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Jaidev
“SO, HOW IS IT GOING?” Avril asks over FaceTime on Sunday. “Have they offered you a permanent contract yet?”
I laugh. “Not yet. We’ve got our first formal assessment next week. Week three. Both the ballet master and the artistic director will be watching.” I paste a smile onto my face, trying to seem confident and relaxed, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. I’m actually bricking it, and I know Taryn is too. “How’s Bastien doing, looking after you?” I ask, mainly to change the subject.
Avril’s been out of hospital for a week now.
She snorts and moves her phone, showing me the plaster on her leg. “See these doodles? That’s what he’s been doing.”
The video image is blurry because she moves her phone so fast, but I’m sure they’re not just ‘doodles.’ Bastien is an artist, and if he’s decorated Avril’s cast, that’s a good sign. Because that usually means he’s not high. He only draws when he’s clean.
“But he’s helping you with everything, right?”
“Yes. He is. But there’s only so many times you want your son helping you to the bathroom. This leg is just such a pain, Jaidev. I can’t even get up off the toilet on my own. It’s so embarrassing.”
“It’s fine,” I say, mainly because I don’t know what to say.
“But tell me about you. About the ballet. Your new partner? I want to know everything.”
I can tell by her tone of voice that she’s sad she can’t dance now and may never dance again. She wants to experience it through me now, and isn’t that the least I can give her? And so long as we don’t actually talk about the upcoming assessment, I can manage that.
“She’s called Taryn.”
“Last name?” She twists around and a moment later I see her laptop in my phone’s screen.
“Avril, you are not Googling her right now, are you?”
There’s a tutting sound. “Of course I am. Well, searching for her on YouTube. I need to know who my son’s career rests on. Now what’s her last name?”
“Foster.” To be honest, I am sure Avril already knows these details. She was on video-link with Madame Cachelle discussing it all. But Avril does this kind of thing a lot, pretending not to know something so it can be told to her again.
“Right... Let me see. Ah, here we go. She had the lead role in this year’s Romeo and Juliet. The showreel’s here. Let me just watch this.”
I resist rolling my eyes. The soundtrack from the showreel drifts over, sort of distorted by the connection. I’ve already watched it. The moment Teddy falls made me wince the first time I saw it.
Teddy.
I do not like him, but I think it’s mainly a defensive thing. Ever since he arrived here, two days ago, he’s been super bristly toward me, which of course just puts my back up. We’ve been locked into glare-offs and some sort of weird competition for Taryn’s time. Of course, as I’m training with her, I’ve got the most time with her, and we tend to eat together too as the intense scheduling requires weird break-times. When we can’t eat a great deal right before a practice and we’re not finishing now until super late—around nine o’clock each night, because we’re fitting in our pas de deux rehearsals, group rehearsals, our individual classes, and endurance sessions—we end up eating one big meal daily around half-nine, which is close to a whole day’s worth of nutrition. Earlier in the day, we’re subsisting almost entirely on energy bars and the odd snack. It’s nearly always the same when we’ve got to train for eight or nine hours a day. Eating a lot before training just doesn’t work because we end up needing to wait a while before we can dance so we can avoid cramps. So, most of the dancers I know alter their routine to allow for one big meal in the evening in the leadup to a big performance or tour. Well, that didn’t apply to a couple of the girls at Avril’s school. They were convinced one big meal would cause weight gain, so they barely ate any kind of proper meal during the intense training periods. Their ballet really suffered for it, and last I heard one of them was still in in-patient psychiatric care.
At Roseheart, the canteen stays open until ten, but no one else uses it at the time when we’re there—except, last night, for Teddy. He appeared. Taryn and I have gotten into a routine of sitting opposite each other at a small table, chatting and laughing as we make fun of Victoria and Marion in hushed whispers with wide eyes, like we’re scared of being overheard. But the moment Teddy joined us last night, the whole atmosphere just changed. He squeezed himself next to Taryn and just stared intently at me.
Teddy kept mentioning things that had happened last year, trying to get Taryn to talk about those instead, like he was actively attempting to exclude me from the conversation. Taryn, bless her, did her best, trying to include me, giving me little summaries of the things that happened, her eyes quickly darting between me and Teddy.
“You’re a better dancer than Theodore Walker,” Avril says. “Even before he had this accident. I mean, yeah, he’s good. But you’ve got better.... energy. And I’d bet you’re stronger too. Did you see the lift they did at the start of that showreel? To the untrained eye, it looks spectacular, yes. But his arms were shaking just a little. A danseur should not look weak when he lifts his partner.”
