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Teddy
“I CAN’T BELIEVE THEY’VE got to interview me for this course.” I yawn as I speak into my phone. “And now I’m just so nervous.”
The train tumbles, and early morning light streams in through its windows. I can’t believe how quickly Roseheart offered me an interview. I only contacted them yesterday morning, the day after the HCM meeting at the café, and they said to come in today for an interview.
“It’ll just be formalities,” Gemma says, her voice a little muffled, like she’s underwater. “You’ll get it, anyway. They’d be mad not to want you. You’re crazy good. I watched those videos you sent.”
I smile. Last night, I sent her clips from last year’s production of La Bayadere. Taryn and I didn’t have super prominent roles as it was mainly about showcasing the third-years’ skills—and the winning couple, Li Hua and Trent, were amazing. But Taryn and I did have a short pas de deux and I also danced a routine with all the male undergrads from both years of the diploma. I was proud of the showreel and clips at the time, and now they’re even more important to me because I can’t watch this year’s one. I messaged Xavier about it, and he told me there is a clip of me dancing at the start of Romeo and Juliet, before the balcony pas de deux, but that most of my presence on the showreel is centered around my accident. I can’t bring myself to watch any of it.
“Still, I’m surprised Madame Cachelle didn’t just put a good word in for me and let me bypass the interview or something,” I say.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous for the interview. Of course I am. I don’t really know anything about being a choreographer, and now I have to convince the teachers of that course that I do. And I have to manage it. I have to go back there.
Gemma chats on and on, until we lose the phone signal when my train goes into a tunnel, right before my station.
It’s weird getting off the train without my luggage. I’ve done this journey many other times, but it’s always been when I was going to Roseheart as a dancer. When I had my audition for the ballet diploma, Mum drove me. She was full of smiles and encouragement. Telling me how proud she was that I was a dancer just like her.
It doesn’t take me long to walk to the right area of town, and then there it is. Roseheart Romantic Dance Academy and Company Grounds. The sign is as polished as ever, and it makes me feel slightly sick.
The could-have-beens flash through my mind.
“But I can do this,” I tell myself.
I can.
###
“I MUST ADMIT, I WAS surprised to hear from you so soon,” Madame Cachelle says. Next to her, the two choreography teachers nod.
I hadn’t realized Madame Cachelle would be in on this interview at all, but I suppose it makes sense, given she’s told the two choreography teachers that she can vouch for how dedicated I am.
“It’s not unusual for a dancer to retrain after an injury,” Madame continues, “but we didn’t even realize you were out of hospital, Teddy.”
“Yes, it was just a few days there,” I say. Did they really expect me to be there for over a week? “But I just wanted to get back here.”
I look around. We’re in one of the offices on the third floor of the academy’s admin block. There’s a large rectangular table in this room; I’m on one side of it, and the three teachers are seated in even spaces along the other side. Four large glasses of water were poured as I sat down, and I stare at the glasses now. I’m the only one who’s not touched theirs, despite how dry the roof of my mouth now feels. I can’t even remember when I last had a drink.
“I told you Teddy is very dedicated,” Madame says to the two choreography teachers.
I’ve only seen them around the academy a few times before. They teach in a different block to where the ballet diploma was mainly taught, but I recognize them. Mrs. Nolan is full of smiles and has a warm face, and Mrs. Walters looks like a much older, more weathered version of her.
“So, what is it that made you choose choreography in particular?” Mrs. Nolan asks.
The truth is I picked the choreography course because the only other course Roseheart offers that isn’t focused on ballet is dance-teacher training. I’ve never thought of myself as a teacher, and I was sure that Madame would’ve realized that. I figured I had a better shot with the choreography course. Plus, I think there’s less overall dance in the choreography program than the teacher-training, and I don’t want to not be accepted if the teachers think my HCM is going to be a risk. From the research I did online, this choreography course is pretty much just theory based for its first year, improving knowledge on steps and moves—which I already know anyway. The second year has a module on directing other dancers and that one requires some actual dance as you demonstrate to the cast. Same for the third year.
