The Understudy

She is beautiful. A radiant beam of sunshine that lights up the room with her warm smile. She is graceful, performing effortless pirouettes and grand jetés across the floor. She is kind, with welcoming brown eyes that seemed to see right to your core and fill you with a sense of safety. And I hate her. I hate her with every ounce of my being. I hate that graceful, kind, ray of sunshine more than it should be allowed. And I'm the only one that hates her so.

Nobody sees how talented I am, nobody sees how my fuettes are done to perfection. Nobody sees the way that my jumps are higher, my turns better, my legs stronger than Isla Bouldivard. Nobody sees. And for that reason, I am her understudy. I am number two. I am the sidekick. I am the replacement. And I hate her for it.

The Royal Ballet is doing a production of Giselle. The lead role of Giselle is made for me, molded for me, and yet, I am the understudy. I know every step, every spin, every facial expression, and yet, Beautiful Isla is Giselle.

It's the day of opening night, and the Director, a tall and wiry man, makes us dancers rehearse it one last time on the stage of the Royal Opera House.

"It must be perfect," he says as he glares at every one of us. His face softens when he sees Isla though. Everyone loves Isla. But it's hard and stony again when he looks at me. Cicely. The ugly duckling. This look he gives me is pointless. I do not have to dance tonight. I am the understudy. Only there if absolutely needed.

The first act passes, and it's danced just the way the Director likes it; perfectly. Though as I dance in the back of the stage, I know that if I were in the place of Isla Bouldivard it would be beyond perfection. The second act begins, and Isla starts her solo. I dance it in the back with her, mimicking her each step. But doing it better. Though I know that nobody looks at me. Then suddenly, Isla is standing still, staring at the bright lights of the stage, like a deer caught in the headlights of a car. She has forgotten the choreography. Dancers that are part of the core whisper to one another, wondering what has happened to Isla. Isla never forgets choreography. The director is yelling out steps to her, coaxing her to continue the variation;

"Leap!"

"Turn"

"Burré"

But yet, she remains standing still, trying in vain to remember the steps.

I, on the other hand, continue to dance. I dance like I always do, perfectly. I am Giselle, for just a moment. While Isla continues to stare into the bright lights of the auditorium. I can feel the gazes of the company and the Director turn to me as I dance, and I bask in the attention.

Suddenly it all becomes clear. Isla cannot do Giselle. I must do it. I was born for it. The role was molded just for me. It does not matter that I am not beautiful, for I am perfect when I am dancing. Isla is unfit, unworthy. I am worthy. I end the variation in a defeated position, as it should be ended, but in reality, I am ready for war. I am ready to seize my moment, my role. And I am ready to do just about anything for it.

"Well done Cicely" the Director praises me, and it feels wonderful to hear the praises of another. But the moment is short-lived, because everyone is now crowded around Isla, asking her what happened to her beautiful dancing.

I hear her voice, shaky and worrisome; "I completely forgot, I am so sorry everyone." Her voice is like a million bells. I hate her voice.

"It's alright Isla." the Director says, "Everybody makes mistakes."

For once, I am happy that no one looks at me, and I slip out of the stage door and into the hallway lined with dressing rooms. I am on a mission. The first dressing room on the right says; 'Isla', in big bold letterings. Below this is a thousand notes from her admirers, wishing her good luck and words of encouragement for the performance.

Ignoring these, I open the door as quietly as I can and walk into her room.

It's a decent size. With a large mirror lined with lights, and her dance bag slung across one of the chairs. Hanging in a corner, are two beautiful costumes. One is for act one, and the other is for act two.

My eyes fall on a pair of pointe shoes, and next to them, a beautifully adorned hand-held mirror. I imagine Isla looking at herself in that mirror, probably thinking how lucky she is to be beautiful, and not ugly like me.

I go to pick up the mirror and pretend I am Beautiful Isla, but my face gets in the way. I have a hook for a nose, a shelf of a forehead, and eyes like little black pebbles. I remind myself that I don't need to be beautiful to be perfect, and an idea sparks in my mind.

I hold the mirror above the edge of the chair, and in one swoop, I smash its face against the back of the chair. Shards of glass fall at my feet, and I put the frame of the mirror face down on the table. Scooping the pieces of glass into my hands, I drop an equal amount at the end of each pointe shoe. Then I put the pointe shoes right where I found them.

As quickly as I can, I run back to my dressing room at the very end of the hall just as I hear the voices of the other dancers coming from the stage. I sit in my chair and pretend to read a book. I feel exhilarated.

The minutes to start of the show tick by slowly, and I wait expectantly for the moment Isla puts on her pointe shoes. The minute her feet are snuggly into the shoe, they will be crushed against a million pieces of glass. Of course, after this, there will be no dancing for her.

And then it happens. An anguished scream cuts through the nervous energy of the dressing room, and a smile creeps on my face. The dancers that share a dressing room with me run out to see what has happened, while I hide my growing grin behind my book. Seconds later, the Director flings open the dressing room door.

"Cicely," he says panting, out of breath "put the costume on, you're dancing in twenty minutes"

I cock my head to one side, trying in vain to keep my face controlled "What happened to Isla?" I ask. My voice is oddly high pitched.

The Director looks at me with suspicion crawling all over his face "She can't dance today" was his reply. With that, he throws the costume for act one at me and closes the door. I hear his footsteps running back towards Isla's dressing room, where she is crying loudly.

I quickly put my thin hair into the low bun that is made especially for Giselle. I slather my face with makeup, in an attempt to make myself pretty. I pull my pointe shoes on my feet, and I pull the costume over my head. It's a peasant's dress, with deep blue cloth and small white flowers along the bodice. I examine myself in the mirror and find that I look perfect.

I run out of the dressing room and to my place in the wings were the curtains of the stage are closed. People are chattering loudly in the audience.

"Break a leg." says a dancer beside me. She is dressed in a costume for act two. I do not know her name.

"Thank you." I say.

The dancer looks around quickly as if to see if anyone is listening. "Was it you?" she asks "Who put the glass in Isla's shoes"

Just then the music begins to play, and the curtain raises slowly. I look the girl right in the eye and nod my head. Her eyes widen as big as saucers and begins to say something, but I hear the count in the music that cues me to run on. I hurry onto stage, leaving the girl behind. The crowd applauds wildly, and I welcome their thunderous roars like a lullaby.

Then I perform every step, every spin, every facial expression, to absolute perfection. I ignore the audible sobs coming from the wings, where Isla is watching me dance, clutching her injured toes. I ignore the glare of the Director, who is listening intently to the girl I just talked to, who is speaking fast and pointing accusing fingers at me. I ignore it all. Because I am dancing, and when I'm dancing I'm perfection. No, when I'm dancing, 

I am beautiful.