Don’t want to give her another reason to complain.
“No, you have not. You are rushing into this. You are just scared.”
“I’m not scared. I just don’t want to be a dancer.”
Well, that’s a lie. It’s not that I don’t want to dance. It’s that I can’t be a dancer anymore, not now. It’s too painful. And I definitely can’t be a dancer or even a teacher here, in this school, even over a year later, because there are too many memories.
Memories of her.
I’ve tried, really tried, but I can’t do this to myself anymore. But when I was poring over notes on didactics and different dance styles, I felt like I was breaking. Not just because I wanted to be in the studio, improving my own dance with a solid goal to aim for, but because I was still at this school, expecting to see her every time I looked up from my books or stepped into a studio. I need a clean break, even if everyone else will think I’m the least deserving of it.
I breathe deeply. “You always pushed me into this way of life. Into dance.”
“You loved it.” Avril is quick to counteract, as always.
“You never gave me another choice. I want to find out who I am.” I clench my hands together. “I need to do this.” Maybe I’ll even go back to Vietnam. Find my roots, again, however much of a cliché that sounds.
“What you need is to stay here,” Avril says. “Don’t let the rumors get to you.”
“I’m not.” I’m not even sure what rumors she’s talking about—as far as I knew, those eventually stopped a few months ago, but I guess fires are easy to relight.
“Good, because they’ll die down again soon,” she says.
Great. Just what I want to hear. I shift my weight in the chair, then straighten my spine. “I don’t want to dance anymore. I’m sorry, Avril, but I’m nineteen. You cannot make me stay here against my will.”
“Against your will?” She snort-laughs, then fiddles with the silver necklace at her neck. The catch is faulty and the number of times she’s nearly lost it is ridiculous.
She’s still not taking me seriously, that much is clear, and it annoys me. It’s always been like this, I suppose. Avril getting her own way regarding anything to do with me. The only difference before was we were on the same page. She fought on my behalf, got me roles I never thought imaginable, got me a place at her school only a couple years after she became my guardian when she discovered I loved dance, even though I hadn’t been up to the standard of the others there. I’d never dared or wanted to go a different route before. I’d assumed that defying Avril was a path just meant for Bastien. Not me.
“You need to think carefully about this, Jaidev. You need to understand everything I’ve done for you, how I’ve dedicated the last thirteen years to your career and how—”
The telephone on her desk rings. It’s red and retro, and I’ve never heard it ring before. Thought it was just a model.
Avril answers it while keeping her sharp eyes on me. “Yes, Cherie, send him in.”
No more than a second later, the door to Avril’s office opens and Mr. Maxim enters. He’s one of the board members and wears duster jackets that look overly long, even for him with his six-foot-five frame.
“Avril, there’s been a, uh, development. I’ve got Madame Cachelle from Roseheart Academy on video-link in the main gallery.” His eyes cross to me, and I get the sense he’s really boring deep into me. Mr. Maxim is always like that. Creepy. “You’d better come quickly.”
“I am in the middle of something with my son,” Avril says, shooting him a dagger look. I hear the annoyance in her voice—not just at being interrupted, but also that he called her ‘Avril.’ She hates anyone at the school using her first name, even Mr. Maxim. She should always be Madame Troisière. That’s what I call her at the school, and sometimes it’s easier to call her that in private too. She refers to me as her son, though she’s never told me she wants me to call her ‘Mum’. I know she doesn’t want to put that kind of pressure on me, and she’s also scared about seeming like she’s trying to replace my own mother.
“This is about your son.”
I go cold. The last time there were calls about me I was...
I close my eyes, determined not to think about that time with the police calls and flashing lights and...and her. Lying broken.
I didn’t mean to do it.
“Jaidev, we are not finished,” Avril says, and she sweeps her way out of the room, her long skirt swishing behind her.
I stay seated where I am. I know better than to assume this means I’ve been dismissed.
My phone buzzes. Want a joint? Got one spare.
It’s Bastien, my mother’s son. I should clarify, he’s her biological son. The Troisières adopted me when I was six. I was already living in France, as at the age of five, I’d been orphaned by a car crash that killed both my parents when we lived in Hanoi. My bà ngoại—my grandmother—had, at the time, been in the process of moving from Vietnam to Paris, due to the recent death of her husband—my ông ngoại whose name I share. She’d wanted a fresh start, even more so after she lost her daughter and son-in-law too, and with my parents gone and she being my only living grandparent, she took me with her. For that year, before Bà Ngoại passed away, we’d lived in Marseilles. Not exactly the place she’d wanted to be, but we were happy, and she came to love the French port and the sea.
For a long time after my adoption, Bastien didn’t seem to like me as I turned out to be the ballet dancer that Avril wanted her biological son to be. But when he realized that my dancing took the focus off him—and stopped Avril pushing him into a ballet career too—he softened to me. Now we’re sort of friends.
If him asking if I want a joint is what friends do.
Bastien has a drug problem. It’s the elephant in the room that none of us ever talks about. Avril’s tried to silently sort it, sending Bastien to three different rehab programs in two years, after she found it wasn’t just weed he was using but heroin too. But as far as I know, that’s the extent of her support. I’ve never even actually heard her say anything aloud about Bastien’s illness. I only found out she was funding the rehab when he told me it with a shrug and a strangely wistful, “Maybe she still cares about me after all.”
No, I’m good, thanks, I reply to his text. I still find it weird he offers me drugs, given he doesn’t want Avril to know he’s no longer clean. I could easily rat him out, but I owe him. When things were difficult, two years ago, after the incident, Bastien was there for me. Of course, Avril was there too. But she wasn’t the one who stopped the death threats. That was Bastien.
You sure? His reply is instant. I’m in the neighborhood, he adds.
Neighborhood. It sounds so American. When Bastien left Avril’s ballet school aged eleven, she paid for him to attend some prestigious school in California. He may have spent five years there and been back in France for just five years since then, but he now speaks both French and English with a bad American accent. I’m sure he puts it on. It annoys Avril.
I shove my phone in my pocket and look around Avril’s office, trying not to think about what she and Mr. Maxim and a ballet teacher from that English school could possibly be talking about regarding me. Is it those rumors Avril mentioned?
My stomach feels too heavy, uneasy. It always does when I think of that sort of thing. I stand up and pace a little. Need to distract myself.
I examine the photos on Avril’s walls. Most of them are of me. Me, in lead roles in Black Swan and Giselle and Sleeping Beauty.
I wait several more minutes. Avril doesn’t return, but it’s getting hot in here. I adjust my collar. I am dressed smartly. A suit. I thought Avril would take me more seriously in this attire when I came to break the news to her.
The gallery isn’t far, and after a while, curiosity starts to get the better of me. I could just head over there, see if I can hear anything...
Opening the door and listening carefully for sounds in the corridor makes me feel like I’m being sneaky. But the hallway’s silent.
I tiptoe out. My new leather shoes squeak a little. I walk slowly and carefully to the end of the corridor, then turn right. Still no sight of anyone—but voices! I can hear voices, Mr. Maxim’s droll tones, and Avril’s voice too. She sounds excited.
I speed up and reach the door to the video-link room. It’s shut.
I press my ear to the door.
“Jaidev will do it,” Avril says. “Of course he will. He would not be stupid enough to pass up this opportunity.”
Do what? Huh. The hell I will—whatever it is!
I grit my teeth and shake my head. No. I’ve had enough of her controlling me. This is my life, and from now on, I’m going to be in charge of it.