Bunheads (9 page)

“Better a Diet Coke than the sixty-four-ounce Slurpees my kids in the after-school program show up with,” Jacob says. “They’re rotting their teeth out of their heads.”

“Oh yeah, I guess you have a point,” I admit. I look at the clock. “Crap, I should go. I’ve got rehearsal.”

“Wait. So there’s this band playing at Rockwood Music Hall this Saturday, and some of my buddies and I are going,” he says.

“Oh, cool.”

“Yeah, so what do you say? I think Bea might really dig my friend Drew.”

“I won’t be done with the performance until eleven.”

“Oh. Okay. So, all right, I’ve got my calendar right here. I’m free most nights after eleven, and I’ve got all my Mondays open. What do you say? How about dinner at Café Mozart? Or there’s this great Indian place on Fifty-Eighth between Seventh and Eighth….”

I want to see Jacob again, I do. But I think back to the experience of dancing
Division at Dusk
, and I also know that I want more parts like that. They won’t come without extraordinary effort. If this is my year, I have to keep pushing myself every single day; besides rehearsals and performances, I need to take Pilates and yoga classes. Already Otto must be contemplating casting the winter season, and I want him to think of me. So I can’t risk being distracted.

Focus
, I tell myself.
Focus.

I picture Jacob’s face, the line of his jaw and the faint shadow of stubble on his cheek. I close my eyes. “You know, I just can’t right now,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

There’s a long, tense silence. I can hear Jacob breathing on the other end of the line. Pretty soon I can’t stand it. “I’m really, really busy.” I feel helpless, but it’s true.

Jacob clears his throat. “Wow, I don’t know too many nineteen-year-olds who can’t make time to hang with friends. You sure are different, Ward.” He pauses. “And I like that about you. And I think what you’re doing is great. I just wonder if it leaves you any time for a life.”

I bristle at this. “Dancing is my life,” I say without thinking.

“Well, then—” Jacob starts to say.

I interrupt him. “But I want to see you.”

“Well, call me when you’ve got a free moment,” Jacob says. “Okay? I’ll probably be here.”

When I hang up the phone, I have a queasy feeling in my stomach.
Probably?

The party invitations start coming in November, and the closer it gets to Christmas, the faster and thicker they come.
“Please join us for a celebratory dinner in honor of the dancers of the Manhattan Ballet”; “The pleasure of your company is requested at a cocktail reception hosted by Mr. and Mrs. So-and-So”; “Lights! Camera! Dance! Celebrate the season with the Whatever Foundation, proud sponsors of the Manhattan Ballet.”

The hosts are always people who give money to the ballet, and so we’re strongly encouraged—and sometimes basically forced—to go. Otto doesn’t consider patron parties a distraction. As far as he’s concerned, attending them is a part of our job. And even though they’re a little boring sometimes, they’re also pretty glamorous.

Tonight’s party is hosted by one of the ballet’s biggest
patrons, which is why Bea, Daisy, Zoe, and I are on the Upper East Side in the middle of a December snowstorm.

“These heels were so not made for snow,” Zoe whines, adjusting the strap on her patent leather Louboutins.

“I told you to wear leg warmers, like I did. You just take them off in the elevator and stuff them into your bag,” Bea replies.

When the private elevator car opens onto the marble foyer of the penthouse, Bea, who is wearing her hair braided and pinned on the top of her head like Heidi of the Alps because she thinks it draws attention away from her slightly protruding ears, pokes me in the ribs. “Hey,” she says. “Is this amazing? Or is it just gauche?”

Bea is from New England, where rich people drive ancient Volvos and let the wallpaper in their wainscoted dining rooms fade and peel. People with money let old things stay old. But in New York, there’s no room for Yankee modesty. All the Manhattan Ballet’s patrons seem to live in twenty-room apartments with views of Central Park. Every piece of furniture, every painting, and every pillow is selected by interior decorators, and every mote of dust is swept up by uniformed maids.

I give my vintage velvet-collared jacket to the coat girl and smooth the front of my black floral-print dress as I take Bea’s arm. I look at the huge gilded mirror that hangs in the foyer and then up at the trompe l’oeil ceiling, which features fat little cherubs floating around in a blue sky. “I think it’s sort of gauche,” I say in a low voice.

