The pain is real and abiding.
The pain is bracing and makes you feel alive.
The pain is your friend. The pain is you.
* * *
*
The pleasure came later, when Dara brought out the Nutcracker head, which she’d set on the windowsill all day to air out the mold, the basement funk.
Its painted face was slick with condensation.
“Madame Durant,” Corbin Lesterio said, taking it from her, holding it in his hands like an enormous gem. “I’ve been waiting for this for so long.”
“Don’t get too excited,” Dara said, trying not to smile. “Like everything else in ballet, it’s hot and it smells.”
Corbin lifted it over his head with trembling fingers. Remembering all the young men who’d worn it, Dara felt a heat behind her eyes.
That was when she heard the faint sound of laughter. In the far corner, several of the Level IVs had gathered to watch, a few hiding giggles behind their hands.
“What’s funny here?” Dara said. “I’d like to know.”
Everyone went quiet, heads down, except Pepper Weston, who said, “It’s just . . . it’s silly.”
“No, it’s not,” someone said.
It was Bailey Bloom. A rare interjection from their Clara, who was mostly mute these days, avoiding the wrath of her rivals.
Pepper looked at her, clicking her tongue malevolently.
“I think,” Bailey said, more shyly now, “it’s beautiful.”
Corbin turned his bobble head toward her. The painted grin seemed to smile at her.
Dara watched as Bailey blushed.
* * *
*
It was nearly two before Charlie finally found the phone message he’d jotted down from the day before. It was just a phone number with “House?” scrawled next to it.
The noise from Studio B a constant rumble, Dara ducked downstairs to sneak a smoke in the narrow space between their building and its neighbor while she returned the call.
But after she punched the number into her phone, she was met with a tinny message announcing the user’s mailbox was full.
Sighing, she put the phone away and plucked the cigarette she’d tucked beneath her tank strap.
“Spying on me?”
Dara looked up, startled. It was Derek, lurking behind a dumpster, vape pen in his hand like her emaciated sixteen-year-olds.
“Who’s the spy?” she said, whipping around. “Asks the person sitting outside our house this morning.”
His eyebrows lifted. She’d surprised him.
As if stalling for time, he pulled a handsome brass lighter from his pocket and extended it to her. Reluctantly, she took the light.
“This is what I miss most about cigarettes,” he said, looking at the lighter. Then, gesturing to his vape pen. “No class.”
But Dara was in no mood, her phone hot in her hand.
“I saw you,” she said. “In my sister’s car this morning. I think you saw me. That’s why you drove off.”
He paused a second, then seemed to gather himself, to put on something like a mask, his features softening, a smile forming itself—easy and winning.
“Guilty as charged,” he said, hands in the air. “Your house interests me.”
Dara’s hand shook, the cigarette ashing. She wished she hadn’t started things. Now it was too late.
“We’re not interested in your thoughts about our house,” Dara said.
“Look, we got off on the wrong foot. I know that house is special to you. But it could be so much more. Maybe you’re too close to see it.”
“We fell for your upsell once,” Dara said. “Not again.”
Derek smiled, his teeth like an accordion, unstretched.
“No upsell. I promise. You know, I own some properties downriver. It’s in my interest to keep my eye on the market. I did some research. A hobby of mine. That’s a house with marquee value. High ceilings. Original plaster, that big old fireplace, louvered doors, good light if you ever pulled back those Addams Family drapes over there,” he said. “Sure, we’d have to knock down a lot of walls—that house is all walls. We build out a big open modern kitchen, en suite bathrooms . . .”
“We’re not knocking down any walls,” Dara said, throwing her cigarette to the ground. “And how do you know so much about our house? You’ve never been inside it.”
“I know what Marie’s told me.”
“What did she tell you?” Dara demanded.
But Derek was already talking over her, insisting, “I’ve been in other houses just like it. You lift the ceiling, lose those old beams, strip out the wooden window sashes and panes, install modern ones. Strip out the knotty pine and all this old-fashioned gingerbread trim. People don’t want that. They want things new and shiny, like the wrapping’s still on. We take that big old drafty coffin and make it look new and shiny, you know what happens?