Lucy shoots me a furtive glance. I know we’re thinking the same thing. Monsieur Dabrowski was all anyone wanted to talk about last night at dinner. We had all heard the rumors prior to arriving in Paris. Monsieur Dabrowski can make or break your career. He makes dancers cry sometimes. He only wears black to avoid distractions. He never compliments students during class.
So far he is exactly what I expected, especially after watching the few movies he’s been in. He always plays the role of a ballet dancer or choreographer, and he looks just as mysterious and cold in real life as he does onscreen.
“I am going to be observing each and every one of you. I want to see how you move, where your weaknesses are. Did you give everything you had in your five-minute audition video, or do you have what it takes to survive six weeks of intensive ballet? Will you be one of the swans in the final performance? Will you have a chance to shine in front of the entire school?”
The jet lag hits me again as he talks, my mouth going dry and my eyelids growing heavy. Each relevé burns my calves, even though I stretched for almost an hour last night after dinner. Audrey had insisted I couldn’t do it in our room, because she needed total peace and quiet, so I had grabbed my foam roller and spread myself out on the floor of the communal living area along with a few other girls. We grimaced in unison as our respective hamstrings suffered from the pressure.
I wonder how Audrey is doing, and if Monsieur Dabrowski was even tougher with her morning class. He’s the ma?tre de ballet for level five, but assesses the top two levels on the first day, which means that this is our first and last class with him. Thankfully.
My neck cracks as I turn my head. I want to roll it out so badly, but I resist. There’s no way I’ll admit to feeling off in front of him. The bottoms of my feet are sore from all the walking I did yesterday, and my shoulders are tight. It’s like every part of my body is paying the price for my hot date with Paris. Maybe I shouldn’t have stayed out so long at that café, letting the warm summer air brush my face, and hoping the waiter would come back to check on me. And when he did, twice, I told myself that it was a great opportunity to practice my French, but I may have been carried away by the excitement of being in the most romantic city in the world. I liked this idea of Mia Jenrow, Parisienne-in-training, engaging in witty banter with a cute guy on a gorgeous summer night. I felt grown-up, charming, daring, and totally unlike myself. Now I just feel tired.
“More turnout, Lucy. And by more, I mean a lot more. Your ma?tre de ballet is going to be asking for more out of all of you, every day. More, more, more!”
I hear Lucy’s deep inhale as she complies, her legs quivering as she fights with her thighs to increase the turnout of her fourth position. She winces for a split second only, but that’s enough for Monsieur Dabrowski to catch it.
“Is there a problem?” he asks, stopping right in front of us, his posture perfect and his face stern.
Lucy doesn’t respond, doesn’t bat an eye. She knows he doesn’t expect an answer, only the correct execution of his orders.
“Anouk, where did you learn that grand jeté? You look like you’re mopping the floor. Show a little grace! This is a ballet class, not a discotheque.”
“Mellie, where is your pointe work? Did you leave it at home?”
He knows all of our names and studies us from top to bottom, but he doesn’t say anything to me, which makes me nervous—is there something even more wrong with me than everyone else? I keep waiting for him to say, “Straight gaze, Mia, straight gaze!”
I swear he’s still watching my every move, though. I wonder if he can see my muscles shake, and how tight my core is. Sweat prickles my forehead and drips down between my shoulder blades. Maybe Audrey was right to be surprised that I got into this program; maybe I’m not good enough for this.
When the class ends, I’m so disappointed in myself that I don’t even feel the cramps in my legs. Tears sting at the corners of my eyes as Lucy, Anouk, and I sit on the bench to take off our shoes. I focus on the pink silk ribbons, wrapping them neatly before unbinding my toes.
“Mademoiselle Jenrow.” My heads jerks up to Monsieur Dabrowski, waving me over from the other side of the studio. Another rumor about him turns out to be true: he only calls us by our first names during class. Otherwise he prefers the formality of Mademoiselle and Monsieur. “A moment, please,” he adds.
My heart sinks. It’s worse than I thought.
He waits until all the students have left. Some of them gave me looks of pity as they walked out, confirming my instinct that this is not normal.