Bea nods as she eyes the giant bouquets of snow-white lilies
and roses that dot the room. “Yeah, that’s what I was sort of leaning toward.”

As we step into the parlor, a waiter dressed head to toe in black sidles over to us. “Sugarplum-tini?” he asks smoothly, holding out a tray of lavender drinks with snowflake stirrers in them.

“Oh my God, they’re
purple
,” Bea mumbles. I nudge her.

“No, thank you,” I say to the waiter. “I’m going to find the champagne.”

He nods deferentially. “Allow me to procure you some,” he says, and glides away.

Bea fiddles with the hem of her sequined BCBG mini. “I never know what to do at these things,” she says.

“Drink,” I say. “Eat French cheese.” I point to a table piled high with cheeses, olives, and fruit. “Or desserts,” I say, gesturing to the table of petits fours, tartlets, and delicate little cookies. Waiters circle the room with plates of delectable-looking appetizers: mini lobster rolls, stuffed figs, and tiny quiches.

I walk over to the cheese table and pop a bit of chevre into my mouth. “I wonder who they think is going to eat all this stuff,” I say. “Not the ballet dancers. Zoe’s vegan, Daisy’s back on her fruit diet, Adriana is doing her raw-food thing, and Lottie hasn’t had carbs in thirty years.”

“The boys will eat it.” Bea points across the room. “Look at Jonathan. It looks like he’s trying to murder that salami.”

I giggle, and Jonathan, who’s wearing a fitted gray suit and a navy bow tie and is sawing into a salami like a starving man,
looks up and waves his knife at us. “Hi, ladies,” he calls. “You know I love me a charcuterie table. And if you see the cute guy with the shrimp skewers, send him my way.”

I look down and see hot-pink socks peeking out from his shoes.

The waiter returns with our champagne, and then Daisy comes bouncing over in a polka-dot dress that she probably bought in the children’s section at Macy’s. “Oh, hey, you guys,” she says. “Did you see Julie as the Sugarplum? She totally blew my mind tonight.”

“Yeah, she was great,” I say. Julie is a principal dancer, and she’s tall and strong and has eyes so dark they’re almost black. But the truth is I didn’t watch her; I was busy composing witty texts to Jacob and then deleting them before sending them.

The waiter returns with a glass of ginger ale for Daisy, since she’s so obviously underage. “Can’t,” she says, beaming at him. “The calories!” Then she turns to me. “Did you hear that Emma pulled her calf? She’s going to be out for a while.”

“I heard,” I say grimly. “She was my alternate, remember?”

“Oh, right—I forgot you were supposed to have nights off.”

“Yeah,” I say exasperatedly. “And now unless Emma miraculously recovers, which is highly unlikely, I’ll be dancing every single performance we have left.”

And it’s always like this. For the corps de ballet, dancing
The Nutcracker
becomes like a tag team as dancers get injured: The uninjured girls have to double up their parts until they, too, become injured, and then those girls are replaced by others who have to double up, until everyone is doing two or three times
the number of parts they were meant to do. If you’re not injured, you’re exhausted, sick, or plain burned out. Jonathan and Luke call it
The Nutfucker
, which I think is totally appropriate.

A sweet-looking old woman wearing a royal-blue sequined evening gown walks over to us, the jewels at her throat flashing like Christmas lights. “Hello, my dears,” she says, smiling benevolently at Bea and me. (Zoe and Daisy are at the bartender’s table, probably because the guy looks like a young George Clooney.) “Are you making yourselves at home?”

We nod and smile.

“I think this year’s corps de ballet looks the best it has since 1976,” she goes on. “And that Christmas tree seemed larger than I remembered. I love the way it rises up from the stage.”

Inwardly, I sigh: I don’t have time to go to a party with Jacob and cute NYU guys, but I do have time to talk about
The Nutcracker?

Bea, who is the politest of all of us, says, “Did you know that the tree weighs a whole ton?”

