I didn't make it because I was good enough. I only made it because they were desperate.
Still, I really thought they'd see my potential; that I was worthy of a spot permanently. Or at least for one more season. But before you could say plié, there I was, in Roberto's office, with him telling me what apleasureit'd been to work with me and how they wereeternally gratefulthat I'd been able to fill in in a pinch. But I had to understand that I'd outlasted the normaltime frameof a trainee.
And then he sent me on my way.
I don't even get to take classes there anymore. My temporary corps status has been revoked. I'm no longer considered a trainee. Apparently, I'm not trainable.
Ballet is now recreation for me. I can't even call myself a ballerina anymore.
Auditioning for this part at The Edison was a last-ditch effort to stay professional. To stay relevant. To prove that I wasn't a total failure.
God, I can't believe how far I've let myself fall. I've always wanted to do my best. To be the best. And now I'm settling for barely not failing.
Yeah, no. I won't be telling my parents about this. I don't even have to hear their voices to know what their disappointment will sound like.
"Not right now."
"But won't they want to fly in from Columbus to see you? They did when you were inGiselle."
I shrug, trying to ignore the sick feeling creeping up from my stomach. Instead, I focus on the laundry I'm folding.
How can I even invite my parents out? There's no guarantee that I'll ever even perform. It'd be like going to my dad's rugby game, only to have him never join the scrum.
It goes without saying that even with injuries, he always played. Started. Because that's what you do when you're the son of the best rugby player in Fijian history. You topple your father's records and become the new best.
Each generation shall be better than the last. We will be the best. Whatever it takes.
Except taking a role in a stage production of a ballet, instead of performing in an actual ballet, is not the best. Especially when that role is the understudy. It might be better to walk away than to admit that I'm second rate.
"I don't know, it's like I'm selling out."
"Again, you're a performing artist. Everything you do is selling out. You do it so you can do your craft. Don't you want to get paid to dance? Don't you want the chance to perform? You aren't guaranteed any more chances if you don't take it." Imani looks around our tiny apartment, her gaze landing on the poster above my bed. She smirks. "You're obsessed with this show. I'd never even heard ofAn American in Parisuntil I met you. Weren't you like, named after it?"
I look at the poster from the Broadway musical adaptation, cartoon Lise's yellow dress ruffling in the Paris breeze. "I was named after the actress who played her in the movie."
"So you were like, literally born for this role." Imani picks up a pair of socks I've just meticulously rolled and tucked. "You'd be stupid not to take it." She throws the socks at me. I attempt to catch them but miss, just as I did with every ball ever tossed my way, much to the chagrin of my athletic father and grandfather.
I plop down on the couch and pull out my phone. For the second—okay, seventeenth—time, I pull up the website for The Edison, clicking on the link for musical director Josh deChambeau.
His hair is much longer than it was ten years ago. It now hangs in flowing wavy locks to his shoulders if his headshot is still accurate. Behind the scenes photos show him sitting at a piano, dressed in black. But there's this one picture that I can't tear my eyes away from. It's from some casual performance. Josh is perched on a stool, hunched over his guitar. He's wearing old jeans and a T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off. His hair, pulled back, is escaping from the band, and pieces fall around his face. That's not what gets me. It's his smile, white teeth all in a row.
The same smile that broke through the world of pain I was in and touched my soul.
It's familiar and comforting, and it soothes me like a tonic.
Ten years ago, I fell in love with that smile. Ten years later, I'm even more broken than I was then. But he saw me through my faults and loved me anyway.
Maybe I just need someone to love me again, despite my shortcomings.
Aww, hell.
I'm going to Hicklam.
Chapter 2: Josh
Josh, man, you're the luckiest son of a bitch I've ever met."
While I appreciate D'von's words of encouragement, I don't know that my drummer has the best perspective on my life. What he sees might seem like luck, but there's been a tremendous amount ofsuckalong the way.
