My body is wracked with nerves as I push through the wide, heavy doors that lead into the foyer of t
he New York Ballet Company. I stop for a moment to take in the high ceilings of the grand entrance. It’s one of the grander buildings in New York, and absolutely stunning. Being able to dance here is impressive enough.
Okay, let’s do this.
Clutching my acceptance letter in my hands, I walk over to the elevator. The doors open promptly. I step inside and select the fifth floor. Glancing at my watch, I see that I’m nearly half an hour early. I was determined not to be late, which is not impressive, considering I literally live across the street.
Walking down the hallway on the fifth floor, I peer into every room I pass. A few students walk past; all have looks of concentration etched onto their faces. It’s like they don’t even see me. Swallowing hard, I stop outside studio seven. My home for the next few weeks at least. I’m terrified. I have no idea what to expect. What if I’m not good enough? What if this whole thing was a big mistake? They’re the same questions that run through my mind at least ten times a day.
Clutching my bag to my stomach, I slide against the wall until I’m sitting cross-legged outside the room. God, I’m shaking. I need to calm down. If I don’t, I’m going to blow this.
I focus on my breathing. In and out. In and out. In and out. It helps, and pretty soon the dizziness fades. I glance at my phone, watching the time slowly tick by. It’s like everything is moving in slow motion. The day is barely hours old, and I feel like it’s gone on forever. I managed to sleep very little, but right now that’s the furthest thing from my mind.
The hallway begins to fill with more and more students. Many stop outside studio seven looking just as nervous as me, which makes me feel better. I jump up as the doors open. I recognize Marcus Haimway, a well-known male dancer who I know now instructs. Could he be our teacher? The thought thrills me.
“Okay everyone, come in and take a seat, please. We have a lot to get through today.”
I’m one of the first through the door. I choose the seat at the front on the far left, tucking my bag under my chair. I glance up and watch the rest of the dancers file into the room. All of them walk as if they’re on a runway, their heads held high. I wonder if their dancing matches the confidence they ooze.
Some of them seem to already know each other, others look like me, and yet a few more seem to be focused on their own thing. Soon the whole room is full, a low murmur echoing throughout the studio.
I turn my attention back to Marcus, who stands at the front of the room, talking to another instructor. They both look very serious. Is he going to be a hard instructor? From what I’ve heard, his days as a dancer were full of drugs and women. It was only after a breakdown midway through his career that he pulled his act together. Shortly after that he suffered a career-ending knee injury that led him to teaching.
Marcus runs through what he calls “the housekeeping,” which is a series of rules. If we don’t follow them, we’re out. Most of them are pretty self-explanatory, but it makes me wonder how many dancers come here and don’t take it seriously. Most of these students, like me, would’ve put in thousands of hours of practice just to get here. Why would anyone mess that up by deliberately breaking the rules?
“Pretty serious, huh?” says the girl next to me, rolling her eyes in the direction of Marcus. She lifts her hand to her face and tucks a stray lock of auburn hair behind her ear.
“He’s making me more nervous than I already am.” I giggle.
“I know.” She grins. “It’s hard enough moving here and not knowing anybody. I’m Ana, by the way.” She drops her head as Marcus stops talking and raises his eyebrows at her.
“I’m Lucy,” I whisper back as soon as Marcus is out of earshot. I immediately feel more relaxed and able to focus.
The rest of the morning flies by, with some of the senior dancers coming in to talk to us and show us a routine. I recognize it from a performance they put on last year, and the thought that one day it could be me up on that stage makes me crazy with excitement.
We break for lunch, and Ana walks over to me, a shy smile on her face.
“Want to have lunch together?” She holds up a small tub of fruit salad and yogurt. I immediately feel bad about the peanut butter and honey sandwich I shoved in my bag this morning. As a dancer I should be watching what I eat a lot more than I do.
“Sure,” I reply. We walk outside and find a shady tree to sit under. The first thing I learn about Ana is that she loves to talk.
“You’re not from around here either, are you?” she asks, licking her spoon. Her bright green eyes study me as I retrieve my lunch.
“No, born and raised in Chicago. What about you?”
“Michigan.” She grins. “It’s a big change, but I’m good with it. I come from a huge family. I’m the oldest of six kids so I’ve been looking after myself for years. Do you have any brothers or sisters?” she asks.
“Nope. Just me and my dad.” And Pietro. “My mom died when I was six,” I explain.
“That must’ve been hard, growing up with just your dad. You get along well?” she asks.
“Most of the time.” I grin. “He can be a little overprotective at times.”
“My parents are the opposite,” Ana says. “I’d have killed for them to notice me more when I was growing up.”
After we finish our lunch, we make our way back inside for our afternoon session. It’s a full day, but much better than I expected, and just meeting Ana made the whole thing so much easier. As I dance, I feel relaxed and in my zone. With every minute that passes, my confidence rises.
By six thirty I’m back at my apartment, wishing someone would fix dinner for me. My legs are so tired, and I’m starving. I find a Chinese place with decent reviews that delivers, and order myself some kung pao chicken and fried rice.