“There aren’t many, Mom.”
“There’s like… all of the Dance Theatre of Harlem. And Alvin Ailey. There’s Misty Copeland.”
“But I’m not Misty Copeland. I don’t want to be Misty Copeland. Everyone compares me to Misty.”
“That’s a huge compliment, Luce.”
“That’s just what they go to because they can’t think of anyone else. And I don’t want to dance for Alvin Ailey—I know you love them—or the Dance Theatre of Harlem. Or Auntie Jane’s company. Please don’t tell her that. I want to dance for the Paris Opéra. Or the Royal Ballet in London. Or New York City Ballet. I don’t want to do modern or contemporary or anything else. I want to do classic ballet.”
She is so worked up, she’s beginning to sweat. Her cheeks flushed, her eyes enlarged.
“But I guess it’s a nonissue now, because my body is all wrong.”
“Your body isnotall wrong.”
“It is. You don’t have to lie to me. It is.” She bites her lip, hard. Her eyes are brimming. Oh, my sweet little Ladybug.
I move to hug her, and she lets me.
“Your body is perfect because it’syourbody. And it’s strong, and flexible, and capable and incredibly well-conditioned. And you can do things with it most of us have only ever dreamed of doing. And when you get to my age and attempt to do an arabesque, but your leg only comes this high off the ground and you’ve lost all flexibility in yourlower back, you will say, ‘Wow. I used to be able to do amazing things with this body. Why was I complaining?’”
“No, I won’t.”
“Yes, you will. Trust me, you will.” I move forward then, holding her heart-shaped face in my hands.
“Forget about Daisy and Mackenzie. If you want to take a break from ballet for a bit and focus on something else, that’s fine. But when you’re ready, I’d like you to try to go back. Maybe we find a different school, a different teacher. But ballet is something that used to make you very, very happy. And I don’t want you to throw it away because of something a couple of mean girls said. Don’t let them win. You’re thirteen. You have decades in the future to give up your dreams.”
She takes a moment to respond. “Did you have dreams you gave up?”
“Nope. Not really. I wanted to make art. I wanted to be a mom. And I wanted to live in France. So”—I smile—“for the moment it’s two out of three. Not so bad.”
She smiles then. Her first in a long while. “Not so bad.”
I don’t see Anouk until a week later, at a cocktail party Kennedy is cohosting for a nonprofit organization. The event takes place in Brentwood at the home of a friend of hers on Carmelina Avenue, situated on a large lot below Sunset.
Hayden and I arrive together at the secluded Mediterranean-style manse and are greeted with glasses of Moët & Chandon in the oversized living room. There are servers proffering trays of Parmesan-stuffed bacon-wrapped dates and new potatoes dolloped with crème fraîche and caviar. An Agnes Martin over the fireplace. A Damien Hirst on the opposing wall. The crowd is a sea of similar faces. Ones that I do not individually recognize but at the same time feel familiar. Frozen, filled. The Westside Tribe.
Champagne and canapés in hand we spill out into the backyard with its beautifully cultivated garden. The sky a muted purple. Magnolia and olive trees lit from below.
Kennedy spots us and waves us over to where she is standing with Brooke and another blond I don’t recognize.
“You gorgeous women, you, thank you for coming!” she greets us. “Meet Aurora, my cohost. Aurora, you know Hayden Altschul, Ryan’s wife. And this is Cecilia Chen, the artist friend I told you about. She’s showing at the Hammer. Cecilia’s husband is François Charlot.”
“Yes, of course, lovely to meet you, Cecilia.”
Aurora resembles a fortysomething Candice Bergen. Enviably thick bob, clefted chin, ski-jump nose. Her navy sheath dress and pearls feel decidedly un-LA. More north of the Merritt than north of San Vicente. For a brief moment, Lorry Kenter comes to mind, his Waspy mother with her Fair Isle sweaters and her worn duck boots, and the countless times I drove the verdant parkway to his family’s home in Greenwich. Mostly eager, happy. Once, crying so hard I could not see.
“You have a beautiful home,” I say.
“Thank you. So glad you ladies could sneak out on a school night. I know people are distracted with the election next week, but this organization is doing such great work, Kennedy and I wanted to do something special. So many important causes in the world. But we’re women, we can focus on more than one cause at a time. Please drink, eat. There’s a short presentation inside in fifteen minutes.”
Hayden leans into me, the moment Aurora’s out of earshot. “You know, this is their party house. They actually live in the house next door.”
“Vanessa did the interiors. We used her for our place in Punta Mita,” Brooke adds.
“Theirpartyhouse?”
“Yep.” Brooke nods. “Aurora and her husband own houses on adjacent lots. One they live in, and the other they use for parties and fundraising events. Great tax write-off.”
