Emmy
Choreographer [kor-ee-og-ruh-fer] n—A person who creates dance compositions
His eyes are on me as I extend my leg into an arabesque. André Dupont. One of, if not the most talented classical ballet choreographers alive today. Here at BYU for an entire month to choreograph a routine we’ll perform next month in BYU’s Contemporary Dance in Concert. While I’ve always preferred classical ballet to contemporary, since dancing with Rhys, I have a newfound love for modern dance too.
This show will be a much smaller exhibition than last semester’s recital showcase, but to me, it’s more important. Since my talk with Lucy over Christmas break, I’ve mentally prepared for this moment, but I wasn’t expecting someone as talented as André to be judging me. I can do this though. I will not repeat last semester’s failure; I will earn this solo.
André walks slowly around the perimeter of the room, appraising each dancer as we warm up. I stand in the far corner next to David, like always.
Ballet Master Miller calls us to the center and demonstrates the simple combination that will serve as the audition piece. I watch her back, careful not to let my eyes rise to her reflection in the mirror so I don’t reverse the steps. I run the combination in my head as I walk to the barre to wait for my turn.
I’m confident in my abilities as I watch dancer after dancer audition. I worked hard with David all last semester, and Rhys reminded me why I love ballet. Rhys.
My heart pounds when I’m called to the center. I begin the audition piece, and my head races. Rhys is there at every turn. Every time I leap and with each extension. I try to clear my head, but like my audition in the fall, I unravel. My confidence is replaced with melancholy. I’ll never get this solo. Not only was I not cast as the lead last semester, but I’m struggling to make it through each day now.
By some miracle, my technique carries me through the combination, even though my head and heart are with Rhys.
How am I supposed to go back to who I was before Rhys when he’s still here? In my studio. In my head. In my dancing. I can’t. It’s not possible.
As soon as I complete the combination, I grab my bag and rush into the hall. By no means is this my strongest audition, but I put everything I had into it.
I don’t make it three feet before a deep voice stops me. “What was that?”
When I turn, David is standing behind me with his arms crossed.
“What was what?”
David points to the studio. “You’ve always been good, but that was”—his eyebrows inch up his forehead, widening his eyes—“incredible.”
“It was sloppy and emotional.” Hardly incredible.
“Maybe, but it was also the most honest performance I’ve ever seen you give. André couldn’t take his eyes off you.”
Last semester, I would have been giddy to hear that, but now, without someone to share this victory, without Rhys, it feels incomplete.
* * *
In my last new class of winter semester, the second half of the Book of Mormon, I sit next to the door, wishing Rhys would walk in and somehow we’d be able to find a way to work through this. It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid. There are several sections of this class, and it’s unlikely he’ll end up in this one, but I watch the door for him anyway.
Fewer and fewer people walk in, and finally class begins.
No Rhys.
Syllabi are passed down the long rows. When the door opens a few minutes later, my heart jumps into my throat with hope that it’s Rhys but then sinks when a guy with sandy blond hair walks in instead. He’s tall and broad shouldered. By all means good-looking, but not Rhys.
“This seat taken?” The guy points to the open seat next to me, and I shake my head. He sinks low in his chair and kicks his legs out like Rhys used to do.
“I’m Nathan,” he whispers. “You can call me Nate if you want.”
I try my best to smile, but it feels more like a wince. “Emelia.” I don’t introduce myself as Emmy. Emmy belongs to Rhys.
“Nice to meet you.” He grins, and it’s a nice grin, but not as nice as—
I turn my attention back to the professor, who’s discussing his expectations for the semester. Every task and assignment feels insurmountable. Not because I have dyslexia but because I don’t have Rhys. It’s hard to care about trivial things like homework assignments, midterms, and tests.
My cell phone vibrates with a text. I pull it out of my bag but keep it low in my lap so I don’t anger the professor. It’s a picture from David of the cast list. My eyes dart away from the screen, not ready to know whether I got the solo.
Nathan leans over. “Everything okay?”
I power off the screen and drop the phone back into my bag. I’ll wait until after class, when I can break down in private. “Fine, thanks.”
He eases back into his seat, and I try to concentrate on the rest of the lecture. When class ends, I stuff my iPad mini into my bag. I’m about to stand up when Nathan turns to me.
“Where are you from?” he asks.
