Giselle and a Nightly Man-Eating Sorority

Giselle

Snaps of memories took form inside my head as I held Myrtha's hand. I began to remember...

My mother was named River. She was Navajo and Lakota. River was a Marine, and she literally kicked ass to keep my prepubescent ankles beribboned in pink satin. Before she died, she had been an avid smoker. I remember peering up at her while sitting on her lap when we would both be out on the mobile porch on the rez where I grew up. Smoke would billow out of her pronounced nostrils like a Dickensian chimney. The lamplight would shine on River's cheekbones in glistening crescents from the sweat from the heat waves. The sight and scent of Marlboros constantly reminded me of her after she passed.

My absentee father was Samoan and Algerian and he barely acknowledged my existence, let alone spared time from his extensive business travels for a birthday gift or a hug. I was raised by River, my mom, and I attended my first ballet class at a far off recreation center basement. At four, I was instantly enthralled by the magic of dance. I could be a princess or a queen whenever I wanted. I could be anything. My limbs were the limit.

River's work brought us both to Broker Island, Washington when I was fifteen. There was a Marine base there and her father's maternal family once had a long-lasting heritage on Broker island long ago. I had successfully passed all the Royal Academy examinations for my age group up until then. For me, to dance was to breathe. I was offered an apprenticeship at a prestigious ballet company in Seattle, where I had to ferry to each morning.
Every day in front of the mirror, I would strive to be even just a little more polished than I was yesterday. My dream was to be a principal dancer someday. One day, when I was twenty-two, a dancer visiting from another company sought me out after practice. He looked young, but not too young to be still in the corps. Men tended to be moved up quickly by most companies.

Judging by the fact that he brought fewer pairs of shoes than the principals, he appeared to be merely a soloist; just one step higher than I. The dancer had flaxen flopping into his face, a gaunt but muscular frame, and a disarming smile.
"I'm Alec," he told me."And you are?"
I couldn't help but smile in return. "Giselle Dumas,"
I told him, offering him my hand in a strangely formal gesture that seemed appropriate somehow.

"Member of the corps. What's your deal, Alec? Are you new here?" I asked, surprised that he took my hand and kissed it.
"I am a soloist for Danton Company," Alec replied.
"I love your classical line and carriage! Who's teaching you?"
I pointed out my Draconian dance mistress, Madame Duchesne.
"She's been my 'sensei' since I was fifteen," I explained to Alec. "She called me 'Gogglefrog' back then. Because of my glasses."

Alec was mockingly stunned.
"That sweet little old lady?" he teased. I laughed, somewhat despite myself.
"When my mother died two years ago, I cried so much in practice that I was grateful to have glasses because the fog from breathing with covid masks would hide my tears. Madame Duchesne was furious at me," I said, partially testing Alec's reaction. He continued to watch me steadfastly, nonchalant in his open admiration. "Sounds like a bitch," he whispered as we both walked out the door. I grinned at him.

***
Weeks later, Alec and I continued to see what little we could of each other outside of our tortuous rehearsal schedules. Strangely enough, Alec never seemed to rehearse with me or with the other soloists. He cited a recent injury as an excuse. We would grab steaming cups of coffee and chocolate, whatever that would provide balmy relief amidst the frigidity of Washington winters. He told me that he was raised by his dads in Switzerland and could speak German and French fluently.

I told him about my mother's passing from terminal ovarian cancer, and how much I missed her. I told Alec how I continued to talk to a portrait of her as if she were still alive and home.
"I'm sorry for your loss," Alec had said when I told him.