Off Balance (Ballet Theatre Chronicles Book 1) (3 page)

Gil rose and thrust out his hand, undaunted. "It was a pleasure to meet you. And if you talk to Joel, tell him Gil Sheridan sends his regards."

Andy shook Gil's hand but paused, mid-shake. His other hand swung around to sandwich Gil's hand. The Cadillac of handshakes: the two-handed grip.

"I'm having a private party in a month’s time, at my Hillsborough home. Maybe I’ll send a few invitations your way.”

"We would certainly appreciate that," Gil replied without missing a beat. "It would be a pleasure to spend more time discussing, uh, theater with you.” He gave Andy's hand one last vigorous pump before Andy released it.

"I’ll give it some thought,” Andy said. “We’ll be in touch.”

Had that been an official invitation or not? Over the next twenty minutes, on the way back to the WCBT offices, Gil and Alice speculated over this. Gil thought yes. Alice wasn’t so sure. She told Gil he’d been too shocking, too overt about the sex-and-domination business. He told her quite the contrary, that if they received invitations, it would be because he’d gotten Andy’s attention over that.

She shook her head as they entered the lobby. “It was my reference to the great-great-grandfathers. Otherwise he would have asked us to leave. I mean, did you see how cold his eyes had grown?”

“I would have come up with some way to save us. And hey, I didn’t know Marianne was a Whittier.”

She hesitated. “She’s not.”

“So, you lied.”

“I did not. Maybe Marianne’s not my birth mother.”

“Nice try. Except that I’ve heard you call her ‘my mom’ a hundred times.”

“I’m serious. Deborah Whittier is. Was.”

He stopped and regarded her in surprise. “You
are
serious.”

She nodded.

“You never told me any of this.”

“Why should I have? I was a kid when she died and my father remarried. It’s all ancient history.”

“Sure, okay.” He resumed their walk toward the elevators. “Point is, your diversion worked. Thank you. And now I think we’re in, Alice.”

“Well. Time will tell if we sufficiently impressed him.”

“We did. He ended with ‘We’ll be in touch,’ didn’t he?”

“That could mean anything.”

“Regardless, I’m calling this a lead. A strong one.” He chuckled to himself. “Charlie Stanton’s going to be over the moon. He’s been trying to make inroads with the Redgrave Foundation for years. It drives him nuts that the symphony gets all the funding.”

The elevator door pinged and slid open to reveal a young woman, clearly a dancer, standing inside. She had the perfect dancer’s body, Alice noted, thin and delicate but not starved-looking, appealing angles and planes to her face and shoulders. She was sweetly pretty rather than beautiful, with pale, unblemished skin, light brown hair pulled back into a bun, and full pink lips. Paperwork poked out of the girl’s dance bag and Alice realized this must be the new hire, the soloist the girls in the bathroom had been gossiping about. She looked nervous, her hazel eyes wide with unease, the look of someone forced onto a roller-coaster ride, anticipating that first giant dip.

“Were you getting out?” Alice asked.

“Oh,” the girl said. “Oh. Right.”

A tango of sorts ensued as the girl tried to get off the elevator, only to step right in front of Gil, back up and step right in front of Alice. She next tried stepping to Gil’s left, just as he shifted in that direction.

He began to chuckle. “Shall we dance?” he asked.

She didn’t smile back. She looked as if she were ready to cry. “Sorry,” she whispered, and shot between them.

Bemused, they stepped onto the elevator, followed by three other people who blocked their view of the girl. Even after the doors slid closed, however, Alice could still feel the girl’s presence, that frozen, anticipatory moment among the three of them.

Gil was conspicuously silent on the ride up to the fourth floor. Alice glanced over at him out of the corner of her eye. He looked confused. Unmoored.

He was not thinking about Andy Redgrave, she realized. He was thinking about that girl.

A prickle stirred the hairs at the back of her neck. She understood, in a way she couldn’t put into words, that the dancers she’d encountered earlier had every reason to feel threatened by the new girl.

Unfathomably, so did she.

