I take a second to catch my breath before going in. The sound of showers running trickles down from above, but mostly it seems like everyone is just waking up. I tiptoe up the stairs, crossing my fingers that no one will see me. I made it; everything’s fine. I can relax now. I take a deep breath in front of my room, and, as I’m about to grab the handle, the door bursts open. Of course, Audrey Chapman looks put-together from the moment she steps out of bed. Her braided hair is smooth, her eyes have that wide-awake look, her skin is dewy…even her pajamas seem like they’ve just been ironed.
She looks me up and down. “Isn’t that what you were wearing yesterday?”
I gulp, heat flooding into my ears, as I wonder what to say.
Then she shuffles past me and heads off to the showers without waiting for an answer. Let’s look on the bright side: Audrey remembers my outfit from yesterday, when I left for the Musée d’Orsay. Who knew she paid any attention to me?
* * *
“He’s going to make us wait the whole day,” Audrey mutters to me as we get dressed in the locker room. I put on my puffy warm-up slippers—the ones I got last month for my birthday—over my leg warmers, and wrap my cream mohair cardigan around my leotard. It might be the height of summer, with temperatures to match, but I still need to keep extra toasty until the moment we start dancing. Dancer fashion is weird, but it makes me feel like I’m in a cocoon and helps my muscles stay relaxed.
Audrey and I haven’t spoken since I arrived back at the dorm, but we didn’t need to. It was obvious we were thinking about the same thing all along. To be fair, none of our morning classes are with Monsieur Dabrowski that day: first up is contemporary, then jazz. Even if ballet is all you want to do, classical training requires that you learn many different types of dancing. It expands your repertoire and teaches you to move in different ways. Then, before lunch, we have a session with a well-known choreographer for the Paris Ballet, who has us try out a piece he’s creating for an upcoming show.
It’s one of the many great things about this program: you get to meet renowned artists who work with some of the top ballet dancers in the world.
I do my best to focus on the steps, but the tension in the air makes it extra hard. Looks are exchanged. Sighs are let out as quietly as possible. Jaws are clenched, but no one breaks the silence or betrays the slightest hint of impatience. Deep down we’re all just young girls, and three boys, having traveled from far corners of the world with hope and fear constantly tangled up inside us. But, on the outside, we’ll do whatever it takes to appear like soon-to-be professional dancers, willing to deal with whatever is thrown at us, as long as it gets us closer to where we want to be.
And then the afternoon comes. Just like Audrey suspected, Monsieur Dabrowski gives us the entire class without a word about the roles. As is tradition, we end with reverence: our ma?tre de ballet bows to us, and we respond with a curtsy. Then we give ourselves a round of applause. It’s not until the clapping begins to die down that Monsieur Dabrowski holds up a hand, ready to deliver the news.
“Gather around,” he instructs us as he brings a chair to the center of the room for himself. The air feels charged. The twenty of us form a half circle around him, sitting cross-legged on the floor as gracefully as we can. My mind has been all over the place today: one minute I can hear the applause at the end of my triumph as the White Swan, the next I can feel the tear in my heart if I’m not even invited to perform. My body is bone-tired after eight hours of classes, but it’s the mental exhaustion that’s starting to get to me. I wish I had Lucy’s or Anouk’s friendly face nearby, but, aside from lunch, I only occasionally pass by them in the hallways.
“As you know,” our instructor says, “the final performance of the summer is an important event for our school. It gives our dancers a chance to prove that they have been worthy of this experience.”
No one moves. We’re all well aware of the stakes, and, at this point, we just want him to get it over with.
“Every dancer in this room will be part of the swan corps de ballet,” he says.
A delighted gasp escapes someone’s lips. My heart is racing a hundred miles a minute.
“Unless,” he continues, “I call out your name.”
Then he opens the infamous leather-bound notebook. “The role of Prince Siegfried will be played by Fernando,” Monsieur Dabrowski announces, turning to him. I don’t think anyone is surprised, least of all Fernando, who clutches his fists with delight. A seventeen-year-old from Brazil, Fernando has been one of the most talked-about students around our lunch table. Some of it has to do with his bright green eyes and tousled black hair, but he’s also an amazing dancer. He has incredible strength and an ability to bring intention to every move.