I can barely watch and contain my emotions as the music swells and Dashiell cradles Dahlia in his arms, caresses her cheek, and then pulls her into a sequence of fast turns that end in a lover’s embrace.
I feel like I’m going to be sick. My rational self knows it’s the choreography, but my gutted heart sees only the affection he feels for her, the sweet love he offers her. The love he offers me is intrinsically laced with hate. Tears stream down my cheeks unchecked. The emotions have consumed me and I cannot bring myself to watch them finish the piece.
Standing abruptly, I grab my dance bag and make my way to the company director. “I can’t stay. I’m afraid something’s come up,” I apologize, sniffing.
“Koslova, right?” He hands me a tissue and I wipe my eyes and nose.
My first day in and I’m already a loser. Mother will kill me for dipping on the first day. But the ice princess has thawed and only a messy puddle lies in her wake. It would be worse for the company to see me like this than for them to see me at all.
“I need to get out of here,” I tell the man, desperation in my eyes.
“I’d let you go, but Tate specifically said something about setting this piece with Cunningham and Koslova,” he tells me as he unwraps a piece of gum.
“No,” I say firmly. It’s all I can say. It’s not possible for me to stay and dance today, to pretend I’m okay. I can’t sit here and watch Dash fall in love with someone else, be witness to her star eclipsing mine, and worse, my star spiraling through the atmosphere as it plummets and dies.
“Are you leaving the company for good or going home sick?” the director, David Cappadonna, asks me.
I don’t know the answer. I have to get out of here. I’ve always been confident that dance was my highest priority, that I could assuredly put it before all else and to hell with the consequences. But right now, I feel as if Dashiell has grown bigger than dance, bigger than I can deal with. I should not be considering dropping all I’ve worked for to get away from Dash, but that’s what it's come to.
Cappadonna looks me up and down and raises an inquisitive eyebrow as if he can’t believe that the dancer with the most overbearing mother doesn’t even want to be here. “You got in on your own merit if that makes a difference,” he says cautiously.
“I appreciate it. But I can’t do this today.”
“The door’s open,” Cappadonna says. “Won’t be able to guarantee any leads or solos if you walk. I’m telling you now because I’m assuming I’ll get an earful from Katerina.”
I stand a little taller and pull my shoulders back. “You don’t need to talk to her. I’m an adult, and I made the company, not my mother.”
“Tell that to the board,” Cappadonna says sardonically.
Dash and Dahlia are listening to Tate’s critique and direction as I make my way out of the studio. I can feel Dashiell’s gaze burning into me like a branding iron as I pass him. I refuse to look his way and give him the satisfaction of seeing the pain in my face.
Ever since I can remember, my dream has been to become a famous dancer, rise above the shadow cast by Mother and her mother and make a name for myself doing what I love.
As I rush down the busy avenue, trying to put some distance between myself and my decision, my phone begins to buzz in my dance bag. When I take it out, Lance’s name appears and my first instinct is to throw it into traffic. My practiced decorum is to accept the call and answer it politely.
“Hello?”
“Natayla, we need to talk. I’ve just come from your mother’s and I think I have a better understanding of what’s going on. Should I pick you up after rehearsal?”
“I’m leaving now. I wasn’t feeling well,” I lie through my teeth. I can concoct fabrications for Lance as easily as I can for Katerina.
“I’ll swing by and pick you up. Wait out front for me,” he says.
I turn and look at the Center, deciding it won’t kill me to wait on the stairs. I hate that I’m caving to Lance, of all people, but I guess that’s what you do when you don’t have anyone else.
“Okay. I’ll be on the stairs by the 60th Street entrance.”
“See you in a few,” he says before ending the call.
I stare at my phone as heat rises in my body. Maybe I could take out all of my pent-up sexual energy on Lance? But the idea curdles my stomach. Maybe we could get lunch and he could lend a sympathetic ear instead of being Mother’s evil sidekick.