Lana couldn’t find a place at the barre for company class. It was like a game of musical chairs, or something from a bad dream. Two weeks into the game, each day still felt like her first, nerve-wracking and awkward. She darted around the studio, searching, her panic growing. She spied an opening along the main barre affixed to the wall, paralleling the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, but a petite Asian-American woman wearing cutoff sweats and a frayed red sweater over her leotard frowned when Lana asked if she could squeeze in.

“There’s really not enough room,” she told Lana.

Of course there was, Lana wanted to argue. The woman could take one step back and make room. But instead of arguing, Lana smiled weakly and backed away.

She saw another space along the other wall, beside the window, but even before she could get up to the barre, a muscled blonde man was shaking his head. “That’s Katrina’s spot,” he told her.

Katrina was a senior principal. Royalty.

Lana swallowed, nodded and turned away. She noticed two dancers bringing another portable barre to the center. She scurried after them and the moment the barre was down, planted her hand firmly on a middle spot.

Two corps de ballet dancers had claimed similar spots on the other side of the barre. They cast glances her way, which she ignored. She couldn’t keep getting bumped from spot to spot. But this time no one challenged her. As she warmed up, she studied the dancer across from her out of the corner of her eye. She was pretty, with velvety brown eyes and thick lashes like something out of a Maybelline advertisement. She looked confident and happy, the kind of person you saw and instantly wanted to be, rather than your own inhibited, ever-worrying self. She caught Lana’s glance and broadened her smile.

“Settling into San Francisco?” she asked. Her voice was high, sweet-sounding.

“Oh. Yes, thanks.” Lana said, clutching onto the barre.

“That’s good.”

She could think of nothing else to say. The girl turned back to her friend and the two resumed conversation.

Another dancer approached, looking for a spot, and Lana gestured to the place in front of her, taking a step back to make room. The woman was one of the other dancers in
Arpeggio
, the ballet that Lana was scheduled to rehearse for the spring repertory season. She saw Lana, smiled and hurried over. “Thanks,” she murmured. “It’s crowded today.”

“It is,” Lana agreed, and some of the tightness inside her eased.

The rehearsals for future programs, beginning to appear on the daily rehearsal sheet, were starting to make Lana feel like she belonged here. Over the last two weeks, most attention had been focused on the two programs the company would perform on their October ten-day West Coast tour. The first program incorporated works from last year’s season. Lana, as a newcomer soloist, wouldn’t play much part in that program. Only one role, dancing within the corps in Balanchine’s
Serenade
, not even soloist work. Three-quarters of Program II had been cast with nothing yet for Lana. There’d been an afternoon audition session with the choreographer’s representative from Paris who would stage
Autumn Souvenir
, but no casting news. It had a demi-soloist trio, though. She knew she was under consideration there; the stager, standing alongside Mr. Gunst, had singled her out to dance a sixteen-count solo passage.

And now there was
Arpeggio.
Five days ago, Lana’s name had been posted alongside seven others. As a soloist. Upon seeing this, a wave of dizzying relief had passed over her.

It would all be okay. It was as promised, after all.

The situation had carried with it the hazy, unsubstantial nature of a dream ever since last spring, when she’d received the phone call from Anders Gunst, artistic director of the West Coast Ballet Theatre. She’d been speechless to hear from him, his interest in the audition tape she’d sent as little more than a dare to herself, something to keep her from sinking into despair. He’d invited her out to San Francisco and she’d spent two days in the WCBT studios, which had culminated in a contract offer. Initially, just for the corps de ballet, as she would have expected, but a month later, a call, with news that was even better.

Inconceivably better.

The same could not be said for her new life here in San Francisco. It had been wrenching to leave her native Kansas City, her family. Worse than she’d expected. Mom had been so emotional, creeping in late to huddle on the bed with her that last night. Lana could feel her silently weeping, the sobs shaking her body. But when Lana reached over to comfort her, Mom pushed her hand away roughly, rolled off Lana’s bed and left the room without a word. The next morning as Lana and her father were leaving the house for the airport, Mom came out into the front yard, still in her robe.

She looked at Lana, locking her red-rimmed eyes onto Lana’s like a laser. “You just remember that you can come home any time,” she said, sounding fierce, even angry. “Don’t let anyone make you believe there’s any sort of shame in that. We’re your family and we love you more than anyone else possibly could. Don’t you forget that.”

