Dancers obsess about roles. I obsess harder than everyone else. If I don’t get cast in starring roles or as a demi-soloist, torture ensues on the home front. Mother steps up all of her meddling. The calorie counting and restricting. The mandatory time on the treadmill where I’m forced to conduct my academic homework. The private trainer to strengthen all the correct muscles. Not to mention lording over every move I make and cutting me down until I hate myself even more.
I get through barre, and by the time battements are finished, I’m crouching on the floor and hugging my knees to my chest, unsure if I can make it through center. Other teachers make their way into the studio and sit in folding chairs by the mirror. I see Longstrom, the vulture, Madame Melinda, the evil queen, and finally, Professor Nubo, who’s the nicest of the bunch. Nubo does contemporary, and his presence gives us all a little hint of what will be featured in the gala program.
Longstrom leads adagio, and I hold my breath, fearing my legs will give out. His adagios are notoriously slow and difficult in technicality. I feel bad for the dancers who aren’t classically trained, but I refuse to let myself watch them. The easiest way to do that is to make sure I’m in Dashiell’s group, so I have to focus on myself rather than stare him down while I await my turn. When we’re off the floor, I watch the teachers intently, trying to read their expressions as they scrutinize the dancers.
I wonder if Dashiell has ever had the experience of being put under the microscope like this instead of clapping and cheering like the street dancers are used to. The staff at Haverton tear you to pieces, critique your body and your technique so savagely that it takes everything in you not to break down and cry when they’ve finished with you.
In a way, I’m lucky because my entire life has been a never-ending critique by the world’s harshest judge—Mother.
Even the musicians have it easy compared to us. They’re playing an instrument and at least can focus the blame on something else. Dancers are the instrument. There is no proxy. When we fuck up, our bodies and minds are responsible, no one else.
Once we’ve gotten through a few pieces of classical repertoire, Nubo takes center stage and begins teaching a contemporary combination. I try to follow along, but I’m distracted by how Dashiell gravitates toward the front, putting himself right in front of Nubo. It doesn’t come off as presumptuous, though. Dash is genuinely enthusiastic, and he wants to learn and do well.
Nubo loves a good underdog. Even without formal training, Dash is a natural at modern dance, and everyone notices.
Nubo claps his hands and pulls up his Dockers. He’s always in a black turtle neck, dress pants, and black ballet flats. His graying hair is short and curly, and his glasses have clear resin frames as frank as his personality. We mark his combination, which features a lot of airy arms and fast footwork with power jumps. It’s beautiful, but this ballerina doesn’t have the stamina for jumping. I’m running on lemon juice at this point, and I fear making it through the class, let alone the rest of the afternoon.
Nubo wants groups of four and ushers the rest of us to sit in front and observe while the others dance. I collapse on top of my dance bag and yank my warm-up sweater back on.
We watch two groups go before I’m called, and they’re both decent enough. I follow their footwork and timing carefully so I won’t flub up when it’s my turn.
“Koslova and Becker. Cunningham and Cross,” Nubo calls. His eyes are alight with excitement, and I think it’s because he’s anxious to see Dashiell dance.
I give a smile-less nod to Becker as we take our places, letting Dash and Alyssa Cross stand front and center. Alyssa is cute, short, and compact. She’s a firecracker at contemporary and can get so much height in her jumps that she should have become a gymnast.
I close my eyes to center myself before the music starts. When it begins, I let it move through me and dictate the way my body moves. Years and years of classical training have made this difficult to do. You’d think I could loosen the hell up, but it’s much harder than it sounds.
I'm panting by the end of the piece, and a sheen of sweat coats my arms and chest. I got swept away by the song and didn’t look in the mirror once. But while the audience probably thinks my condition is exertion, it’s actually me trying not to die or pass out in front of them.
“I’d like to see Cunningham and Cross partner, and Koslova and Becker,” Nubo says.