Breaktime Tales

Watch Your Step

The guts of the theater always disgust me. How can something so beautiful and awe-inspiring have such an ugly inside? It is these ugly inner workings that bring so many words and musicals to life. I should not be so judgemental, but I can't help it. I am holed up in some cinder block bathroom with an ice pack wrapped around my foot. I am desperately cleaning my new black sneakers in the grungy shower just a stall over. The lights of the mirrors behind me, emit a slight hum. It is a calming melody to an otherwise dull start to my morning.

I hear its roar, just over the waterfall. I stop and stand, hearing the music I should be dancing to later this evening. The Nutcracker, oh how marvelous. I should not be too ungrateful. I am a youngling in this company and have to earn my keep. But how the ambition burns inside me as a wildfire bent on consuming a dry forest. I can't just stop going to classes and learning how to stand on my toes, no, I must find a way to get on stage. The passion of it all. The cheering crowds, the press, the balls, getting to the top is such a euphoric mission of mine.

More girls trickle in the stage door as I am done washing my shoes. Their feet scotch and squeak on the gray floor. I grimace and shake my head. One of them spots me, hobbling over to the dressing room. She stops and waits for me to make it back to the entrance.

"What happened to your foot," she asks, looking down at it.

"Toe actually. It is not bad. I stubbed it while walking in today."

The fellow ballerina smiles at me, before being whisked away with the other girls. She and the others are dancing tonight and have to get ready. I, fortunately, have garnered enough favor to be a stagehand for tonight's performance. I am to not lift anything, but simply observe and get "mental reps," as my instructor puts it. Still, I have to dress in all black, shoes included, which are now not brown with mud. I dry and pat them on the ground before entering an adjacent dressing room, designated for crew only. There, I find myself on an island, as the show does not start for another three hours.

The screeching of wheels echoes down the hall, just as I get comfortable in my wooden chairs. I watch a costume cart roll by. They are just gorgeous. How they look so Napoleonic, with navy blue holding the pops of red and gold at attention. The awe of the outfits turns to a pit of despair as I hear muffled screams of glee from the adjoining room. I smile for them because I know that one day I will be there with them.

The sound of heels clatter on the ground and I smell a strong smell of lemon and pine. My instructor is approaching. I sit up straighter, not wanting her to see my slouching. She enters my little plain of oblivion and stares, with her warm, saggy eyes.

"Have you seen the costumes, darling?" she says.

"Yes, Mrs. Baumen. They are wonderful."

"I wasn't sure about the more traditional style, but I think it will work."

"They will be gorgeous," I exhale.

Mrs. Baumen walks deeper into the room. She stops by me and kneels.

"You are going far beyond your classmates. On a Saturday you are here, learning, while they are at home, partying, or whatever you kids get up to. My point is, you are putting in the work. Come next season, I anticipate you being a mainstay in our productions. You understand?"

I smile at Mrs. Baumen, "Yes ma'am. I appreciate you saying all that."

Mrs. Baumen rises and brushes off her black skirt. "You just worry about watching and learning." She turns to leave but catches herself, laughing at a mistake she must have made. "Oh- and don't forget."

I roll my eyes, "Two-page critique on the routines and production."

"That's my girl." Mrs. Baumen winks, before joining the trope in the other room. The door squeals again and I sit up, smiling to myself. It closes and more wet feet antagonize me as they turn to the party going on next to me. Mrs. Baumen does have a point. I might not want to put in the paperwork, but my ambition is the only thing keeping me linked to this company. I know the exposure far outweighs the negativity I might have over getting passed up this last season. And even though Ms. Baumen has fed me that same "mainstay" line over and over again, I keep at it, because I know somewhere within me, I am a good dancer. I just can't help the fact that there are better girls, who are my age, ahead of me. I can only watch from the sidelines and-

The door opens again. I lean forward and listen, but only hear more and more wet feet sliding. I turn to my mirror and dig out my backpack and pull out my make-up. There, I apply some concealer to stress acne around my mouth. I apply some lipstick, pale, giving my whole body a blend. I am a shadow for this company. I have to be. Why else would I get passed up? I am strong, but not strong enough. I can leap, but not leap high enough. I have technique, but not technical enough. Meanwhile, girls younger than me get the nod. They are better and I am in the shadow of them. I am smothered by their dark-

The door opens again and screams blare from its maw. I smile and rise walking to the door. I peek out and notice a girl is being carried in by two other company members. They put her against the concrete wall, and she grabs at her ankle. Her pants and shoes are muddy and wet.

"Mrs. Baumen," shouts one of the girls.

Mrs. Baumen comes out of the room and instantly spots the girl on the ground. I disappear back to my room and sit.

"Is it broken?" the injured girl shrieks.

"Did you hear any popping," asks Mrs. Baumen. I hear the girl groan as Mrs. Baumen presumably moves her foot.

"I heard two pops. It sort of bent to its side," the girl responds.

"An ankle sprain," replies Mrs. Baumen.

"I can still dance, I just need to wrap it," panics the girl.

"No- I think it's best if you sit this one out. Go to the hospital and get it checked. How did it happen?"

"The stepping stones, one of them was loose."

"Damn theater. Vanity is for the crowd, not the dancers," spits Mrs. Baumen.

I continue applying makeup to myself. I add blush and powder, to blow up my features. With a bit of contouring and my face is ready for the cover of a ballet magazine. I rip my ice pack from my foot, just as the clattering of the door opens once more. Mrs. Baumen summons herself into the doorframe.

"Dear, I need-" she pauses and looks at my face, "what is that?"

"I was just timing myself to see how long I can do make-up changes. I am down for a few seconds. Should I remove it?"

Mrs. Baumen laughs, "Good, and no. Honey, I have an opportunity for you, if you want."

I flick a smile, before switching to a face of concern. I narrow my eyebrows, "What's the matter?"

"One of your classmates fell on the way in. I know you are icing a toe injury."

"I feel fine if you are worried about it."

"I have to drive her to the hospital. When I get back, I expect you to be ready."

I squeal with excitement, as Mrs. Baumen pauses. Once I cease, she smiles and finishes, "It is nothing big. She is only in a couple of routines, but I think this is a great seasoning for you."

"You won't regret this, Mrs. Baumen"

I gather up all my things and walk past her into the dressing room with the other dancers. They all look at me with apprehension and nerves, like I am going to ruin the team they have built over the years.

"I thought your toe hurt," said one of the girls.

"Baumen needs me. Plus, I know you girls have split nails and still dance."

I silence the room by sitting at the spot the ankle girl was supposed to sit at. I feel happy as I stare at her costume on my desk. It smiles and beams at me. It is my size. I dig my pointe shoes from my back and start breaking them in, loosening them, and making them the only imperfect thing in my perfect plan so far. I probably should have told someone about the loose stone I tripped on earlier today, but it's gross negligence on the part of the theater, not my problem. With Baumen lying to me for so many years, I had to interfere and make my change. Screw the waiting, I put in the work and it's time I reap the reward. I might have got someone put out from dancing and waterlogged my shoes, but I can cry about it later when I am a star and have nothing better to do.