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Nikita
Ihope I get to see him again.
Even after the horrendous days that I’ve had, desperately trying to find my father after I found his apartment door open and his place trashed, I can't stop thinking about Leo, about his brooding presence, the darkness in his expression, the invisible, crushing weight he seemed to carry on his wide shoulders. Everything about him was soserious—from his dark black hair, sharp nose, strong jaw and his scarred eye.
Most people might be afraid of a man like Leo. In fact, a sane person probably would have declined his offer of help out of a need for self-preservation. Something in his stance radiated power and danger, but I wasn't afraid. The feeling in my gut told me Leo only wanted to help. He wasn't going to hurt me. And he didn’t. Instead, he claimed me for hours on end, consuming me until there was nothing left of me, yet I had plenty more to give him. I still get wet just remembering that night and the first few hours of that following morning. His coat is all I have to remember him by, tucked away in my dresser. More than once, I took it out to smell it, to try to remind myself of our night together.
If Mother ever found out, though, she'd scold me for being so naive. Foolish. But I try not to judge a book by its cover. I'd rather assume the best and be proven wrong, than assume the worst and be proven right.
Leo proved himself to be a knight in shining armor—his rough edges, general gloominess, and stark manner of speaking aside. And I got my father back in one messy piece in the end, though not without me giving him a piece of my mind. I wonder what Mother would say if she found out about Dad’s latest blunder. She’d tear him a new one, for sure. All’s well that ends well, right? No harm, no foul? I’m sure I can find a few more expressions to hastily describe this past week while I pretend that everything is okay, even when I know it’s anything but. My father is in deep trouble, and I’m about to pay the price in order to keep him alive. He may have a complicated relationship with my mother, but I cannot imagine a world without them in it.
“Nikita!” Inessa snaps from the front of the practice room. “Focus! Turn your feet out more. Why are your movements so sloppy this morning?”
I grip the barre tight, forcing a sharp breath in through the nose to help kick start my concentration. I'm horrified to discover that I'm horrendously off-beat, the jovial piano tune and the rest of the ballet company carrying on without me. Instead of racing to catch up, I simply pause, take a deep breath, and then rejoin them with the next warm-up sequence. I'm thankfully back on track, but Inessa's face is still pinched and sour.
There's just no pleasing Mother.
We go through our usual routine. Next comes the guided stretches, then center work, reverence, and then pointe work. By the time we're through, I'm dripping with sweat and red in the face—but I'm having the time of my life. There's nothing more gratifying than the warm hum of my muscles and the light, satisfying burn in my lungs after a morning spent on the tips of my toes.
“Your fouettés are so beautiful,” Kseniya says to me after class is done. She's a fellow soloist with gorgeous brunette locks and sparkling green eyes. She's a few years younger than myself—only nineteen—but there are whispers going around that she's likely going to be made a principal dancer after the new year.
I bite down the ugly green feeling of jealousy that rises inside me, forcing the thought away. Kseniya is a wonderful dancer. I try to tell myself I should be happy for her success, that she deserves it. Being happy for others costs nothing, after all. It's just…
It's just that I turned twenty-four the past March and haven't been making any progress. There's nothing more terrifying than the thought of my career at the Bolshoi stagnating. Most ballerinas retire between thirty to forty years of age, which means I'm quickly running out of time. I thought I'd be further along by now. Not to sound boastful, but my skills as a dancer are top tier. I'm good at what I do.
But maybe I'm not goodenough.
All my classmates at the Vaganova Academy of Russian Ballet have already made their soloist debuts.Giselle,Swan Lake,Don Quixote… What I wouldn't give to earn one of my dream roles, to feel the heat of the spotlight on my skin and listen to the thunderous applause of a captivated crowd. It's a terrible feeling—being left behind.
It stings twice as much this year because we're putting on a performance ofThe Nutcrackerin December and the role I wanted—the Sugar Plum Fairy—went to Vanya, the Bolshoi's star soloist. I was relegated to nothing more than her understudy. In all honesty, the announcement didn't come as a surprise, but that didn't mean I wasn't disappointed. I've wanted to be the Sugar Plum Fairy since I was old enough to stand on pointe. I even auditioned for it this year, too. Needless to say, my ego's been crushed into a fine powder.
“Do you want to grab lunch with me today?” Kseniya asks with a sweet smile. “That cute café around the block has the best fruit parfaits.”
I reflect her smile. Kseniya is probably one of my closest friends at the company, which is saying something considering we rarely hang out outside of the studio. We eat, breathe,liveballet and that usually means very little energy for much else. Which is why my brief trip up to Loza was such an effort, to begin with. Had Leo not found me that night, I don’t know if I would’ve made it back in time for rehearsals. I don’t even know if I would’ve made it safely back home at all.
Professional ballerinas like us—we're obsessive. Dedicated to the craft, the process, the performance. Well-rounded individuals we most certainly are not—and we wouldn't have it any other way.
“Actually,” I reply after a moment of mulling things over, “a fruit parfait sounds really nice. Let me just grab some water and—”
“You're not going anywhere, Nikita.”
My head snaps up. Approaching quickly and gaining speed is none other than my mother. Inessa and I don't really look alike. I got my blonde hair and blue eyes from Dad. The only thing I inherited from Mother was our shared love of ballet. Back in the day, Inessa was a star. Her face and name were known throughout Russia. The younger dancers in the company talk about her like she's a legend—sheisa legend—with reverence and awe when she enters the room. Her technique, perfect. Her artistry, unparalleled. Her instruction, invaluable.
I, of course, know the truth.
Inessa Belova is nothing but a tyrant in a sleek bun and wooly leg warmers, chasing after her glory days through her daughter. On some base level, I think everybody knows it. I hear their whispers in the changing rooms, the gossip surrounding me at every turn.
Poor Nikita got yelled at again.
She's just not as good as Inessa once was.
I can't imagine that kind of pressure.
She didn't get a promotion. Again.
“Vanya's going to be here any moment,” Mother says. “You need to be here taking notes as her understudy.”
I want to protest but think better of it. We're doing the Grigorovich variation, which is as classic as it gets. I've memorized every single move synchronized with every note of the music at this point. Asking me to stay behind would be redundant since I won't actually get the chance
