Reverence - Book 2

- 3 -

There was nothing I loathed and loved more than dancing. 

It was a tempestuous relationship that I had cultivated over 17 years of my life, hours and hours spent building upon fine muscle control and days of sore and bleeding body parts. It was as simple as breathing yet still battered me like a deer fresh from the womb. 

Every ballerina's dream is to dance upon the grand stage, and for a select punitive few that dream would be alight for a fleeting second as they whirled behind a powerful body in fluffy white tulle, and then like a match they would burn out as quickly as they ignited. 

I felt that exulting rush once before, as I turned my out of season body lazily around a hushed tempo as Odile, watching twilight filter in warmly through dense palm trees. And I had captivated an audience of one, even as my body failed me, I was still esteemed as the best that had ever was. 

It was no surprise that intrinsically the strings had been pulled, and I had landed in the lap of Ingrid Stefanoivc, the director of the Bolshoi Ballet. And just as my puppeteer had, she fell steadfast and quickly in love with my raw soul and I was brought on as a principal dancer. 

Grand stage, beware. 

I had figured out quickly that the way of the ballet world was to live fast and die early before the constant abuse you brought upon your body finally caught up to you in stride. The demanding schedules kept you complacent and the rivalries kept you on your toes but it was up to you to keep on dancing. 

Even when you have two broken toes and hadn't eaten in 3 days to make you light, light, light on your feet. 

The quiet murmur of my fellow dancers did nothing to quell the rioting of my empty stomach. I placed a hand over it to lull the dull ache of hunger away. 

It was so easy to get away with the bad behaviors now. 

The studio was gripped with a timid chill, the blustering weather outside the walls battered against the building, cold cracking in at every chance it could. It sent an electric shiver down my spine, one that rolled my shoulders together in frigid delight. 

Yanyah sat across from me, softly muttering under her breath as she mussed with the elastic of her Pointe shoe. I watched her narrow fingers nimbly unroll the satin ribbon and wrap it dutifully around her toned calve. 

I sat with my knees tucked against my chest, watching. Listening. 

Today was important. 

The first snow that bothered to fall from the sky signified the most enthralling and disastrously tedious season of our lives: Winter. 

With winter came the holidays, and the mad dash scramble to tie up loose ends of the year. It also brought about the dance seasons Crescendo. In just a few moments, Ingrid would be walking lithe through the mirrored studio, clutching that battered black clipboard and with a few short words she would begin to dash the dreams of my fellows. 

 Yanyah slid beside me, gently knocking her knees into mine. 

"Are you excited malen'kiy?" 

I looked over to her, fixed on her prying silvery eyes. 

I nodded quietly, feeling a new turn in my stomach. I didn't get nervous easily. I was used to the pressure of the moment. I had lived my life thus far by being the one who intentionally jumped the shark any occasion I had. 

But this was different. 

Naturally, I understood competitiveness. But not when it meant I had to run parallel to my closest confidant. 

The familiar clack clack clack of Louboutin's on the gummy enamel floor snapped my attention from Yanyah. Ingrid strode before us, her blazer slung open with a cool professionalism, dark gray hair pulled back tightly from her angular aging face.  

"It's time." 

Yanyah said giddily, long fingers gripping my knee. 

Ingrid tapped her pen crisply against the clipboard, cajoling the attention to her. 

"Alright you zhivontnyye," 

She spoke authoritatively, clearing her throat. 

"Much in my spirit, you know it's unlike me to get hopes high. I much prefer crushing a spirit before it's even born. It's my way of reminding you of how expendable you truly, truly are." 

I felt the tremors of Yanyahs' fingers. 

"To be a dancer, you accept the many mistrials of this profession. But for some of you, you accept the greatest accomplishments of these roles. It's not unknown that when the Bolshoi Ballet produces it's winter production of The Nutcracker, it's goal is to enrapture, inspire and cultivate whimsy, awe and ferocity. I have made many a dancers' dreams skyrocket as they plied across my stage, and those dreams are to become a reality of one lucky devochka as my Sugar Plum Fairy." 

She paused. 

"Yelena, I hope you're ready for this, because it's all eyes on you now." 

I tensed. Yanyah's shaking fingers became iron clad around me. A soft sputter of applause was droned silent by the deafening glare of her. 

"You auditioned?" 

She hissed silently. 

"N-no, not for that." 

I stammered, quickly trying to grab ground. 

She pursed her lips, biting back a raging complexity of emotion. 

"I'm sure that it will be quite the show." 

She said, retreating. Her burning grip dropped from me and I released a long held breath. 

I couldn't quite read her face, and maybe I didn't want to. I could see it parade in her head now, today's rendition of "Why not me!?" 

And ever so quickly, by the most simple of words, it had set in motion a new table to begin turning. 

It was becoming more apparent that I was not approaching the grand stage, I was already upon it. 

The spotlight was hot, and there was no escaping.