His Innocent Obsession

Saanvi

As far back as I could remember, music has carried me. When it plays, my brain turns off and my feet turn on. The rest of my body follows suit. I flow and bob, wave and bounce with its melody. Whether it’s ballet, cultural from my mother’s hometown, interpretive, or just free dancing, I’ve always felt at home with a little pep in my step.

This is my last practice before tonight’s show. My body spins. Once. Twice. Kingsley and I aim for a third. Once I get it, applause erupts around me. I stick my foot out, and rely on Kingsley to clean my finish. My chest rises and falls. It’s difficult to breathe with the binder around it.

“That’s great, Savani,” Jerome says. I keep my plastered smile on my face. I don’t bother to correct him; I think he gets my name wrong on purpose.

I bow and begin to make my way off the stage. The music starts from the top for the others to practice their pieces again. I came two hours before them, so I’ve gotten all the practice I need before the show begins. Jerome follows me backstage to my room. I turn to him.

“Your last spin was amazing. How about you add a fourth one just for kicks?” he says. I wrinkle my eyebrows, but my smile remains. I probably look like a clown.

“Kingsley is still having a hard time with three spins. A fourth could ruin the performance,” I respond. Just then Kingsley passes beside me.

“Kingsley, dearest!” Jerome runs off to Kingsley, leaving me standing there without a word. I open the door to my changing room and close it behind me. Once I hear the lock click, the strained smile on my face drops.

Before I even make it to the mirror, I pull my hair from the tight bun it’s in. This allows my face to relax some more. Unfortunately, it also brings my rather chubby cheeks out of hiding. I breathe a sigh of relief. My feet ache from hours of practicing and I am ready to go on vacation. Sadly, such a thing didn’t exist for dancers.

When I’m finished changing, a knock comes from my door. I approach it, open it, then go back to packing my bag. We only have four hours to go back to the hotel, rest, and get back here for the recital. It’s Kingsley.

“Hey,” he greets sheepishly. Kingsley is young and pretty new to the class, but because of his stature, rather than his skill, Jerome paired him with me for this piece. He’s a quick enough learner and pretty nice. This doesn’t necessarily excuse the amount of times he’s stepped on my toes or dropped me.

“Everything okay?” I ask, standing to face him. He’s not an asshole, and that says a lot about the rest of the class, so I regard him with as much patience as I can. He tries, and I remember being in his shoes.

“Yeah. Uh– Jerome wants us to add a fourth spin at the end of the piece,” he says. I pause. This is the first bit of emotion I’ve shown on my face since coming here.

“I don’t think we should,” I respond. Kingsley puts his hand on his opposing forearm.

“Do we have a choice? He’s the instructor. We can’t just ignore him.” I grab a pack of gum from my bag before zipping the entire thing up.

“You’re paying Jerome for exposure. If someone gets injured because of a last minute change to the choreography, do you think they will foot the medical bill? Remember that liability form you signed when you began your membership?” Kingsley nods. “If something goes wrong, Jerome is unaffected. Your career is at stake.”

“I think I can handle it though. What do you think I should do?” he asks. Guilt burns my chest. It’s wrong for me to teach a new dancer to ignore his instructor, but unlike Kingsley, I’m being paid to perform. If something goes wrong, I can’t handle this month’s bills.

I take a deep breath. One step brings me closer to him. He’s younger than me, but his soft green eyes are angled downward to look at me.

“My advice is not to do it. But if it makes you uncomfortable to disobey your instructor, then we can practice a fourth spin before we go on tonight,” I advise him gently. Kingsley nods.

“I’ll be here by seven,” he says. Without another word, he leaves the room. I bite on my bottom lip. I barely got any damn sleep last night because I stayed late practising my solo. Now I won’t even get to nap before the recital. I have just enough time to get to the hotel, change, and get back. Maybe I can nap in the cab back.

I close the door of the cab. I turn to face the theatre. It’s beautiful– maybe one of the most beautiful ones I’ve ever actually performed in. This is nothing compared to the show in Los Angelos next month.

I pull my phone from my pocket, turning on my pre-recital music to calm myself. I take the back entrance and make my way to the dressing rooms to drop my things off.

