“Gross,” Victor says under his breath. I decide not to takeoffense at it. I’m pretty sure he’d say the same thing if I were dating a woman.
“You’re dating one of the dancers?” one of the girls in the row in front of us asks, craning her neck around to get a good look at me.
“Really?”
“Which one?”
“Is he The Nutcracker?”
“Mr. Matthews, how did you meet a dancer?”
A flurry of questions from a group of third-grade girls comes hurdling at me, one after another, with no pause for me to answer.
It’s clear why I keep my mouth shut, right? Silas gives me a satisfied grin as I sink further down in my seat, ignoring the questions that keep coming my way, and plot my revenge.
Thankfully, the lights flash a couple of times, signaling that the show is about to start. These special productions for elementary school classes are a little different. They dim the lights, but don’t make it dark so that we can keep a better eye on the kids. It’s an entirely different vibe than when I was here a week and a half ago.
And didn’t tell Covey.
I meant to, but then I didn’t. And the longer I didn’t, the less I thought it was worth mentioning. He’ll know I was here today, which is all that matters. And then at least if I say something about his performance, he’ll attribute it to tonight, and I don’t have to be so on edge, worried I’ll accidentally say something.
A woman steps out on stage, carrying a microphone. “Good afternoon,” she says a little too exuberantly.
“Good afternoon,” the students repeat, used to this type of call and response.
Thankfully, she doesn’t do the bit where she makes them try again. Instead, she goes on to explain what they’re going to see on stage today, talking about the history of The Nutcracker and the changes that have been made to it over the years. Most of the information is also in the program, but none of the students have read it.
Soon, she introduces the dances, the lights fade slightly more, and the curtain opens.
Even having seen this once this year, I’m instantly mesmerized by the scene in front of me. Even more once Covey is on stage, there’s something about his presence. And yeah, I know I’m biased, but I think he’s the best one. Maybe not the dancing—I can’t say—but the aura he gives off. His face and body language are so expressive the whole time. Maybe it’s because I can see better from this seat than I could on the balcony. Maybe because he’s performing for the kids, but I have to say that it’s incredible to watch him.
I can’t wait until the kids get to meet him after the show. It’s a thing the dancers do. When I found out about it yesterday, I texted Covey to make sure he’d be one of them.I got a thumbs up and a winky face, so I’m guessing he’ll be there.
Maybe I should give him a heads-up that the kids think we’re dating. One more thing to add to the mess we’re making.
When I do manage to tear my gaze away from the stage, I can’t help but look at the expressions on the faces of the children. Sure, a few are bored out of their minds, but the rest are looking at the stage with an expression I rarely see unless it’s about a new video game. Pride threatens to spill out of my chest. It’s stupid, but I’m overjoyed that it’s Covey who gives them this bit of holiday joy. With a little bit of help from the rest of the dance company.
That feeling stays right up until someone tugs at my shirt sleeve. “Mr. Matthews? I need to go potty.”
COVEY
Performances during School Week, where we do matinees every afternoon for local elementary, middle, and high schools, are exhausting. It’s an incredible way to connect to the community, people who might not otherwise come to the ballet, and to share a bit of our art.
It’d be hard enough if it was all we did, but it’s not. There are still company classes in the morning, rehearsals in the evening with the various casts of children, and rehearsals for the new show we’ll be debuting in February. It’s a grueling schedule that’s breaking my body down faster than I imagined.
Still, as I make my way toward the theater lobby, I can’t help the smile that stretches across my face. This is where I belong.I’ve felt for a while that being back in Burlington is the right choice, but being here, doing these shows, really cements my decision.
And then there’s Aidan.My pulse picks up the minute I see him. He’s easy to spot, too, towering over most people in a room full of elementary schoolers. He’s a big part of this content feeling. I’m still trying to work through all of that, figure out what we are to each other. As long as we’re together, I guess I don’t care what we call it.
He’s in professional attire, a button-down shirt and tie, plus a pair of black pants. Even with that, he looks incredible. It’s not the look that draws me in. It’s the way the kids hang—literally—on him, like they’re trying to soak up every word that he says. It’s the same way I feel when he’s around, like if I don’t get every ounce of his attention, I’ll die.
I’m one of the first dancers out, but as soon as a few more company members join me, the kids turn and start to rush toward us.
Okay, by us, I mainly mean the female dancers. Theyalways get the attention. That, and Anders. As the lead for the Candy Cane dance, he’s earned every ounce of attention. It’s a pure show of strength, with plenty of quick jumps and turns.
Aidan spots me and we lock gazes. I give him a ridiculous little wave that several of the kids return. They don’t make a move toward me, so I push my way toward him, moving through groups of students flocked around the women, begging to touch their tutus.
“Hey,” I say.
