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Pain is real, suffocating, and with the right amount of pressure, it’s bound to break my every last barrier.
My endurance is stronger, though.
Loud cheers fill the hall long after the curtains fall for the finale ofThe Nutcracker. I remain on pointe, hands poised in my salute even after we’re out of the public eye.
My ankles scream to be put out of their misery, as they have repeatedly over these last couple of months. Long rehearsals and endless tours have dulled my senses, almost bleeding into one another.
I give it a few seconds, catching my breath before I softly land on the soles of my feet. My ballet shoes are inaudible in the midst of the fuss backstage.
Other dancers release relieved breaths as they either pat each other on the back or simply stand there dumbfounded. We might belong to the New York City Ballet, one of the most prestigious dance companies in the world, but that doesn’t lessen the pressure. If anything, it makes it tenfold worse.
We’re expected to be our absolute best whenever we go on stage. When the company handpicked its dancers, the only rule was: no mistakes are allowed.
The roaring applause at the end of our performance isn’t something we hope for, it’s something we’re expected to accomplish.
The director, Philippe, a tall, slim man with a bald head and thick white moustache, walks over, accompanied by our choreography director, Stephanie.
Philippe smiles, his moustache tipping with the movement, and all of us release a collective breath. He’s not the type to smile after a show unless we’ve done a perfect performance.
“You were marvelous. Bravo!” he speaks with a pronounced French accent, and claps. His entire body joins in the motion, his colorful scarf flying and his tight blazer straining against his body.
Everyone else follows his lead, clapping and congratulating each other.
Everyone except me, the lead male dancer, Ryan, and the second female lead, Hannah.
Some dancers attempt to start small talk with Philippe, but he brazenly ignores them as he walks to me and lifts my hand to his mouth, brushing his lips and moustache against my knuckles. “My most beautiful prima ballerina. You were a work of art tonight, Liachérie.”
“Thank you, Philippe.” I pull my hand back as swiftly as I can and wince when a tendon aches in my left leg. I need to get a pain patch on that as soon as possible.
“Do not thank me. I’m the one who’s honored to have a muse like you.”
That makes me smile. Philippe is definitely the best director I’ve worked with. He understands me better than anyone ever has.
“Ryan.” He nods at the male lead, rolling theRdramatically. “You were perfect.”
“As expected.” Ryan raises an arrogant brow. He has those all-American good looks with a square face, deep blue eyes, and a cleft chin.
“You, too, Hannah,” Philippe says dismissively to her. “You’ll need to work on your pointe forGiselle.”
Her expression lights up as she smirks at me, then clears her throat. Hannah is blonde, a bit taller than me, and has cat eyes that she always accentuates with thick, shadowy makeup. “Does that mean we’ll be auditioning for the lead role?”
Stephanie steps up beside Philippe. She has deep black skin and naturally curly hair that she’s gathered into a pink band. As a former prima ballerina in the NYC Ballet, she has a reputation that precedes her and is as tenacious as Philippe, but they work surprisingly well as a team. “There will be an audition, but not for the lead.”
“But why—” Hannah stops herself from snapping at the last second.
Stephanie motions her head at me. “The producers already picked Lia to be Giselle.”
Hannah’s gaze meets mine with nothing short of malice. I give her a cool one in return. Being in ballet since I was five has taught me to rise above their petty jealousy and catfights. I’m here because I love to dance and play characters that I’m not in real life. Everything else is white noise.
That’s probably why I have no friends. Some kiss my ass for their own benefit, then stab me in the back, and others are malicious about everything.
Everyone here is just a colleague. And as Grandma used to say, it’s lonely at the top.
My tendons start aching again and I hide my wince. I overwork myself during these marathon shows and I need aftercare.
Now.
I tip my head at Philippe and Stephanie. “If you’ll excuse me.”
