Off Balance (Ballet Theatre Chronicles Book 1) (6 page)

Further struggle that felt equally absurd: she was having trouble keeping busy all day long. It was not a problem she’d ever experienced, or imagined, in her entire life. There’d only been the initial
Autumn Souvenir
rehearsal because the stager in charge of their production, who’d teach them all the ballet steps and nuances, was still finishing up staging work in Seattle. He’d be in Seattle all week, but he’d scheduled a rehearsal for the following Sunday. In the meantime, her weekday rehearsal schedule was all the more sparse, only two assigned roles among three programs. She had every late afternoon free, a bitter irony, given that was the time slot, back home, she’d fought to have, usually unsuccessfully, in order to help Mom. Witching hour. Brutal for moms, she’d been told. So whenever possible, she’d squeezed in time with the twins, sending Mom off to rest while she sat reading to the boys, their small bodies pressed on either side of her, their wriggling for once stopped. In truth, she’d relished this quiet time, the comforting warmth of their bodies, the sweet puppy smell of their silky hair. Mom would reappear ninety minutes later and start dinner amid the clank of pans, the ensuing sizzle of onions and aroma of browning meat filling the air. Scott, still in high school, would burst in, shouting that he was starved, when was dinner, followed by Annabel, who would wander into the kitchen to either gossip or bicker with Mom, depending on their respective moods. Lana would slip out shortly thereafter, off to the theater, or to seek out some quiet time of her own.

Which she now had, every single day. To go from that overcrowded life and years as an in-demand dancer, to this. Who would have thought being a soloist in a bigger company would be so agonizingly lonely?

The ballet school’s late afternoon advanced class was open to any WCBT member looking for yet another workout for the day. Ideal for dancers recovering from injuries, it also helped out new soloists who weren’t cast in enough ballets to fill their days with rehearsals until six o’clock and were frantic to keep dancing rather than return to a lonely, too-quiet evening in an ugly, uninviting place.

Tonight, to her surprise, she saw two other dancers in the class, as well. She commented on this to the friendlier one, Sergei, after class.

“This is because it is pizza insanity night,” Sergei told her, by way of explanation.

She angled her head at Sergei, wondering if she’d misunderstood him. He was Russian, but spoke very good English. Usually.

“Pizza insanity?” she repeated.

Sergei nodded. “It is quite a tradition, actually. A group of us go to Giovanni’s and eat pizza. We do this insanity to celebrate trying to get back into shape after July’s laziness.” He laughed at Lana’s expression. “Yes, I know. It sounds strange. But it is a tradition. Anders will even—how do you say this?—foot the bill.”

He regarded her in affected surprise. “What, you did not hear of this? I thought everyone knew.”

She swallowed her hurt. “Maybe it’s because there’s not a lot of new people here this year, that it didn’t need to get advertised. Besides the apprentices, there’s just those two corps dancers and me.”

“Well, of course you are invited. You really must go.”

It was either pizza insanity or the grey, depressing silence of her studio apartment. Even so, she hesitated. Sergei smiled and patted her arm.

“Yes, come on. We will go together.”

When she stepped into the back room of Giovanni’s pizzeria and saw all the others, three-quarters of the company, there was a palpable pause. Faces froze in surprise, even dismay, at the sight of her. Lana wanted to turn and run out of there, back to her crummy little apartment. But she was there, Sergei was behind her, bumping her forward, and everyone remembered their manners, telling Lana hi, glad you could make it, finding open spots for her and Sergei at the table.

To her relief, the servers appeared a minute later with the pizzas, a half-dozen of them, and laid them in the center of the three tables pushed together. Lana’s presence was forgotten as the male dancers tore into the pizzas, grabbing piping hot slices and biting into them before they could hit the plate. The melted cheese stretched, beckoned seductively. The females reacted differently, some regarding the pizza with unease, distrust. They seemed to relax when the servers returned with three enormous bowls of salad.

Lana was one of the fortunate ones: naturally slim, with a high metabolism. She was careful, however, to follow the other women and take just one slice of pizza, loading the rest of her plate with salad. She didn’t need this issue, as well, to set her apart.

