| |
Taryn
THE COMPANY BOARD HOLDS a meeting first thing the next morning, Thursday 21st July, the day of our first assessment. Every single company dancer is packed into the theatre, alongside all the staff: teachers, artistic staff, medical and wellbeing teams, administration, housekeeping, hospitality, cleaners, the board members, and directors.
A man is on stage who I think is Mr. Eldridge, but I’m not sure. He’s the current owner of the whole institution, and I think I’ve only seen him once before.
“I will not tolerate racism of any kind at Roseheart.” His voice booms.
Jaidev is next to me, and his left leg is jiggling. He thinks the message was aimed at him. He got so quiet when we saw the words. His face paled, and then he barely spoke. I hadn’t even realized at that point that it would’ve looked like racism if it was directed at him. Because I knew straight away it was a message to me from Victoria or Marion. They don’t want me here. Somehow, they know about the accident that caused Helena’s death, and they think it was murder. They think I did it, and they want me to leave.
Just as I was about to say we should just clean it off—not realizing the impact it would of course be having on my partner—Evangeline came in.
“Thought it was your names down on the system for this studio. Doing an extra practice? How’s it going?” The moment she saw the message on the mirror, her face fell. Her whole posture tightened, as if someone was pinching in. “Who did this?”
“We don’t know.” Jaidev’s voice shook.
Evangeline shook her head. She got her phone out and snapped a photo. “Just in case whoever did this tries to erase it by the time I get others in here. Come away, you two. We need to investigate this. It is serious.”
I wanted to say it wasn’t as serious as she thought. It was directed at me, not Jaidev. But of course she’d think it was directed at him, an Asian dancer joining a company that is still predominantly white. In the diploma, Ivelisse was the only Latin American dancer, Advik the only Asian dancer, and there was a Black dancer named Will in the first year of the course. That was it. Everyone else was white. Looking around the theatre full of company dancers now, I realize there’s overwhelming whiteness here, too, not just in the academy. Out of maybe sixty professional dancers, I can see maybe six or seven who are non-white. That’s ten percent, I realize with a jolt. The same applies to the teachers too—or the ratio is even smaller, in fact. The French pointe teacher, Madame Jean, is the only teacher I can see who isn’t white, just as Madame Cachelle is the only teacher for the academy who isn’t. I don’t know how I didn’t realize any of this before. Shame fills me. Maybe in the academy, it was because I was friends with Ivelisse and often danced with Advik, and was taught by Madame Cachelle, that I didn’t really notice the lack of diversity beyond them.
I focus back on the words being said.
“A full investigation into this will be carried out. I urge the writer of this message to step forward and turn themselves in,” Mr. Eldridge says. “We will be looking through CCTV footage, and if we find the person before they’ve confessed, the repercussions will be greater. This is not the first time we’ve had racism at this institution, and just like then, it will not be tolerated.”
Not the first time? I breathe in deeply. Maybe the lipstick messages were aimed at Jaidev, rather than me, and are racist after all. That first one was also left when we were both practicing together. And there have been none left for me when I’ve been using studios on my own—or when I’ve alone anywhere else.
But someone did steal Helena’s shoes, rip up my photo board, and put pushpins in all my pointes and flats. I look at Jaidev. I haven’t told him about those petty things done to me or about Helena’s shoes. Maybe there are things being done to him he’s not told me about. Maybe we’re both being targeted, but someone has brought his race into it?
I feel sick. Then I think about the message left the first time. I know you’re a murderer.
But Jaidev isn’t a murderer.
I mean, is he? He can’t be. Just as I’m not either.
But Alma did call him a psychopath, the voice in my head reminds me. But that means nothing. That was just Alma being Alma. Or Alma being racist.
“We will be searching rooms,” Mr. Eldridge continues.
“They’re going to be looking for red lippie,” a ballerina near me says. “But most of us have that.”
There’s a lot of murmuring.
“And if no one has turned themselves in by this evening, we will be getting the police involved,” Mr. Eldridge says. “Just to emphasize to you the seriousness of this matter.”
There’s almost a collective intake of breath from around the room, but several people are nodding.
