Perfection - Kitty Thomas Page 0,2
last night. And technically, he is out of town. We were definitely outside the city limits when I dumped the body in the ocean.
Most people won't miss him for a while. Besides, I'm sure he didn't have business. His business was a swank luxury vacation with Delectable Stella. She works hard leaning over that copier, letting him finger her under her skirt after all.
“Good,” Henry says. “Not about the sleep. Good that he's out of town. We should have a movie night while he's gone.”
“Sure,” I say, wondering if I can ever let Henry inside my house again with the pink stains in the bathroom grout.
“Oh, by the way, Happy Birthday!” He pulls me into a tight hug. “I am definitely taking you out tonight!”
Oh, yeah. That was today. Twenty-four. It feels like a clock on my life. Twenty-four hours in a day. Twenty-four years before your chances of becoming a principal start to slip into the background forever. Ballet is the only profession where twenty-four starts to feel like you should be putting in a good word for yourself at all the better nursing homes.
I've been with the company for three years now; three or four years is pretty standard here to get raised out of the corps, but I know the sands of time are draining away on my dream. And as much as I try to put on a brave face and be gracious and acknowledge the luck of being able to do what I love, deep down I know I'll never be the swan queen or Giselle or Juliet or the Firebird. I'll always be scenery.
Even so, I love being on that stage, the way I move through the air, floating, flying. Henry's hands on my waist, lifting me up, spinning me around like we're at some old-fashioned fancy party, except that I'm in pointe shoes.
The corps drifts into Studio B for warmups. I stop by a set of lockers to put my extraneous things away. There is a bright red balloon attached to my locker, with “Happy Birthday” splashed in metallic gold lettering on the front. At least it isn't pointe shoes. Not that I don't love pointe shoes—at the same time I hate them—but on balloons they seem to be geared to pre-teen girls. And that would only make me feel old.
I open my locker to find a gold glittery envelope with my name on it. I smile, wondering if it's from Henry or Melinda. Maybe it's even from the ballet master. Maybe it's an invitation to audition for a larger role.
Yes, I still have ridiculous fantasies like that—even after three years here. Inside is a very elegant birthday card with a ballerina on it. But this ballerina is adult and sophisticated, far removed from the pink canopy beds and soft ballet shoes of girlhood.
Inside the card with its pre-packaged well-wishes, is another card. It's a stiff white note card. Expensive card stock. And my heart leaps in my throat for a moment wondering if it IS an invitation to audition. But those are not the words typed onto the card.
You were a very bad girl. If you don't want me to report what I know about last night, meet me at the old opera house after rehearsal. I will tell you the price of my silence when you arrive. If you speak of this or bring anyone with you... no deal.
I quickly stuff the note back into the card and shove it into my locker. I look around the hallway but everyone is already in the rehearsal room warming up. When I enter Studio B, the door clangs behind me. Everyone looks up from the barre.
But I'm still ten minutes early, not ideal for getting shoes on and warm-up time, but I'm not late. The ballet master looks up from his notes, smiles at me, and nods to indicate an empty spot at the barre. I smile back. He goes back to his notes. He normally comes in right at class time, so it's jarring to see him now as though I'm late and doing something wrong by coming into the studio.
He's got this really long Russian name that starts with a V that nobody can pronounce. So we were all instructed to call him Mr. V. He's in his early fifties and danced with the Bolshoi. I drop my bag as quietly as possible in one of the corners, take off my outer layer of clothes, and put on my soft ballet