“Really!” the woman exclaims. “That is incredible. But you know, the Snow dance was always my favorite.”

Everyone
loves Snow. Or I should say, everyone who’s never danced Snow loves Snow. The Snowflakes get showered with fifty pounds of white paper precipitation. This “snow” is swept up for reuse after each performance, so all the dust and dirt and lost earrings that are gathered up with the snow pour down on us in the next performance. The snow slips down into our costumes and gets into our hair and our mouths. It’s flame-retardant, and it tastes like permanent marker.

“Oh, of course,” I hear Bea say obligingly. “Snow is very popular.”

While Bea is occupied with the bejeweled woman, I snack on olives and start drinking a second glass of champagne. I’m contemplating finding a corner to sit in, when a tall, well-dressed guy appears in front of me. He leans against the wall and crosses one ankle casually over the other. “You look less than thrilled to be here,” he says, gesturing to the room at large. His voice is a deep baritone. “And you’re doing a terrible job of mingling.” His dark eyes sparkle when he smiles.

I give him a quick up-down, the way I would if he were another dancer. With tanned skin and dark bangs that he has to push out of his eyes, he’s better looking than anyone else in the room. He’s wearing an expensive-looking charcoal-gray suit but no tie. His smile is dazzling, and I can’t help smiling back.

“I’m Matt,” he says. “Matt Fitzgerald.”

“I’m Hannah,” I say. I hold out my hand, but instead of shaking it, he brings it to his lips and kisses it.

“Pleased to meet you,” he murmurs.

Matt is probably about Jacob’s age, but that’s where the similarity ends. Jacob looks like a college student: He wears vintage T-shirts and corduroys, and he waits a few days between shaves. Matt, however, looks likes a Hollywood actor—or at the very least, like the kind of person who shops at Jeffrey and vacations in all the fabulous parts of Europe.

“I’m a huge fan of the Manhattan Ballet,” Matt says. “I’ve been watching you since you performed in the student workshop
at the academy. You’re a fantastic dancer. You look like Grace Kelly onstage.”

“Wow,” I say, blushing. “Um, thanks—that’s really nice.” I look down at my champagne. I like compliments as much as the next girl, but it’s a little strange to meet someone who already seems to know me. Matt goes on to say that he never misses a performance unless he’s in Paris. In other words, he’s a balletomane, which is what we call a rabid fan. (The
mane
comes from
mania
.)

“I’m in the front row every night,” he adds.

“Wow,” I say. It’s one thing to dedicate your body to ballet every single night. But to just watch, to merely dedicate your eyeballs and your sitting butt—that’s a bit obsessive. I try to push aside these thoughts, though, because I’m pleased he seems to be interested in me; there are soloists and principals he could be talking to. “That’s really dedicated.”

“I take my extracurricular interests very seriously,” he says, smiling.

“Lucky for you that you have time for them,” I say, taking a sip of my drink. “I don’t even have time to do my laundry.”

He takes my elbow and leads me to a pale blue sofa, where we both sit. “You need an assistant,” he says.

I brighten at the thought. “An intern!” I say. “Aren’t high school and college kids always trying to gain work experience? Maybe I could get myself a straight-A student from Nightingale-Bamford. She could dust my shelves and take my laundry to the cleaner.”

“Excellent idea,” Matt says. “She’ll be gaining real-world
experience in multitasking and proactivity. She could do your grocery shopping, too.”

“Yeah, and if she’s really good, she can be promoted to writing letters to my grandmother in Florida.”

Matt laughs. “Allowing her to opt out of English 101. See? We’ve solved your problems.”

I grin ruefully. “If only.”

Matt leans back against the cushions and crosses his long legs. “Hey, I interned for a lawyer in college, and all he ever had me do was manage his golf outings.”

“Sounds rewarding,” I say. I settle back on the sofa. This is definitely more fun than talking to old ladies about
The Nutcracker.

He shakes his head. “Nope, but I did get college credit for it.” A waiter passes by with a tray of drinks. “Are you sure you don’t want a sugarplum-tini?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I have to work tomorrow. Also, I try not to drink things that look like melted Jolly Ranchers.”