“California,” I mumble. “You?”
“Far-off, exotic Draper.”
“You’ve traveled a long distance to get here.”
Amusement lights his pale-blue eyes. “What can I say? BYU is worth the travel.”
I hear myself giggle, though it doesn’t feel real, like my body knows the script: giggle after cute guy makes a joke. But I don’t feel it. I hoist my bag onto my shoulder, ready to make an escape.
“I know this might be forward, but do you have a boyfriend?”
I nearly choke on my fake grin. “W-what?”
“Boyfriend? Fiancé?” He searches my face for the answer.
“That is forward.”
He laughs. “No one would accuse me of being subtle. So do you?”
“I just, uh, got out of something. It didn’t end well.”
“I’m mostly sorry to hear that.”
“Mostly?”
A dimple appears to the right of his growing smile. “I’d be lying if I said I was completely sorry because that would mean I wouldn’t be able to ask you out.”
He cannot be serious. “Wow” is all I can think to say.
He winces. At least he’s smart enough to show remorse. “I’m sorry. I’m not—I mean, I date a lot but not because I’m a player. I want to, you know, settle down.”
“Nathan—”
“Nate,” he corrects.
“Right, Nate. We just met, and you’ve already brought up settling down. I’m sorry, but I’m not looking for a relationship right now.”
His face falls, and it’s like I’m reliving my breakup with Rhys. Breakup. Ex-boyfriend. It’s been a month, but it still doesn’t feel real. “I’m flattered, but I’m not ready to date again so soon.” Or ever.
“Yeah. I understand.” Nathan’s gaze falls to his desk. The transformation from cocky player to kicked puppy is so sudden that had I not experienced the confidence this guy had five minutes ago, I would never have believed this was the same guy. The dimple on his cheek is still there, but the smile beside it has turned into a grimace.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“It’s okay. But promise me that if you’re ever ready to move on, you’ll let me take you to dinner.”
Me getting over Rhys isn’t going to happen. “It’s a deal.”
“All right, then,” he says, and we both stand. “Where are you headed?”
We shuffle down the row toward the door. “The RB for ballet.”
“A ballerina, huh?”
“Maybe one day. For now, I’m just a ballet dancer.”
He holds the door open for me, and I follow him outside.
“See you next time,” he says, and we start our separate ways. “Emelia,” he calls out, walking backward. “Remember, you promised.”
My head tilts to the side in question.
“If you decide to move on, I’m your guy.”
Laughing, I wave good-bye and then hurry toward the RB, anxious to learn which role I’ve earned for the exhibition. I’m almost to the ramp behind the Maeser building when someone shouts my name. I turn and find Kennedy jogging over, waving her arms. My heart jumps, thinking Evie might be with her. I search frantically, but no, it’s just Kennedy.
“You are one hard woman to chase down.” She pants as she nears.
“Hi, Kennedy.”
“Have you talked to Evie lately?” she says without bothering to greet me back.
It probably shouldn’t bother me that Kennedy has obviously talked with Evie since Thanksgiving and I haven’t, but it does. I’m dealing with a breakup, classes I’m in over my head with, and once again I’ve probably blown another solo. I’m depressed and overwhelmed, and I need my sister. I shake my head. “No. I haven’t seen her.” I haven’t even talked to her. This is the longest we’ve ever gone without speaking. We’ve had fights before, but they’ve been nothing like this and never this long.
“Call her,” Kennedy urges. “She needs you.”
“But she wants Q.” And space. And time. And not me. “I appreciate you trying to help—really, I do—but she asked me to give her and Q time alone, and I’m trying to respect that.” No matter how hard it may be for me.
“But—”
I turn my back to Kennedy and hurry down the pathway to the RB without saying good-bye. It’s rude, but seeing her is a painful reminder of everything I’m missing, and I’m anxious to leave.
My phone buzzes in my bag, notifying me of the text David sent with the cast list. As much as I want to walk into the ballet studio with my head held high no matter what part I got, with everything on my mind, I’m not sure I can. I miss my sister, I miss Rhys, and I miss ballet too much to be okay with failing again. Knowing what part I have now will help me be better prepared when I get to class in a few minutes.
Hand trembling, I swipe my thumb across the screen, then zoom in on the picture to search for my name. It doesn’t take me long to find it because right there at the top of the list is my name next to the word solo.