Mr. Eldridge wraps up the assembly and says schedules are to resume for the day. This morning, I’ve got a flexibility class, followed by a run with Sibylle—who’s now back from her audition—and Li Hua, then a class with the expression teacher, and a fitting session with Allie, the seamstress. She emailed earlier to say the first draft of my costume for the fall tour is ready, and to come by after morning classes. Then it’s lunchtime—though I doubt I’ll be eating much, given my assessment with Jaidev is this afternoon.
I move with the other female dancers toward the studio for the first class, the flexibility class. No one is really talking. A few of the girls look scared. I notice Victoria wiping her lipstick off onto the back of her hand. Actually, quite a few girls are doing it. A lot are wearing various shades of red. I mean, Sibylle even has that color, and I know I do too; one of last year’s performances required all the female ballet-diploma students to wear it. It’s not an unusual color.
The morning passes quickly, and all too soon I’m in Allie's office, knowing I’ve only got less than an hour before the assessment starts. She’s smiling as she shows me my dress for the tour—a beautiful, dark garment with sleek, shiny black feathers that make up the skirt. The feathers have an iridescent quality hue as she turns them from side to side.
“And these are the wings,” she says, showing me a pair of fragile-looking wings.
They’re mainly black but have a blue band along the outer edges of all four wings and remind me of a Blue Banded Eggfly butterfly—Helena and I had a book on different butterflies when we were younger, and that one was one of my favorites.
“Jaidev’s wings match yours, see?” Allie indicates what I assume is another pair hanging up, though they are wrapped up well in tissue paper and tape, so I can’t see the design.
“These are beautiful,” I whisper, and I touch the wings. They’re soft like velvet, but ultra-lightweight, too. And I wish I was looking at it another day, a day when I wasn’t so preoccupied with the threatening lipstick notes or the impending assessment.
I try my dress and wings on, and Allie makes notes of alterations needed. I’m glad Amanda isn’t here this time so there are no comments about my size, because I’m sure she’d say I wasn’t dainty enough to be a fairy in this magical divertissement pas de deux.
Next, I head to the canteen. I can hardly eat anything, so I cut lunch short, having only half a rice-cake with some butter. Jaidev isn’t there, and Teddy just keeps trying to talk to me. I tell him I’ve got a headache and want to rest before my assessment.
Up in my room, I pull Misty Copeland’s memoir, Life in Motion, from my bookshelf. I’ve read it countless times already, and the pages are well-thumbed. The margins are covered in my pencil scrawl as I made notes on the first couple of times, I read it. I was analytical then, trying to pick out things Misty said that could translate to me. Things to make me a better dancer. Because Misty is amazing. She only started ballet when she was thirteen, and now she’s one of the most famous dancers. Not only did she start late, but she’s a Black dancer—and reading the words of marginalized dancers suddenly seems more important than ever.
So, I let her words fill me, until it’s time to be assessed.
###
I’M A BUNDLE OF NERVES as Jaidev and I meet in Studio 13. Unlucky number thirteen. Great. I try not to let superstition get the better of me, but Helena died on a Friday 13th and since then I have always paid attention to that number.
Mr. Vikas and Mr. Aleks are already here, as are Evangeline and a pianist I don’t know.
“Warm up quickly,” Mr. Vikas tells us. “Mr. Aleks hasn’t got long here.”
We do—but warming up with the scrutinizing eyes of both the ballet master and artistic director on me isn’t easy, I’m self-conscious and very aware that I’m trembling. I glance at Jaidev. His eyes are focused as he warms up next to me, also at the barre.
“Just relax,” Evangeline whispers, and the door opens, revealing a tired-looking Miss Tavi.
But I can’t relax. This is like one of those nightmares I got before every exam and assessment in the academy. I never get these nightmares before the performances or shows, even that last one which was also an assessment for graduation and an audition, but that had a different vibe to it. Whereas this is exactly like the formal academy assessments midsemester, where the teachers watch and frown, where you’re trying to swallow your nausea and concentrate on remembering your combinations. Where you’re waiting to be told if you’re good enough to get a lead role in the main production. Where every student in the room is just as nervous while also trying not to show it.
“Okay, let’s see the divertissement pas de deux, then,” Mr. Aleks says. He stands at the front of the studio, his arms folded across his body.
The pianist starts playing, just like that. Jaidev and I scurry to our starting positions. My chest rises and falls too quickly, too sharply. There’s a rushing sound in my ears. My blood feels too heavy in my legs, weighing me down. My stomach twists.
Then we begin.
