Spiral (Off the Ice, #2) (4)
“I have a last-minute job for you.” My uncle’s voice filters through the speaker.
“Is it babysitting for your players’ kids? They’re cute, but one bit me, and I still have a scar on my finger.”
Postgraduation, I was desperate for a job, but I had a rude awakening when I realized even a business degree couldn’t score me a career in this market. Yay for college education!
So my uncle, who works for the NHL, extended a few offers for me to help out his hockey team during the regular season. Including babysitting, dog-sitting, and the one time I cooked for the team last year.
They never asked me to cook again.
“Not this time.” He chuckles. “We need a dancer for our fundraiser tonight. We had a last-minute dropout, and I thought you’d like a gig where you can actually do what you love.”
My uncle has always been supportive of my ballet career. When I was younger, I used to dread looking in the crowd because of the lack of parents cheering me on, but he was always there.
“Thanks, but I’m not feeling very motivated—”
“It’s a thousand bucks for a thirty-minute performance.”
My throat dries, and my words catch. That’s three zeroes for half an hour of my time? I’m discouraged, not stupid.
“I’ll be there.”
Currently, my only source of income is the ballet classes I teach near the university. I haven’t cemented my career there either, because the sign-ups for my classes are embarrassingly low. Why have a perpetual soloist teach your kids when you can have experienced teachers who have booked numerous principal roles?
“I’ll text you the address.”
I locate the nearest Uber because the three-hour bus ride would not cut it tonight. Besides, the money I’ll make would be enough to justify this one ride.
Note to self: One bad situation doesn’t have to become a bad day.
HOURS LATER, I’M immersed in the backstage whispers and last-minute run-throughs, and I find myself shedding the weight of today’s rejection along with my clothes. As soon as I slip into my leotard and my pointe shoes, there’s a tingle that electrifies my body as I wait for my cue.
The first delicate notes of Ravel’s Boléro hit my ears as I follow the other dancers onto the stage and find my position behind the second row. Silhouettes of the audience are visible under the bright lights gleaming off the polished wood stage, and just like that I’m absorbed into the one thing that never fails to help me escape. My thoughts disappear like mist when I glide in perfect formation with the other dancers, mirroring each step as I learned it only an hour ago.
I have a peculiar talent for replicating dances quickly, and that’s probably the reason my uncle was so confident that I could fill in for the last-minute dropout. My focus is on the music, but my gaze wanders the audience for a glimpse of him. It might be the eight-year-old girl in me, but when I see my uncle to the left of the stage, close enough that the bright lights don’t block him, I smile.
The group converges into a tableau, and as the finale approaches, we dive into grand jetés and lifts, the stage a mix of swirling tutus and poised ballerinas. The applause pulls me back to reality, and somewhere, somehow, I hope Aubrey Zimmerman knows that I won’t give up easily.
When the curtains close, encouraging words and high fives fly around the group, giving me the same rush of excitement I’d felt at the age of eight, the first time I found ballet.
Up until then, my only focus was making sure the housework was completed and my younger brother, Sean, had everything he needed. I guess that feeling of responsibility comes with being mature for your age. At least, that’s what every adult I encountered has had to say to me. Soon enough, you start realizing that’s not a compliment. It’s a curse.
But the one thing that would never be a curse? Ballet.
When I was younger, the trip to the convenience store by our house was the highlight of my Sundays, but it became the beginning of the rest of my life. The checkout counter was cluttered with magazines of famous faces and gossip wild enough to scandalize someone’s grandmother, but on that particular day, only one stood out to me. Under the dust and fraying edges of the plastic cover, I saw a poster. The poster. Misty Copeland graced the cover of the newest production of Swan Lake, elegant and as beautiful as ever. I knew then that whoever she was and whatever she did, I wanted to be her.
The poster still hangs on my wall.
“Sage!” I turn to find my uncle climbing the steps backstage. “You keep dancing like that, and I’m sure they’ll hire you full-time.”
I shake my head. “I’m not stealing the poor girl’s job, Uncle Marcus.”
“I can pull a few strings,” he offers, a glimmer of hope in his eyes, just like every other time he’s tried to help me out. All my life, my uncle has felt obligated to care for my brother and me, but I’ve refused. We aren’t his problem, and I never want him to see us as one.
“My auditions are going great. I’ll secure that spot at NBT pretty soon,” I lie.
His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Never doubted you for a second.” His phone vibrates before he silences it. “Get changed, and I’ll have some food ready for you.”
I give him a quick squeeze before darting backstage.
After changing my clothes for the fundraiser, I find a plate waiting for me at my uncle’s table, filled with all my favorites. It isn’t until I’m scarfing down seconds that I remember I need to call Sean.