But the second and third years are so far away, and I just need an excuse to be back here. They can’t be monitoring me all the time, outside of studying. Just the thought of getting back into a studio makes me feel lighter, more like myself. I can keep training, keep up my stamina until the doctors realize their mistake and formally discharge me and correct my records. Then I can go ahead with my actual dance career. And if I’m at Roseheart when my medical records are corrected, then surely, they’d offer me a place somehow at the company. Maybe I could even train next year with the then-final-year students. The thought of learning new routines with a girl who isn’t Taryn doesn’t make me too happy, but it’ll be worth it. Because then once me and this new girl are accepted into the company, Mr. Vikas will decide that I should dance with Taryn and be her primary partner. He’d be silly not to. And this Jaidev guy can dance with the girl whom I graduate with. It’ll all be sorted, and the world will be back to how it should be.
I clear my throat. Mrs. Nolan, Mrs. Walters, and Madame Cachelle are still waiting for my answer. “I’ve always been fascinated by the stories that ballets tell. And I want to learn more about this role. To be able to design a ballet in that way and infuse my own creativity would be amazing. And it would help keep me connected to the one thing I love most.”
“And you don’t think you’d find it too...stressful?” Mrs. Walter asks.
“Or tempting?” Mrs. Nolan adds. “Being around ballerinas and danseurs all day? We’d want this to be a comfortable and safe environment for you, so we have to consider the impact on your mental health that this could have, being so close to doing what you once used to do.”
What you once used to do. I don’t like the way those words sound.
“I’d rather be here than not,” I answer, honestly. “I’ve spent the last two years at Roseheart, and it’s become my life. Even before here, I was at ballet schools. I need to be in the ballet world.”
The teachers all nod.
“Well, as you know we’ve got some time before the new year starts,” Mrs. Walter says. “We ask that all prospective students for the BA Choreography course submit a portfolio of choreographies. While we can accept a smaller portfolio if the candidate has strong dance experience, we will have to ask for a portfolio of some sort from you.”
A portfolio? I feel blood drain from my face. Suddenly, it’s like the room is colder. I’ve no idea what a choreography portfolio looks like.
“We can also give you some material to read ahead of the Choreographic Practices module, which may also help you in putting together this portfolio,” Mrs. Nolan says. “And I’m sure you’ll have no trouble producing it. With Madame Cachelle’s glowing reference, yes, we’d love to have you on the choreography course. Please just make sure to submit the portfolio two weeks before the start of the new academic year, and we’ll be good to go.”
“That’s no problem.” I flash a smile, even though my heart is suddenly pounding. That’s just over a month to get it sorted, I think. “I can definitely do that.”
“And we will of course require medical clearance for your enrolment on this program,” Madame Cachelle says.
“Medical clearance?” My skin prickles. It’s too hot in the office. Too crowded. Too much body heat radiating from the four of us.
“Yes,” Mrs. Nolan says. “To check that choreography is a viable career. Depending on where you end up, some schools and companies will have their choreographers regularly taking on very active roles within the dance, pretty much performing whole routines in time, in order to show the dancers how to do it. We have to be careful with your health.”
I force a smile. “Of course.”
“Then, all being well, we’ll see you at the start of next semester.”
The start of next semester? That’s September. And suddenly it does feel too long—especially when I’m here now, when the ballet studios are practically within touching distance.
They’re all looking at me. The interview’s over, and I should be going.
“Uh,” I say, looking at them all.
“Yes, Teddy?” Madame Cachelle rises swiftly. “Are you not feeling well? Shall I get—”
“No, it’s not that. I’m fine.” I swallow quickly. “It’s... I know this is unconventional, but can I stay this summer? Just until classes start—because I’ve got a lot of studying to do. I only know choreography from a dancer’s perspective, and I need to learn more about the portfolio. I just really want to make this work.”
“I’m sure something can be arranged,” Madame says, smiling. “We’ll let you know when we’ve got a room available. But it should be soon.”
Soon? Not...today?
“I can’t share with Xavier anymore?”
“Our new dancer is there now,” she says.