I’m concentrating so hard, trying to remember the choreography, trying to keep time, trying to match my timings to the music, trying to keep character, trying to maintain my connection with Jaidev, trying not to look at Mr. Vikas or Mr. Alex or Miss Tavi or even Evangeline, though she’s smiling. I’m just trying to get through it. I feel clumsy as I dance, even though I know I’m managing it well. Despite how much my head is spinning, I’m not making mistakes.
Evangeline claps when we finish. I am giddy, breathless. Jaidev gives me a smile, then runs his hands through his hair. It almost feels surreal that we’ve finished, that we’ve got through the whole routine.
Miss Tavi nods.
Mr. Vikas clears his throat. “Good.”
Good?
I look at him, trying to read his body language. Some teachers say ‘good’ as their highest mark of praise, but for others, it’s the level that’s only slightly above ‘satisfactory.’
Mr. Aleks strides forward. He makes a considering noise then turns to the ballet master. “Technically, it’s strong. They’re both up to the standard for the company, but it’s wooden emotionally.”
My heart sinks. Wooden emotionally.
“It’s lacking romantic connection between them.” Mr. Aleks casts his eyes over me and Jaidev. “Their romance isn’t believable, and it’s affecting the fluidity and emotion of their dance.”
Technically strong, but lacking romantic connection. I take a deep breath. I never had that problem with Teddy. But of course me and Jaidev have got this problem, and of course we’re lacking intimacy and emotional connection. We’ve only been dancing together for two weeks.
“We’ll do it,” Jaidev says. His voice is eager, earnest. “We’ll practice until we’ve got this. We won’t let you down.”
“Good.” And with that, Mr. Aleks sweeps out of the room.
Mr. Vikas gives us some specific technical feedback on various parts of our pas de deux and suggests we book in for some extra character lessons together, too. “Learn to create a connection if there isn’t one.”
We both nod.
Evangeline says she’ll be back later for our scheduled choreography session, and then it’s just the two of us.
“It could’ve gone better,” Jaidev says. His eyes are sad, and I realize just how much he wants this too.
“It didn’t go badly,” I say. “Technically, we are good. Good enough for the company.”
“But wooden.”
I shrug and try to focus on keeping my voice light. “We can’t be harsh, though. We have to focus both on what we’ve done well and what we need to improve.”
He just shrugs, then crouches and pulls off one of his canvas flats. “It’s the romance, Taryn. The romance is the problem.” His voice is low, and he looks up at me through his dark lashes. “That’s what we are missing. We are not believable in our romance when we dance because we do not have any romance.”
“It takes time,” I say. “It always does.” I mean, Teddy and I connected quite quickly, but it wasn’t instant. Maybe a month or so. It’s just been three weeks.
“And time is what we do not have.” He makes a strange noise in his throat, sort of like he’s clearing it but kind of like a growl too. “But maybe there is a chance, if we can...make it real?”
Make it real? I stare at him. I don’t understand what he’s meaning. You can’t just make romance real because you want to. I can’t do that.
He smiles, tentatively. “I like you, Taryn, and I believe you like me, too. So... So what if we got together? We could just try it—and it would help our dance, and we’d get this connection that the artistic director wants. It would help us get the permanent contracts here and...” He trails off, then looks away.
“I...uh...”
Getting together with Jaidev? Not just for dance, but for...a relationship? That’s what he’s meaning. I don’t know what to say. My head spins. He’s attracted to me? And he thinks I am to him? He’s presuming my romantic orientation, maybe even my sexuality, just like that? But then again, maybe those who are on the ace and aro spectrums are the only ones who’d consider that someone might not feel those feelings. But, still, he thinks this is acceptable to do, to propose something like this? He’s admitted he likes me, and he’s using our professional situation to try and further his own goal—of what? Wanting to sleep with me?
“I...” I literally can’t speak. It’s like I’m shaking inside. Teddy told me his dance partners before Roseheart all wanted relationships with him, and it made it awkward to dance with them afterward.
I stare at Jaidev, almost unable to believe he’s done this. It’s already awkward enough at times between us, and if we even get this contract, I’ll be dancing with him for years. And if we don’t get it, it’s still another year of dancing with him at the academy.
Oh, God.
“Taryn, I’m sorry.”
“I’ve got to go.” I grab my bag and leave the studio.