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I take a seat behind them, mainly because I don’t want to draw too much attention to myself, and also because I’m curious to know what these women are doing here.
There’s an older woman standing at the front of the class dressed in a pair of loose navy blue track pants, a white and green striped turtleneck, and a fluffy purple vest. There’s a regality to her, likely thanks to the perfect bun atop her head and the hard red lipstick she wears. The woman claps her hands twice, capturing the attention of the forty-some dancers.
“All right, everybody,” she says, “now that barre is done, we’ll move on to center. We’re going to do a tendu combination to start. Start en face. Tendu, and fifth, dégagé, tendu, fifth, dégagé, tendu. And fifth. Then repeat on the other side.”
My mind swirls.
Did I just have a stroke? Or was she actually saying words?
I look around. I seem to be the only person here who’s completely lost.
“Side and fifth, side and fifth,” the class master continues. She moves as she speaks, demonstrating the exact moves she wants to see. “A little ronde de jambe with the right, a little ronde de jambe with the left. Sous-sus, plié, relevé, single turn, plié, sous-sus, and then come down. Did you get all that?”
I want to scream fuck no, but I bite my tongue to keep from interrupting.
“Yes, Miss Helen,” the dancers say in chorus.
“First group, please.”
Ballet shoes shuffle over the hard floor, people moving about with both grace and purpose. I don’t understand how they’re able to organize themselves so efficiently, breaking up into separate groups so they all have ample space to warm up. Some dancers stand to the side and the back of the studio, a few keen eyes looking up toward the women in the bleachers. I take it that their presence is unusual given all of the excited chatter I overhear.
“God, I’m nervous,” a ballerina whispers to her friend. “What if I fall?”
“Then don’t fall,” the guy next to her mumbles back.
“Aren’t they recruiters from New York?” someone else asks.
“Yes. That’s why I’m nervous, dummy.”
I scan the room, curious to know if Eve’s here or not.
I’m surprised at how quickly I find her in the crowd. She stands out from the rest of her peers, but in a good way. There’s an elegance in the way she holds herself, a maturity that’s severely lacking from the rest.
Eve’s dressed a bit differently today. I’m used to her wearing her leotard and tights ensemble, so it’s a nice change to see her in something different. She’s wearing a lilac crop top made of some sort of mesh fabric, the back of which has an asymmetric cutout pattern. The burgundy shorts she has on look almost like a skirt, flowing about her like they’re made of air. Eve’s hair is pulled back into a sleek ponytail, the loose strands of her bangs clipped back and away from her eyes.
No matter what I do, I can’t bring myself to look away.
I don’t want to.
She’s probably the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Upbeat piano music begins to play over the studio speakers, prompting the dancers to begin their sequence. Eve’s positioned toward the back, but she has no problem outshining all her overeager counterparts upfront.
She moves with precision and speed, but with a gentleness that I can’t even begin to comprehend.
Everything she does is effortless.
I can only blink and breathe and hope to be half as graceful.
One of the women sitting in front of me takes notice. She’s got unnaturally bright red hair. I can only assume that it’s dyed to look that way.
“Which one’s that one?” she asks her colleagues as she points.
The woman immediately next to her, a shrewd-looking thing with a pinched face, quickly flips through the documents on her clipboard. “Evangeline Lee,” she states flatly.
“Her lines are nice. Very polished.”
A weird sense of pride bubbles up into my chest. I can’t help but smile, happy on Eve’s behalf.
“She’s twenty-six,” the second woman says in a low tone. Her words practically drip with condescension.
“So?”
“A little too old, don’t you think? We’d be better off looking at the younger students here.”
I don’t realize I’m clenching my jaw until I hear the sharp squeak of my molars rubbings against each other.
“Maybe you’re right,” the redhead relents.
“Ageists,” I scoff without thinking.
The women turn to face me.
Miss Pinched Face scowls. “And you are?” she demands, an air of elitism surrounding her.
The corner of my lip curls upward into a smirk. I don’t take kindly to her tone. Without further thought, I put on the best British accent I can and lean forward, smiling my signature smile.
“David Burkham,” I introduce myself. “I’m a representative from the Royal Ballet in London.”
Redhead gawks and immediately extends her hand to shake. “R-really?”
