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Irina’s command is a bark that shoots into your very bone marrow like a steel-tipped arrow that never stops spiraling through the air. In all of the classes I’ve taken, I’ve noticed she never has to raise her voice above a whisper to get the attention of the full class, but her tone is strong and vicious enough to halt a charging bear in its tracks.
All twenty of us students turn to look at the imposing skinny Russian teacher standing at the head of the room – our very own unforgiving drill sergeant in front of her obedient army. It’s surprising how short she actually literally is, but she doesn’t give off that impression in the slightest; her cold, stern personality easily fills any space she marches into. Irina’s most prominent feature is her hawklike nose, positioned like she’s in a permanent state of sniffing out a mistake one of her students is making. Her hair is a dark blonde, tied back in the tightest ponytail I have ever seen. So tight that her skin is pulled back like a Botox facelift. Her eyes are small and always suspicious.
Despite her daunting and arresting appearance, I love the harsh Russian woman and all her demands. She is a woman who knows what she likes and what she doesn’t like, and she knows dance better than she knows the air she breathes. She grew up in Soviet-era Russia and her most famous trait is that she never,everhands out compliments. Never.
This class has been Mom’s promised gift to me; her attempt to make up for a hard childhood, and I am so thankful to her for it. She’s been working overtime at the Penmayne mansion in order to send me here, and as a gesture of solidarity so have I.Thisis something I want to take seriously. Iwantto be on that stage performing Swan Lake.
If I’m not spending time at school, Irina’s ballet class, or cleaning at the mansion, then I am practicing my dancing anywhere I can. Dancing is all I’ve thought about these last few months since I started.
Dancing. Dancing. Dancing.
Every night, as I fall asleep, I am regaled by the memory of those ballet dancers on the screen - how they looked and how graceful and beautiful they were.
And how my one dream in life is to be on that stage.
Irina marches through her class with her trademark grace and perfect former dancer posture until she comes to a stop in front of the girl beside me. Right in front of Britney Davis - the “popular” girl of the class, and someone who seems to have her bullying eye on me ever since I started these lessons. She’s never been kind, not even when I first introduced myself to her. That day she took one look at me and my outstretched hand and simply...scoffedat my appearance and walked away. I’ve come to sniff out that she’s been out to get me because she thinks I’m too poor to dare attend the same ballet class as her. Britney’s parents, although nowhere near as rich as the Penmayne’s, have donated significant sums to this dance academy and are part of the good stock of Crystal River.
They ain’t maids, that’s for sure. And Britney very much likes to remind me of that fact ever lesson.
I don’t like Britney, nor her endless nasty comments directed my way, but I take pity that she’s clearly about to be targeted by our no-nonsense teacher.
No one can survive Irina’s beratement...
Irina stares at Britney for a very long time, unblinking in that Soviet way of hers.
Then she speaks.
“Your posture is going to want me to get on the next plane back to Mother Russia, Britney Davis.”
A comment like that, from her, is normal in this class. I have learned the hard way that you never, ever speak back to Irina, no matter how vicious she can be. In this studio, she runs an all-powerful military dictatorship. That’s how she’s earned the fearsome reputation as a woman who produces world-class dancers. That’s why so many young girls around the world would kill to be standing in Britney’s position right now, getting such a comment from this famous teacher.
“I don’t think my posture’s that bad,” the girl replies. “Besides, it’s not that important when I’m perfect with my steps.”
Oh, crap. Here we go.
Unlike me, Britney hasn’t come to the simple realization that you never, ever backtalk Irina Volkov.
The whole class hushes as we hold our breaths for what might be coming next.
“Let me put something into your head, little girl,” Irina snarls quietly in her thick accent, “Posture is not something to make laughing about. Posture, to people like you, might not mean anything, but it is the concrete of dance. It is the foundation on which a house is built. You might not care about posture, but that means you do not care about dance. You do care about dance, Miss Davis?”
Britney nods, finally realizing her error. Despite how much of a bully she might be in the real world, she can no longer be the queen bee when Irina’s around.
“I do care about dance, Ms. Volkov.”
“You want to continue in this class?” the teacher asks her. “I have plenty of girls ready and willing to take your place. I do not care how much your parents have donated to this dance school. I will have you out in a heartbeat.”
“I do want to take your class,” Britney replies.
Irina takes a step forward and regards the girl for a solid long minute before she speaks again.
“Good,” she whispers.
The bell rings out, signaling the end of the two-hour-long class. Immediately, students start to pack up, but Irina remains as still as a statue, staring intensely at the girl next to me. I don’t dare move in case I incur her critical gaze as well.
And then, finally, Irina steps away and disappears from the classroom, and Britney lets go a sigh of relief.
I take the time to stagger over to the corner of the studio where my bag is. My body feels shattered into a million pieces by the strenuous workout Irina has put us through, but it actually feels good at the same time. I feel like I’m learning the art of dance in the best way possible. Every day I feel like I’m becoming a better and better performer, even if I have had my start in this world much, much later in life compared to the girls around me.
