March 19th, 11 a.m.
I ENTER THE audition room with my head high.
The director of the school smiles to the other judges. “Here’s our first student, Natalya Pushkaya, the daughter of Katya Pushkaya.” I’m not sure he says this so that everyone knows exactly who I am or because he’s trying to remind me that I need to be at least as good as my mother. His eyes bore into mine. “Natalya, are you ready?”
I nod, not trusting my vocal cords. The director raises one finger to the technician. My heart pounds in my ears until I hear the first notes.
The music pulls me into the story and the audience is no longer there. I’m Aurora, and I bow to my suitors, energy extending to my fingertips. I turn away, suddenly shy, but butterflies flutter in my stomach. I can look for love. Love can be real and I have the world in front of me. I tap my toe and extend my back leg, and then turn into a pirouette.
One turn.
Two turns.
Three turns.
I pause, inhale and exhale, and wait for the music to change.
As soon as it does, I retreat to the darkest place inside myself, to the part of me no one knows, the part that feels empty and lost, that misses her babushka so much that it hurts not to cry, but that knows crying would destroy her. Everyone has a dark place they keep hidden most of the times. No one is only made of sunshine; even those people smiling or laughing all the time have memories that hurt them and people they miss. Being happy doesn’t mean never being sad.
My movements grow heavier. My eyes drift closed, and when I open them, I see darkness around me.
I finish this segment of the dance, almost in tears.
I bow. My entire body pulsates, my heart hammers, and when I look at the judges, I hear my mother’s name and the words at least as talented.
I’m about to burst with pride, but instead of doing a small jump, the end of my performance lingers in my mind. I bite the inside of my cheek, grounding myself in the present.
The judges nod politely and take a few notes. Maria, the former dancer from the American Ballet Company, gives me a thumbs-up while the other judges deliberate.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Our decision will be posted on the wall on Monday,” the director says. Then he clears his throat. “But you know, Natalya, make sure you rest this weekend. You’ll need it in the next few weeks.”
“I will,” I say. My brain is going through all the possible hidden meanings of this statement. Either I’ll need to practice because I sucked or I am getting an important role. Maybe the role.
Only three more days until I find out.
Svetlana opens the door of the audition room and ushers me out.
My heart does little energetic pas chassés and I’m so excited that I skip down the hall as soon as the door closes behind me. I almost run into Emilia, who’s biting the skin around her nails.
“You did great, didn’t you? I can’t believe I’m going after you. Right after the best student at school. I’m doomed!” She sighs and then smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m happy for you. But you know, I just want to be first for once.” She pauses and then turns away, muttering. “First somewhere. I’m not first anywhere, not with my parents, not with him. Not here.”
She sniffles.
“You’ll do fine,” I tell her. “You’re going to be amazing. If I’m threatened by anyone, it’s you.”
And it’s half-true. I am afraid of her being chosen instead of me. She doesn’t have the passion, but she has the technique, and her mom’s a big donor to the school. Mine’s a celebrity in her own right, but she’s hardly throwing money at the board.
I squeeze her hand. “Look at me.” I pause until our gazes lock. “You worked hard for this. You performed the routine perfectly yesterday. Just let yourself go.”
“What do you mean?”
“Stop overthinking the routine. Feel it. Feel every movement. When you dance, pretend Nick’s the only one watching you.”
“Nick? You really want me to fail, don’t you?” She laughs, but her eyes sparkle at the idea and I know I’m right.
“You want him to wake you up with a kiss. You want to live every moment of the kiss, you want everyone to feel the way you do. Show them how you feel!”
“Emilia,” Svetlana calls.
“You can do it. I mean it. Do you want me to wait for you?”
She shakes her head. “No. Go. I’ll be fine. Thank you.” She walks to the entrance, her head high and her shoulders back.
And like we do before any big event, I call out what many ballerinas around the world use instead of the ill-fated break a leg. “Merde!”
She doesn’t turn back to me.