March 19th, 10 a.m.
THE SCHOOL OF PERFORMING ARTS in New York City is the best foot in the door to Juilliard, to the American Ballet Company, to ballet companies around the world. And the end-of-the-year showcase is a way to get spotted, recruited, to make an imprint on the dancing world. If I manage to get the main role as a junior, I’ll be making history. Only seniors get it, but everyone’s allowed to try out.
And everyone does try out.
I’m the first one on the long list of hopefuls waiting to prove to the school I have what it takes to make it to the top. In one hour, I need to present myself to the stage, side A. And all I can think about is how Mama sounded yesterday on the phone. How Papa told me I shouldn’t come home this weekend.
Maybe, if I called them now. Maybe I could ask Mama how she always managed to own the room as soon as she stepped onto a stage, how she made the character’s emotions so clear in her movements. Maybe she’ll finally tell me that she’s proud of me.
Papa says it all the time. He says that as long I try my best, he’s proud of me, that it doesn’t matter if I’m a prima assoluta or if I decide to quit dancing: As long as you try your best, as long as you don’t give up just because you think it’s too hard, as long as you do what makes you happy, I’m proud of you, Natoushka.
I have no idea what Mama thinks about my career. Sure, she smiles when she sees me on stage. Sure, she pushes me. She always reminds me to do my stretching exercises. She always reminds me to stand straight, not because it is proper but because, It’s not ballerina-like to slouch. It’s also not “ballerina-like” to cry because your feet bleed or because you’ve twisted your knee more times than you can count.
It’s not like I’ve heard any of her advice in the recent months anyway.
I grind my teeth, stand up, and extend my hands to the floor. I should be stretching, getting ready, definitely not worrying about my parents. There’s only one way for me to forget about them, about the drama waiting for me at home: dancing.
I turn up the music and continue stretching, but I can’t clear my head. In one of the latest issues of Dance Magazine, several dancers explained what it was like to dance Aurora. Jenifer Ringer—New York City Ballet principal dancer—told Dance Magazine that “the magic of the fairy tale” was the most important thing, that the show should transport people to another place. I need to go to that magical place myself. I need to believe it so it’s easier for others to believe me. Irina Kolpakova from Kirov Ballet said to listen to the music, that it says everything.
I bow my head to my knee, extend my arm over my head, inhale, exhale deeply, close my eyes, and listen to the rhythm, to the story. I try to forget about the pain in my right knee; I’ve twisted it a few times and it’s always a bit painful. But nothing can stop me.
The music envelops me, resonates within me. Aurora goes through so many stages of her life in the ballet. I can be as excited as she is, discovering love, discovering what she wants to live for. And then, there is the sadness, the sorrow of being bound without even knowing it before she becomes free again. The audition comprises a few minutes of the Rose Adagio, when Aurora meets her suitors for the first time, followed by a few minutes of Aurora dancing more slowly, more languidly as she falls under the sleeping spell cast upon by Maleficent.
I do one last stretch, my arms above my head, leaning as far as I can to the right and then to the left, and I take a deep breath. It’s time to go through the choreography.
I stand up, and my legs take over. Forgotten are the hours spent rehearsing, the arguments with Mama, the fleeting thought that my knee could give up on me, leaving me without hope and dreams, and I become Aurora. It’s as if I have been her all along and these steps are mine.
The music is joyous and happy images flash in my mind: the day my parents gave me the necklace I’d been eying for weeks, the one with the cute ballet-shoe pendant; the day Becca taught me how to swim and how free I felt in the water; the time my babushka sat me down and told me a bunch of fairy tales, including one about a little girl who would grow up to be loved, happy, and the best ballerina ever, but most importantly, that she would always be cherished by her grandmother.
My grin spreads, and my movements become light as air.
At the end of the music, I stay in the arabesque penché, keeping the energy building inside me. And then I start again, focusing only on a few movements, the ones I know the judges will dissect. My reflection shows me that my figure is okay, that my thighs aren’t too big. I can’t stop myself from enjoying a few treats, but my usual meals include salad, fish, and sometimes a bit of chicken. I only let go when I’m out in a nice restaurant with my uncle Yuri. One of the girls had to leave the school because she’d gained too much weight. Another had to leave because she barely could dance anymore, too weak from an eating disorder. No one said anything to her. Not one single teacher asked her what was wrong, despite being known as the “single apple eater,” despite the fact that everyone still talks about Heidi Noelle Guenther, the twenty-two-year-old member of the corps de ballet, who collapsed and died on a family trip to Disneyland a few years back.
I take a deep breath, trying to regain focus. I change position and work on perfecting my arabesque penché, trying to reach the 180-degree line from working foot to standing foot.
Svetlana—my favorite dance instructor and a former colleague of Mama’s—enters the room as I complete the final stretch to my arabesque. Her lips turn up in a bright smile.
“You look so much like your mom,” she says. “With your hair half-down like that and passion showing in your every movement. Everyone can tell you’re the daughter of the great Katya Pushkaya.” She sighs and clasps her hands together. “She was really amazing.”
“Thank you,” I reply, shaking out my muscles. I mean it—Mama was the best. She was the light illuminating any stage she danced on. She had that little something extra we all strive for: presence, charisma, and a way to lose yourself in the dance, bringing the public into the moment with you. The last time she came to visit me at school, almost everyone was in awe.
Almost.
A few girls had snickered behind my back, saying it’s well known that Mama stopped dancing because she’d developed the habit of going to rehearsal totally wasted. But they’re wrong; she started drinking when she gave up dancing. When she got pregnant with me.
Svetlana turns off the music. “You’re going to do great,” she says, and then steps aside. “They’re ready for you.”
They.
The director of the school, a former dancer from the American Ballet Company who studied here, the head of choreography, and the foundation director.
They’ll be judging me. They’ll be looking at every single movement I make, if my head tilts too much to the right, if my leg isn’t bent perfectly. I rub my knee again. The pain’s not strong, but it’s my weak point.
One wrong move and I could really damage my future.
I can’t let that happen.