The new dancer. Jaidev.
I try not to scowl, try to smile. “Oh, uh, can I ask where my belongings are then?”
“The housekeeper should know,” Madame says.
I thank them all as I leave, even though I’m annoyed. Not just because they seemed to try and erase all evidence of me having shared with Xavier the moment I was carted off, but that I also didn’t buy a return train ticket. I assumed I’d be staying at Roseheart. And now I’ve got to go back to Dad’s...only to return ‘soon.’
###
MY BELONGINGS HAVE been shoved into cardboard boxes and stuffed into a store cupboard. Brilliant. The housekeeper gives me an apologetic look but assures me they’ll be safe until I’m back.
“Back?” says a low voice.
I turn to see Joe, Roseheart’s nutritionist. He is smiling, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“How about we catch up in my office,” he says, looking at his watch. “I’ve got a good half hour before I’m teaching.”
The air around us is heavy and oppressive, and it’s clear to me there’s no choice but to follow Joe to his office on the second floor. We seem to get there too soon.
“Take a seat.”
I do. The same seat I always sit in. The bench at the side of the room. There are three different types of seating to choose from—a small armchair, a classroom chair, and a bench—and picking a chair always feels like a test I don’t understand. I chose the bench the very first time, and then the next time I wondered if it would mean something if I then picked a different seat, so I went for the bench again—and every time afterward.
“Well, it’s certainly a surprise to see you back,” Joe says. He’s in his late thirties and is a stockily built man. Muscular. He told me once he used to play rugby professionally before a knee injury ended his career.
“I’m enrolling again. Choreography course.”
He leans back in his chair. It’s a leather swivel chair next to his desk. He never sits behind the table. I read somewhere that some teachers do that to look less formal and some therapists do it to seem more on the same level as their patient. As the nutritionist, I guess Joe’s kind of both. Or, at least, that’s how he acts. He’s the only teacher who is like the choreographers and costume staff, in that the prefers us to use his first name.
“Well, that’s good,” he says. “It’s good to have a goal.” The light in his eyes gets more intense. “But how are you?”
“I’m fine.”
He gives a small smile. “It’s okay to tell the truth, Teddy.”
My shoulders tighten. “I am telling the truth.”
He brushes some lint off his shirt. “I know about the diagnosis. The heart condition. But did you tell the doctors about the OSFED?”
About the OSFED. Like that’s what I have. He sounds so sure. And it’s weird how part of me is still against it while the other half is sure I have some sort of eating disorder as I need that to explain the HCM misdiagnosis. It’s confusing.
“Because it’s important doctors are aware of the whole picture,” Joe continues.
“They do know.” The words burst out before I can stop them. They are birds flying round, making me dizzy, and it’s like part of me is leaping about, trying to catch them. But they’re always just out of my grasp.
“Good,” Joe says. “And you’re getting help with this, too?”
“Yes.”
“So, what are they doing?”
“Doing?” I squint at him.
“To help? These doctors?”
“Oh, I’m having a catheterization soon. And I’ve got medication as well.” Well, they gave me tablets for the HCM, but there’s no point in me taking those given it’s a misdiagnosis. They’d do more harm than good.
“And for the eating?”
“Therapy,” I say. “Guided support sessions.” I wrack my brain, trying to remember all the support Ivelisse gets. “Dietician, too.” At least that one is sort of true. I did have that one meeting with Alexandra.
“Good. That’ll help,” Joe says. “I’m pleased.”
My eyes fall on the scales in the corner of his office. When I look up, I realize he’s seen me looking at them. For a second, I think he’s going to ask to weigh me now. But he doesn’t. He just nods.
“Well, it’ll be good to work with you again in September.”
“Work with me?” My voice is a squeak. He only needs to work with the dancers, not the choreographers, right? Unless he suspects I am going to be dancing? Could he realize this HCM is an incorrect diagnosis, too?
“Yes.” He smiles an easy smile. “I’m here for all the students at Roseheart—and all the professionals, too. Don’t worry, Teddy. You won’t be on your own with this.”