This is the first time I’ve heard what Audrey really thinks of me.
“You hate that I have fun? Well, I hate that you don’t.” She looks as surprised as I am about what I just said. It doesn’t make a lot of sense when I put it like that, but it’s true. “Audrey the Robot, that’s how I think of you. It seems like all you need to do is press a button and there: perfect posture, excellent technique, never a false step. You don’t even blink when you dance.”
“I can’t afford to blink,” Audrey says. “There’s too much at stake.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “We’re human beings, Audrey! Blinking is not optional.”
Audrey sighs. “You haven’t met my mom.”
“I’m sure she’s proud of you,” I say, but I can tell from the look on Audrey’s face that it’s not that simple.
“I don’t know about that. I’m doing everything she expects of me, but it’s never enough.”
“You’re the best dancer I know,” I say, not quite believing that anyone could think that Audrey Chapman is not doing enough.
Her lips tremble for a brief moment, but she regains her composure before she speaks again. “She’s had this plan for me ever since she took me to my first ballet class. I must do everything she’s done, exactly how she‘s done it. I wanted to go to the ABT summer program, but no, it had to be Paris, because that’s how the Bolshoi Ballet noticed her. She thinks I should move to Moscow, like she did at my age, and have the same amazing career she had. She doesn’t think ABT is good enough.”
My eyes grow wide. “Every dancer in the U.S. dreams of ABT.”
She just nods sadly, then looks down at the floor. We sit in silence for a few minutes. And then I realize what I’ve done. I brought my private life to school. I took the one person who always made it very clear that she didn’t want things to get personal, and I forced her into it. I’m suddenly overcome by a wave of guilt. I really have lost my mind these last few weeks. And I don’t know how to get it back. But I can at least try.
“I’m sorry I called you a robot,” I say after a while.
Audrey shrugs. “And I’m sorry I’m jealous of you.”
“You’re not jealous of me,” I say, shaking the thought away.
“Don’t make me say it again.”
We’re quiet now, for a long moment.
“You were really dating Monsieur Dabrowski’s son?” she asks, incredulous, after a few minutes have passed.
I nod slowly. Tears have wanted to roll down my cheeks since the beginning of this conversation, and I finally let them. “I made a terrible mess.”
Audrey sighs. “Do you think you can clean it up?”
I laugh. And I cry some more. I didn’t just create a mess. I am a mess. “I don’t know.”
“I have an idea,” Audrey says, getting up.
I check the clock above the door. It’s almost time for class.
“We could help each other,” she continues, sounding a bit unsure. “You help me learn to have fun or feel things…” She says this last part with a sort of disgusted shrug.
I can’t help but smile. “That’s not a good start.”
“Fine, let’s put it this way: you teach me how to be more like you. The good, dancing part of you, not the messy part, I mean,” she adds. “And I’ll help you be more like me.”
I frown. Is Audrey really suggesting what I think she’s suggesting? “Like a team?” I ask.
She seems to consider it for a moment. “Like a team.” And then of course, she adds matter-of-factly, “It doesn’t mean that we have to like each other.”
I laugh, but she’s right. “No. We just have to respect each other.”
“Exactly,” she says as she extends her hand. I hesitate, and not just because mine are still covered with tears and streaks of mascara. But Audrey’s hand is still stretched out to me, so I shake it. We have a deal.
“But for what it’s worth, Audrey?” I look her in the eye. “I think I do like you.”
“YOU KNOW THE rule,” Audrey tells me as we begin what feels like our hundredth practice session together. We’ve been at it every morning and evening. Often it’s just the two of us, but Fernando sometimes joins in as well so we can practice our duets. Audrey glances at the phone in my hand, which I’m gripping hard.
“I’m turning it off!” I say, showing her the dark screen.