It was entertaining to watch the others. One of the younger girls, a petite Russian, took little mouse bites of her slice. She shut her eyes as she chewed, ever so slowly, a dreamy smile playing on her lips. Opening her eyes, she issued a little sigh, as if in sorrow that she was one bite closer to being done. Next to her, an older dancer, fuller-figured than the rest, had loaded her plate with so much salad there was no room for a pizza slice. She squeezed the juice out of a lemon wedge onto the salad and commenced eating with a virtuous smile. Three bites and the smile faded. She doggedly plowed through her salad as she watched the men wolf down their second and third slices. Finally she set her fork down. “This is bullshit,” she muttered to herself. “Utter bullshit
.”
Finally she leaned over and grabbed her own slice of pizza. Plopping back down on her chair, she hesitated before taking a defiant bite. She nodded, as to herself, and took a second bite, her shoulders relaxing.

Courtney, the pretty dark-haired dancer Lana had admired in company class, had peeled back her cheese and laid it on the side of her plate before taking a bite of the denuded pizza. “Trade you,” said her friend, sitting across from her, “I’m doing protein and not carbs this month.”

Boyd, a corps dancer with golden, surfer-dude good looks, watched their exchange of cheese and crust with exaggerated amusement.

“You ladies,” he said. “All of you. You’re gorgeous. You look great just the way you are. And you know you’ll burn everything off, now that we’re working all day again.”

The protein-eater, a girl named Charlotte, shook her head. “I’m not easing up until I get back to pre-layoff weight.”

“What, you didn’t work out all July?”

“I was trying to give my left hamstring extra healing time. And it was family this, family that, all month long. Two weddings and an anniversary party. All these big sit-down meals and relatives pushing me to eat, eat. Casseroles. Mashed potatoes and gravy. God. It’s no wonder America has an obesity problem.”

“You’ll be fine in no time,” Boyd said. “Especially with classes like today’s.”

The comment elicited groans and rolled eyes.

“God, Anders was brutal,” the salad-eater said.

“I thought I was going to die after that sixty-four-count jump combination,” Courtney said. “And did you notice the way he smiled through it all? Positively evil.”

Boyd nodded, grimaced. “What a bastard he can be.”

The others continued discussing the class, but Boyd had turned to Courtney. “Did I see you afterward, in the café with Gil?” he asked.

“You did.” She smiled. “He owed me a Diet Coke.”

Gil
.

They were talking about Gil. She strained to listen in.

“We had this little bet going,” Courtney was saying to Boyd. “I won, he was paying up.”

“You had a big grin on your face. Was he making a pass at you?”

“No way,” someone cut in, and now everyone was listening, as if the mention of Gil’s name had the same charmed effect on everyone. “Gil’s not a flirter with the talent, not in that way.”

"God," one of the guys breathed, "what I'd give for an hour alone with Gil. I could teach him a thing or two about flirting with the talent."

“Oh, trust me,” Courtney said, “Gil flirts. But he and I are just friends.”

To Lana’s shock, Boyd turned to her next. “And how about Gil and
you
, Lana?” He seemed pleased by her panicked reaction. “Min-jun says he saw you two on Monday night, having dinner together at Primavera’s. What are the chances of that?”

His innocent smile didn’t seem all that innocent.

Everyone had grown silent, waiting for Lana’s reply. She paused to fortify her response with a gulp of Diet Coke, which went down too fast and made her cough. “It was nothing,” she said once she’d regained her breath. “He saw me leaving on Monday evening and offered me a ride to my place.”

“I thought I heard you say you lived nearby,” Charlotte said.

“I do, and that’s what I told him, but it was the end of a long day.”

“And he has a nice car,” someone else commented slyly.

He did, a sleek, red Audi TT Roadster. When she’d slipped into the seat and shut the door behind her, encapsulating her in Gil’s more luxurious world, it had felt like a dream.

“So he offered to drive you home and took you to dinner instead?” Boyd asked.

“It was his idea, I was just keeping him company,” she stammered. “He was killing time before going to pick up his girlfriend from the airport.”

“Ah, Julia. The famous Julia.” Boyd raised his beer cup as if in a toast.

“She’s gorgeous,” Courtney said. “Have you seen her?”

