Sweat drips down the front of my chest. I try to catch my breath silently as he recaps our performance.
He addresses Fernando first. “You have to be more in control when you lift her up. She has to be able to trust you one hundred percent so she can focus on her steps. If she feels like your arms are weak, then you’re impeding not only your dancing, but hers, too.” Fernando nods at every word, taking it all in. I’ve noticed before that he seems so good at accepting feedback. He doesn’t show any sign of nervousness or irritation, and just listens carefully.
Then it’s my turn. I take a deep breath and tell myself that, whatever is coming, everything will be fine. I will make it so.
“A little bit faster, Mia. You were out of sync with him a couple of times. He should never have to wait for you.”
“Of course,” I say, serious. But inside, I’m leaping with relief. Of all the challenges ahead as I learn to become Odile, this is totally in the realm of achievable.
“And that port de bras,” he adds, shaking his head. “I’m not going to repeat it again, but next time I want to see a better flow. No stiffness. No straight arms, are we clear?”
“Yes, absolutely,” I reply, bracing myself for more. The next thing he says floors me.
“Audrey, let’s give these two a rest and see your Act Two variation.”
Wait, that’s it? I almost want to ask if he forgot something. I was prepared for a sermon on how I’m nowhere near Black Swan material or, at the very least, a laundry list of criticism on my grand jeté or my pirouettes. But our instructor has moved on. He’s now focused on Audrey as she takes center stage. Fernando and I sit on the bench, both still panting, as we watch her.
She is flawless. Every one of her steps is so carefully executed. And her port de bras is definitely on point, pun intended. Her face relaxes as soon as the music stops. She doesn’t quite smile, but I can tell she’s pleased with herself.
Monsieur Dabrowski paces around the room for a minute, like he’s considering what to say. Finally, he stops and purses his lips. “How did you feel, when you were dancing?”
Audrey frowns. “Uh, good…”
He nods. “What were you thinking about?”
“During my routine?” Audrey plays with her fingers, looking confused. I would be, too. “About the steps…whichever one was coming next.” She doesn’t sound so sure.
Our ma?tre nods again, his face impassive. This man is a puzzle. A very hard one to solve. “Can you tell me the story of Swan Lake? What is Odette’s story?”
Audrey perks up a little. That answer we all know. “She’s cursed. A swan by day and a young woman by night. She can only be free if a man promises to love her, and her alone.”
“And how do you think she feels about that?”
Audrey’s chest rises and falls slowly. She’s still catching her breath, and probably praying that she’ll get off the hook very soon. “She’s sad…and confused. Angry?”
“You don’t know,” Monsieur Dabrowski says sharply. It’s not a question. “You have memorized the steps; you perform them extremely well. But you don’t understand how Odette feels. You’re not in her skin, in her heart, or her mind. You’re not the White Swan. You’re just Audrey Chapman, pretending to be.”
Audrey’s eyes grow wider as he speaks. Mine do, too. I can’t believe he just said that. She’s the best dancer I know.
We rehearse for a while longer, but I can tell Audrey is elsewhere. The minute Monsieur Dabrowski leaves the room, she rushes to the bench; jams her arms through the sleeves of her cardigan; and wipes her sweaty forehead, along with the corners of her eyes （which are filling with tears）， with the back of her hand. Then she snags her bag before running out. I call out after her, but she’s determined to get away as fast as possible. I don’t blame her.
* * *
On my way home, I almost fall asleep on the shoulder of the businesswoman sitting next to me on the métro. In the subway car, a young man croons a song in French a cappella, looking for tips, and the music begins to lull me to sleep. I’m not just tired. I’m drained, wiped, completely done in. In fact, I don’t think I understood the true meaning of exhaustion until this week. Sure, I’ve taken my fair share of Epsom baths, I’ve used ice packs on every part of my body, and I’ve spent hours stretching while watching videos of the greatest ballerinas performing in the classics. But I have never felt like the shoulder of a total stranger would be an appropriate place to rest my head. Until now.