Mom’s hands gripped Lana’s arms so hard she later found bruises there that melted into little blue and yellowing finger points on either arm. Then Mom had dashed inside, leaving Lana to finish the terrible task of saying goodbye to her little brothers, six-year-old twins. Luke, her special one, was sobbing, begging her not to go, and she was the one tearing herself loose, tears making her stumble blindly toward the car as Dad, from the driver’s seat, called out for Annabel to stop sulking, get over here and take care of your little brothers.

Annabel, fifteen months Lana’s junior, had given Lana a hug goodbye, because they were a family that got along, Mom had snarled to Annabel. Lana had seen the resentment, the coldness in the back of her sister’s eyes, however, even as she was saying, “Goodbye, we’ll miss you, good luck in your new job, new city. Wish I were the one going.” The last bit, at least, had been sincere and heartfelt.

Gone, all of this, and her old ballet company, the only worlds she’d ever known. She felt lonely and alienated beyond words here. At least there was
Arpeggio
now, a thawing from some of the other dancers, like the one in front of her. Rumor had it more casting for Program II was close to being decided and would be posted soon. That would make two ballets, two sets of closer association with other company members, in addition to the corps de ballet role. It would be a good start.

The din in the studio grew louder, sleepy dancers waking up both their minds and bodies. “Who’s teaching?” called out a guy with a light Spanish accent, stretched on the floor in the front splits. He pivoted himself effortlessly via side splits into the other side.

“Gunst is at a meeting. Curtis, maybe?” someone answered.

“Oh, God,” another guy said as he bent over his leg at the barre. “I’m not ready for Curtis this morning.”

But instead it was Ben, Anders’ assistant and the youngest of three ballet masters, well-liked, who strode in, called out for the accompanist to give him something smooth and flowing for pliés, but not too slow. Everyone took their places, left hand on barre, and class began. The dancers were layered in sweatpants and tops, leg warmers, layers that came off as bodies warmed up. Beneath, lay the basics: black tights and white tee-shirt for men, a thin-strapped leotard for the women, pink or black tights, or both.

They worked their way through tendu, degagé, rond de jambe, développé and grand battement. Those with mirror access regarded their reflections critically, checking posture, alignment, turnout. Lana relaxed into her efforts. Physical struggle, the tensing of muscles, pushing them, challenging herself, was far and away the easiest part these days of being a ballet professional.

A lyrical adagio followed barre, in the center of the room. A pirouette turn combination. A petit allegro combination of quick, fast jumps to sharpen footwork. Finally the group moved diagonally across the floor in small groups for the grand allegro. Class ended, as all ballet classes did, with a graceful reverence bow to the teacher. Afterward all the dancers clapped, relaxed, and began chattering again.

Gradually the news filtered in: a new rehearsal list was up, finally incorporating casting for the entire Program II. In a matter of seconds, the room had cleared.

Lana joined the others crowded around the bulletin board. Bare, sweaty shoulders bumped as everyone pressed closer to seek out their names on the list. The final choices for Program II produced a different reaction than the other rehearsal sheets had. Lana felt it instantly in the air.

“Oh. My. God,” she heard one of the dancers mutter. Jaws agape. Frowns directed her way. Lana peered closer at the list, baffled. Yes, she was on there, in the ballet
Autumn Souvenir,
with Javier, a principal dancer. Javier, the Cuban-born powerhouse she’d read about in
Dance Magazine
over the past five years. There were three names beneath theirs—the demi-soloist trio—and below that, a list of eight corps dancer names. Alongside that, the list repeated itself with new names for the leads. A second cast.

Which meant she was first cast. With the female lead.

Oh, God.

“I don’t believe it,” one dancer muttered. “A new dancer, not even a principal, and she gets this
?”

The pretty dancer with the velvety brown eyes spied Lana nearby and gave her friend a nudge. “Shhh, Charlotte.”

Lana ducked her head, pretending to be interested in checking her watch as she edged her way out of the group. Elation battled with a sickening sense of dismay. The dismay won, powered by the indignation she could feel radiating off the other dancers. She made herself go numb inside, a protective measure she’d learned long ago that kept things from hurting too much.