Lana gave a reluctant nod. She’d seen both Gil and Julia on Wednesday evening; they’d all been leaving the building around the same time. Julia was a thin, coldly beautiful woman in silk trousers and an expensive-looking blouse, her shimmering gold hair in a cut that set off her cheekbones, her wide blue eyes. She had a commanding presence and an authoritative voice as she declared that she’d been simply
pining
for a good cioppino. Lana had stood there, dance bag now heavy on her shoulder, and watched them sail out the double doors, never once looking her way. Julia looked older than Gil, she’d decided uncharitably. Much older.

“But Gil and I are just friends,” Lana said to the others, realizing too late that she was parroting Courtney’s comment.

“Oh, that Gil,” Boyd said. “He so gets around. Makes a new friend every day.” The innuendo hidden within his words made everyone laugh. Lana forced herself to join in.

Saturday was Lana’s afternoon with Gil, which he still insisted on doing even though he’d paid off his rain-check obligation with Monday’s dinner. He drove them over the Bay Bridge and up into the Oakland Hills, to a regional park with glorious views of the San Francisco skyline, the bay, sparkling in the sunlight, and around them, the rolling, golden hills of the East Bay. They strolled along the redwood-studded trails, talking about everything and nothing, inhaling the pine-baked smell of the warm air, the shimmering dried grasses around them issuing a soft
ssshhhh
. It felt like paradise.

Time passed too quickly. The sun was beginning its descent as they returned to the car. Gil told Lana about his plans for the evening: a party, but business related. Some suit with deep pockets named Andy Redgrave he was trying to woo. She, of course, had no plans for the night, just the confines of her lonely prison cell of a studio.

Correction. She had a phone date. With her mother.

She’d called Mom the previous night, pouring out her loneliness, which Mom alone seemed to want to hear about. When she confessed her dread of another lonely, solitary Saturday night, Mom had grown animated.

“Tell you what. I’ll be your date. I’ll call you, once the boys are off to bed and your dad’s watching TV. How does that sound?”

A phone date with her mother sounded almost as lonely and pathetic as sitting alone in her studio, but Mom seemed pleased by the idea. Her voice quivered with purpose as she decided aloud that she’d pour herself a glass of wine and commandeer the bedroom, so Lana could have her undivided attention.

Lana had learned to reward these infrequent bursts of motivation and euphoria on Mom’s part with complete agreement and enthusiasm. She could almost see her mother right then, her thin body straightened out of its customary fatigue-induced slouch, her tired eyes brightening at the prospect of this change of routine and the chance to play hero to her homesick daughter at the same time.

Lana forced excitement into her voice as she agreed yes, that would be the perfect solution, and yes, seven-thirty her time would be great. She’d be home. No plans whatsoever.

Gil noticed her gloom now as they drove back toward San Francisco.

“You’re awfully quiet. What’s up?”

It took a moment for her to sum it up in a non-self-pitying manner. “I guess I haven’t fully adjusted to life out here yet.”

“You miss Kansas City.” It was a statement, not a question.

Lana gave a small nod in reply and silence once again filled the car. There was nothing more to be said, after all. Kansas City was no longer her home.

A moment later Gil sat up straighter. “I just thought of something. We have enough time to squeeze it in. You want a taste of Kansas City and I’m going to get it for you.” He swung over three lanes and took the next highway exit for downtown Oakland.

“What is it?” she kept asking, but he only laughed, shook his head and said it was a surprise.

Once on city streets, however, his destination proved elusive. Gil, his voice growing terse, said he’d find it. After several more turns and city blocks, he did. He stopped the car on what appeared to be a residential corner and pointed.

Lana looked around. “What am I supposed to be seeing?”

“That little shop there, across the street.”

“That’s a shop? What do they sell?”

“Barbeque. Barbeque that could pass for Kansas City barbeque.”

It was indeed a storefront, she saw now, next to a liquor store and what appeared to be a closed-up nail salon. The shop was small, with a line of people snaking out of it and along the sidewalk, waiting to buy ribs, the only thing they sold.

They left the car and joined the line. When it was their turn, Gil ordered a half-slab of ribs from the cook-cashier-owner, whose dark-skinned face was sweaty and irritable-looking. He took their money without a word and a moment later thrust a newspaper-wrapped parcel at them. Gil took the parcel and steered her out of the shop, back toward the car. Inside the car he displayed their booty: smoked ribs atop the requisite slice of white sandwich bread, two tiny cups of spicy-sweet barbeque sauce alongside it all.