| |
Taryn
I KNOW TOMORROW'S A big day. A last chance kind of thing. That I should be resting and trying to sleep. I need to do well tomorrow in my first dance with this Mr. Ngo, whoever he is, but instead of resting and allowing my body to recuperate, I scroll through article after article on my phone about apparently healthy people suddenly dying from cardiac arrest with no warning. Because a serious heart condition, like what Madame was saying, surely has to mean that’s a possibility. Teddy could’ve died.
The blue light of my phone’s screen sends a hazy aura over the whole of the dorm room, but neither Sibylle nor Ivelisse says anything. I know they’re awake though. Ivelisse is doing push-ups and scrunches that she promises her doctors she’s not still doing, and Sibylle’s listening to heavy metal on her earphones—loud enough that I can tell it’s Slipknot. And I’m learning the statistics, the terrifying numbers of just how many people die. I tell myself that me doing all this research means I do care, that I’m not selfish. Then I wonder if it doesn’t matter because if I’m only doing this research so I don't feel selfish then my intentions aren’t genuine.
At two forty-five, Ivelisse gets into bed. Sibylle’s still awake, now reading from her kindle—which I suspect is a distraction because she must be upset about the company’s decision to give me a second chance, meaning her chance of joining Roseheart is over, as I thought it was only fair to tell her as gently as possible once I knew. Though shortly after I’d told her, Madame announced that all the third years had officially graduated despite the circumstances. Everyone had cheered then and begun applying for auditions with other companies. As Roseheart students, we’re allowed to stay here until the end of August, and most choose to do this because daily training is important for any professional ballet dancer, regardless of the company you’re in. The ideal set-up is to have a seamless transfer to another company between graduation and your last day at Roseheart. Then your training isn’t compromised at all.
My eyes are growing heavier and heavier though, and I’m just falling asleep when my phone vibrates, jolting me from that strange half-awake state. It takes a moment for my eyes to focus and read the WhatsApp notification. A message, from Teddy.
You okay?
Oh my God. He’s the one in hospital and he’s asking me that?
I sit up, the mattress creaking, and type furiously, demanding to know how he is and what’s happening. They’ve barely told me anything, I add. Maybe he wouldn’t have wanted Madame saying anything. He might want to be the one to tell me.
I hold my breath as I wait. He’s typing.
They think it’s hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. But they need to do more tests.
I immediately Google what hypertrophic cardiomyopathy is and feel the dread in the pit of my stomach get heavier and heavier. It’s surprisingly close to what I’d already been reading about.
But you’re okay? Right? I ask.
Yes. But I’m sorry, T. You’ve lost out on a place because of me.
Hey! It’s not your fault. You’ve got nothing to apologize for. The important thing is that you’re okay. Honestly, Teds.
And I tell him about the second chance I’ve got, typing so quickly I almost mistype every single word.
I wait for his reply.
The app tells me Teddy has seen it. He doesn’t reply. And I don’t know what that means.