Partner. Is that what they are, Teddy and Taryn? More than just dance partners? I mean, I asked Taryn and she said no, and I even asked Xavier too, who said they just seemed like really good friends. But maybe Teddy wants them to be more. Thinks they’re more, even? Last night, he sat so close to Taryn that their arms kept brushing. She pulled back a little, scooting to the left, but he had then just filled up the space she’d made, sort of stretching more toward her. He’d met my eyes then, and there’d been a hard glint in them. In the end, I’d wanted to physically push Teddy away from her, to give her the space she’d so obviously wanted.
I do like Taryn; I can’t deny that. Earlier, Trent messaged me asking if I’d asked her out yet. Being me, I hadn’t. Not just because I’m worried—but because of what happened with Camille. After the accident, I vowed I’d never let anyone get hurt by me again.
Maybe I should just leave Teddy and Taryn to it... Just see her only for the rehearsals. I could always buy a pot noodle to have in the evenings and use the kettle in the common room, leaving the canteen for the two of them.
“Ask Roseheart to film your next dance with her,” Avril says. “I can help, too. Give feedback.”
“Avril.” My voice is a warning tone. “That’s not necessary.”
“Nonsense, you’re my son. Now, what is the scheduling like? And the food? The food is important. You need the right fuel.”
“The food is fine.” And it is good, I know that. Roseheart has its own nutritionist and aside from organizing the menus and working with the cooks, he also teaches nutrition lessons. I heard every student in the academy has to attend them, and you can have individual sessions too, if you want. The company uses the same nutritionist, but sessions aren’t mandatory unless the company doctor is concerned about you.
Hmmm. Maybe I shouldn’t plan to have pot noodles instead of a decent evening meal. That most likely wouldn’t help my dancing.
I talk to Avril for a little more, then tell her I need to go. “Another rehearsal, with Taryn.”
“Break a leg,” she says. “Not literally.” She laughs, but it doesn’t ring true.
I’m still thinking about that laugh—the hard edge it had—when I meet Taryn in Studio 11 fifteen minutes later. It’s late, and the lights have been turned off. She flicks them on, and the bulbs flicker. We wait for the lighting to sort itself out, but it doesn’t. Just keeps dimming and flickering. It’s a bit like candlelight.
“Shall we just go for it?” Taryn asks. “I don’t know if any other studios are free. There were only a couple left by the time I booked it, and they often fill up quickly anyway. They always do.”
I nod. “This will be fine.” The lighting shouldn’t be a problem anyway. I know the Roseheart dancers are used to performing in strobe lighting for some of the contemporary ballets they do. I’ve not done that before—Avril’s school is much more classical based—but I need to get used to dancing with distracting lighting. Not that this mild flickering is that distracting, but I have to start somewhere.
Taryn looks determined and strong as she warms up at the barre, pointe shoes on. In this studio, the barre isn’t by the mirrors—they’re over by the right, but someone has drawn a dark, velvet curtain in front of them. I join her, warming up, and then we rehearse a couple of specific moments from the pas de deux, before doing a whole run through of the choreography. It’s an extra session we have decided to do. Not a timetabled one, given our upcoming assessment, and there’s something almost special about us both being here, untimetabled, choosing to spend extra time dancing together.
There’s something magical about dancing with her in the flickering light, with no music. Just the sounds of our feet, our breathing. My skin almost sears every time she touches me, and a warm, glowing feeling fills me, just makes me want to keep dancing with her forever.
By the time we reach the end of the pas de deux, I feel sad it’s over. That our moment has finished.
But we keep meeting for these moments—these intense dances that feel so, so magical. From Monday to Wednesday, we pack in more and more rehearsals alongside our busy timetables. And we’re getting better, I can feel it.
“I think we’re ready,” she says, the evening before the first assessment as we finish our pas de deux. Her eyes are bright, and they make me smile. “It’s magical, isn’t it, that dance? How amazing is it going to look in full costume?”
“Yes.” I want to reach across and hug her—but I don’t. I’ve noticed now that she doesn’t really like people hugging her. She even looks uncomfortable when people touch her arms. The only time she’s at ease with contact is when we’re dancing, and that just makes our pas de deux seem even more special.
So, I just give her a wide grin—so wide I feel like I might burst. I turn to get my shoes and change out of my flats. And that’s when I see something written on the edge of the studio mirror peeking out from behind the velvet curtain.
“What’s this say then? A love note someone left?” I laugh—suddenly very much hoping that it isn’t a love note left by Teddy for Taryn—and grab the curtain, give it a firm yank.
I hear Taryn’s sharp inhalation of breath, and then my eyes focus on the words written on the mirror in red lipstick.
I go cold.
I warned you before. You shouldn’t be here. I know what you are. You don’t belong here.