The stage is littered with many people practicing in their uniforms this time. I scour the area for Kingsley. I check the time on my phone. It’s half past seven and no sign of him. I bite on my lower lip. I turn around to look for his dressing room, but Jerome is standing right behind me.

“Why are you on your feet, young lady? You need to rest these beauties!” He swings his hand to slap my thigh. I wince.

“Where’s Kingsley? He said he wanted to practice four spins before we went on,” I respond, still looking around for him.

“I haven’t heard anything from him.” Jerome shrugs and walks away. I huff and make my way to my changing room. My legs feel like they’re going to fall off.

I throw myself into the sofa at the far end of the room. I don’t even notice myself dozing off until my alarm wakes me up. My heart races. I sprint to my mirror. Normally, I’d have my makeup done by now. Luckily, I did my hair at the hotel.

I dab white powder at my face, then do my dramatic eyeliner as I always do. My eyeshadow and lipstick are rushed, but it’s hard to tell. When I shrug my costume on, sequins and all, I return to clean up my makeup. I’m panting by the time Jerome comes around banging on doors like he usually does.

I open the door and step outside. To my dismay, Kingsley is right across from me, dressed and ready to go.

“Kingsley, where–”

“Line up, folks! We’ve got a full house of the richest daddies you can find in sweet ol Manhattan!” Jerome sings, walking past us. Kingsley and I silently follow. It’s time to turn our brains off and our hearts on: let the music move our bodies for us.

The music plays. The curtains rise. The opening dancers break their pose on the beat and begin to move. These are the younger dancers. My group joins them on stage at the second sequence. My face is once again plastered with a smile as the bright light shines in my face. My body moves in tandem with the music. I move with my class until it’s my turn to break away from them and take center stage.

My feet pound the stage. My eyes close momentarily as the music and I become one. I’ve practiced my solo so many times that I even had dreams about it. It’s one of my best pieces yet. My hands trace down my body and my hips sway. I see myself in the mirror practicing at the break of dawn and the settling of dusk. Then I spin and spin. I reach up on one foot and a sharp pain strikes my ankle.

My eyes flash open. I keep dancing as though nothing happened. I don’t feel it again. Maybe a pinched nerve. Stay focused. I spin again and reach. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four, I chant in my head. Soon, the song-change awaits me. It’s time.

I dance to the edge of the stage. A transition of other dancers is waiting. I disappear behind the stage and finally allow my body to drop only for a second. I look down at my ankle, rotating it to make sure everything is fine.

“Savian,” Jerome says. I look over my shoulder at him. “Beautiful as usual. I really felt that last sequence. Now go out there with Kingsley and close this bitch up like I know you will.”

I nod, my fake smile back on my face. I approach the table of refreshments– refreshments for dancers at least. I grab some water and sip it before tossing the empty bottle into the garbage. I wait by the curtains as the other dancers do their part. Kingsley is already on stage.

I count up on my fingers before I join the dancers in the back and make my way to the front like we practiced. Kingsley meets me there and our hands touch. Like we rehearsed, our bodies move together in tandem. I look into his eyes. He looks scared.

“How many?” I mouth to him. We part for a labored second. When we get back together, his smile breaks for a second to respond.

“Four,” he whispers. We separate again. This time, I spin back into his arms. The pain strikes my ankle again. I push my weight to my other leg to avoid having my choreography ruined. It’s not my first injury and it won’t be my last.

Finally, my hand touches Kingsley’s again. We’re both smiling at the crowd. On the beat, I spin into his hold. Every time my foot touches the ground, a sharp pain strikes my leg. I don’t falter. I don’t even let myself flinch. When I’m in Kingsley’s hold, he begins to spin me right on the injured leg. Once, twice, thrice. Then the fourth spin, and suddenly, my entire leg aches like I’d just been shot. My eyes widen to saucers. That popping sound—

I stick my foot out and allow my weight to fall on the injured foot. I push my head into Kingsley’s chest, blinking back my tears. The applause rains from the crowd.

“Close the curtains,” Kingsley bellows. Alarm flashes through their faces. The curtains drop rapidly.