The Heir

Chapter 4

People make friends with the people they dance with. They share snacks and slick down fly away hairs. Double check eyeliner and help break in shoes. They goof off and giggle during class. I've never seen the point.

Life is a competition. Ballet is no exception.

So I don't hang out with them. Despite the fact that we've been dancing together for years, I don't even know most of their names. And I know they think I'm stuck up but I don't care.

Because I also know that they look down on me. They see me as nothing more than a dirty foreigner; stained with tan skin and dark hair. Tainting the prestige of this ballet company. An obstacle in their way to success.

To me, ballet is like business. Clean and crisp and precise. Making friends with other ballerinas? That's a mess. And my family does not get involved in messy business.

So while the other ballerinas gossip and giggle in the far corner of the room, I take to one of the bars and begin to stretch. It's the first rehearsal since we were dismissed for the summer.

I know I've put on weight, it happens every year. My mom and Nonna practically force feed me each and every summer. And the self defense training that my dad and uncle force me to participate in makes muscles form in places I don't want them.

I know one of the first things Madame will examine is our physiques.

I look at myself in the mirror as I prop my leg up. Straight lines and pointed toes. Chin up, face neutral, graceful arms. Perfection is something I always aspire to achieve. In every aspect of my life.

Perfection in school means straight A's and minimal trips to the Headmaster's office. Perfection with friends means ensuring no one is left out and that we always have something to do. Perfection with my family means smiling and learning the business. But perfection with ballet is different.

Because not only do I reach for perfection as a whole, but in every detail. From lacing my pointe shoes to performing on stage; I approach all of it the same way. There is no room for mistakes, for failure, so I don't make any.

"Good afternoon ladies," Madame saunters into the room, her low heels tapping against the wood.

"Good afternoon," she's greeted by a unified chorus.

"Line up," she instructs, gesturing to the row of ballet bars in the middle of the room. I take a shaky breath; I didn't think she'd start like this.

I take my place at nearly the end of the line being one of the tallest girls in the company. One by one, we slide into the small gap between the two bars. It's about five inches wide and serves to verify one thing: have we gained weight?

My turn comes faster than I'd like. Madame glances at her clipboard before giving me a curt nod. Chaînés in fifth position, chin up, eyes forward. My waist slips between the bars and I let out a relieved breath.

I quickly set myself up at my designated bar spot. They're assigned based on the rigorous testing and assessments that Madame makes. Things like lines and form and terminology all impact your place in this world.

I watch the other girls in the mirror as they too slip between the bars. A few struggle to get through and Madame makes a note of it. Criticizing them under her breath as they go to their spots in shame.

"I'm disappointed," Madame announces, her voice thick with accent. "The summer is no excuse to gain weight. Ballerinas are not fat."

She walks through the rows of bars, fixing people's posture and scribbling down notes. She stands before me and I force myself to keep my gaze straight ahead. She makes a sound of approval before moving on.

"Third position, hand on the bar, up on pointe and plié," her instructions are simple and direct.

I adjust my arms and feet accordingly, pushing onto the toes of my shoes. We plié in unison; down and up, down and up. The longer we do this exercise, the more girls begin to slack off.

Their shoulders droop, hands relax, lessen the depth of their plié. It's disgraceful. Honestly, I look down on those girls. The ones who become lazy as soon as they're not being observed. Who don't take this shit seriously.

I know that Montrose is a college prep school meaning each and every one of us is expected to attend a four year university. The alumni serve as a good example; Harvard, Yale, Oxford, Cambridge, MIT, Tsinghua, even Carnegie Mellon. But that's not what I want.

This is my last year, really. This is the last year in which I can be recruited to a professional ballet company. If I'm not, I'll have no choice but to go to college. To attend whatever university my parents pick out and make them proud.

But I want nothing more than to dance for the rest of my life. This is my future that I'm building right here in this room.

The other girls will get married and have kids; work at big companies and even start their own. I will be the pinnacle of perfection. A prima fucking ballerina.

"You are all to begin a new diet starting tonight," Madame declares. She slowly circles the room as we continue to plié. "You will keep a journal that you are to turn in at the end of each week. Until you are all back in top shape, you will all eat at a deficit."

Damn. I guess more girls failed that bar test than I thought. It doesn't matter, really, that's my secret anyway. Except for the times when I simply cannot avoid my mother for meals, I always eat at a deficit.

Being perfect applies to appearances as well. You'll never catch me in public wearing pajamas or even sweats. My dad says I remind him of my Aunt Rosa in this way. Only leaving the house once my hair, makeup, and outfit have been scrutinized for any flaws.

This diet is going to be a cakewalk. Minus the cake.