Wolves of Song

The Short Finale to the Main Component

While a half-hungover and severely agitated girl walked through the studio doors, she turned tail as soon as she walked in to the ballerinas. What remained was a strong and ready ballet dancer who smiled and nodded at everyone before retreating to her empty spot near a corner and plopped down to throw off her sweatpants and rummage through her bag for her pointe shoes. It never ceased to amaze me how quickly I changed as soon as I whipped open the small studio’s doors, dance was for sure one of my few passions and I took it seriously, but there was no need for me to hide my headache to give away my nightly activities. Not only did everyone here already know, but this was no company, there was no pay check to be earned, it was just another college class with kids who never took it as seriously as I did. Everyone tells me I should look into a company, should find some place where my strict technique would fit, but they don’t know that I’m so utterly scared to find a company. Working as a ballet dancer would mean that I would probably never get my degree, never fully pursue my veterinary dream, and it would mean I would probably never fulfill my lifelong dream of my future. For a moment, my thoughts flickered back to Damien, he was probably at work and more likely fuming about how rude I was to him. I have to admit, the boy almost always over dramatizes things. As quickly as the thoughts came though, I forced myself to push them away. The studio was no place to thing about the trivialities of the outside world, sure you could dance your anger out, but you should never let it show.

Finally, I found my pointe shoes and again, marveled at how beat up they really were. Whenever we go on stage, the audience is too far away from us to see how ratty our shoes get, they are left with the thought that like everything else we appear to exhume, our shoes are also perfect, no scuffs from the floor and all of their stitches perfectly sewn. Little do they know, that before they even go on our feet we beat the living hell out of our shoes. We smash them in doors, bend and break, sew and re-sew everything about them just to get them to mold to our feet. Pointe shoes on and my ribbons still in my bag, it was time to stretch. Slowly I start in my feet, rolling my ankles and flexing each individual toe before starting to point and flex my feet. After about five minutes of that and exercising my arch more than anyone in the room, I started on my legs. The whole process becomes a matter of laying in awkward positions to feel a burn in specialized muscles and fading into routine.  It was simply luck that as soon as I finished lengthening my muscles into activity that our teacher called us up to the barres. Ballerinas in any studio, college or company, can be extremely territorial over their spots during warm-up, everyone has their specific spots and when new people decide to join in, it’s every dancer for themselves. After the few men of the class dragged in the portable bars, those who are used to moving barres step up, myself included.

“Okay, okay!” our professor, Micah, shouted over the quiet chatter, his Italian accent thick in his throat and the clap of his hands resonating off the mirrors. “I know that after this break, we’ve all become lazy, so let’s start of nice and slow”, his last words toned down quietly and lingers as the Italian language does. Although Micah said he would start us off slow, it felt as though it were anything but. Sure, tendus are easy enough, but it quickly elevated into strict developpes and our time at the barre seemed to fly by as soon enough, they were wheeled into the corners and our classes were filled with complicated combinations. Mixtures of leaps and turns, Micah shouting for higher grand jetes and longer extensions and again, it seemed I was the only one to care. The physical abuse lasted another hour before finally, all of us standing there completely exhausted and sweating buckets, Micah clapped his hands once and shouted, “Bene! We’re done for the day! Finete!” Sighs of relief and vague groans resonated throughout the room and everyone simply scattered back to their corners while I meandered back to the barre and cooled down. My muscles screamed at me in protest from the simple gait and yelped into my blood stream as I stretched, lifting each leg to the barre in turn and slowly stretching. Over the years, my flexibility had improved, but it still wasn’t where I wanted to be. After all the other dancers had already left, I was still just finishing up my final split stretches and back bends when I noticed the soft eyes of Micah boring into my back. Turning to look at him, my eyebrow pricked upwards, my wolf ears pricking to attention at being watched. “You have the talent to go very far, damigella.” His tone was even and soft, but with a hard edge that stunned me. “Why do you waste it so?” The question genuinely surprised me, leaving me lost for words, but with my mouth still open to speak.

“I-“ I paused again, mulling the idea in my mind, but coming up blank, “I don’t know.” My brow furrowed and my eyes lifted to Micah’s who only shrugged his crossed arms.

“Well, if you ever change your mind bellezza, I have my fingers in the business.” He sighed heavily, turning to the rack with the stereo and running his fingers over the bright metal. Taking this as my cue to leave or say something, I chose the easier route and slipped off my pointe shoes, gently placing them in my bag with a small smile and tugged on my sweatpants back over my tights and flowed out the door. Back outside, it occurred to me just how humid and muggy the day was becoming and with a glance to the sky I deemed the storm would break in a no more than half an hour. The thunder rumbling overhead in the sky confirmed my thoughts.

By the time I managed to walk the few blocks to my apartment I was completely soaked through to my bones and shivering. My bag was soaked, my short hair was plastered to my skull and the cigarette I managed to half way smoke was completely out and damp. With a sigh I flicked the butt aside, throwing open the building’s door, which slammed uselessly against the outside wall with a dull thunk, and stomping up the stairs to my door. When I walked inside Beaux was right there to greet my with a happy, sloppy grin, but I brushed him aside too irritated with the weather to bother with him further than a head pat. Understanding of my foul mood, he backed away and rounded small doorway to my room which I dutifully followed, only to be greeted with a familiar presence perched on my bedside.