Wicked Dance

I raised my hands as I flexed my feet, my right foot on the seat of a chair and my left on the ground. I was focused, my vision blurred around the sight of my black ballet slipper. I loved being the first one in the studio. I loved the light silence that accompanied it, just as I loved the additional pirouettes I got to complete in front of the wall mirror alone until it was time for rehearsals.

The silence in the reverberant room was relaxing, contrasting with the loud streets of New York just outside the company building. I didn’t like what I had seen of the city so far, but I came to America to dance, so the environment didn’t matter. It shouldn’t have.

My stare was pulled from my arched foot by the studio door opening. I didn’t expect anyone to be as early as I was, and was a bit alarmed. A tall, slim brown-skinned man walking into the studio brought me to my feet as to not be impolite.

I had heard that people were much different in America-- Much more polite and friendly. He greeted me with a nod before a “Good morning,”.

His voice was soft but deep, and he had a nice physique, which I was instantly jealous of. He set up his gray mat and after stretching his feet, slowly, he went down into a perfect middle split. It was truly a sight to admire.

His slim thighs and calves maintained the position effortlessly, and he stared into the mirror in front of him, rolling into the position to get the most effective stretch. He was handsome, with a broad nose sitting in the center of his smooth, square-shaped face. He had a thin pair of lips that upturned into a sly smile as his full, deep brown eyes raised and made contact with mine.

“Yes?” He spoke up, and my face burned in embarrassment,

“Sorry, I don’t mean to stare,” I say, and as the words leave my lips, the heat in my cheeks intensify, my strange accent accompanying those words that seemed to melt together; but not in a good way. They melted together like a rushed sandwich from a deli that looked nothing like it was supposed to.

I was born and raised in Normandy, France, and went to ballet school in St. Petersburg, Russia. My French accent was always present, even as I spoke Russian. English as my third language always seemed to come out with the heaviest, ugliest accent-- One I despised.

“It’s alright. Are you from around here?” He asks, furrowing his eyebrows curiously, a kind smile on his lips.

“No,” I answered, “I’m from France, but I went to ballet school in Russia. English not my first language so it comes out funny.” I informed him, toying with my fingers as I offered him a weak smile. Surprisingly, he nodded in understanding.

I found myself holding onto that nod, cherishing the sense of relief it sent travelling through my body. I thought that he’d laugh at the way I spoke. I thought he’d laugh at my lack of confidence in my English, just as I thought he’d leave out conversation there, but he stunned me once again when I attempted to keep our conversation going. I was curious about him.

“Are you?” I ask and he shrugs,

“Kinda, not really. I’m from Indiana, which is on the other side of the country.”

I nod and return to my stretch on the chair, feeling the pull in my thigh as I make sure to keep my legs straight. I dug breaths from the pit of my stomach and let them out through my nose to remain composed as I pushed my body to its full potential. This was a technique I had been taught in Russia and something that had changed my splits, jumps, arabesques, and so much more for the better.

I could feel a burn, not from my thighs, but someone’s eyes on me intently. I glanced over at the only other person in the room to see his eyes wide, presumably in intrigue.

“What?” I laugh as he stares,

“That isn’t-- Extreme?” He asks, rising to his feet and heading over to the barre.

“It’s how I was taught in Russia.” I say simply as I move my leg to stand upright.

Russian training was a curse at the time and a blessing when it was time for me to audition for companies. I had gotten offers from all over the world, but my problem stemmed from the language barrier I’d experience if I took most of them. My best offer came from TOA Dance Theater in China, but I refused to learn another language, so I decided to settle down in the ‘Big Apple’, as people called it and learn Chinese later if it came down to it.

“I’ve heard of the Russian and French companies-- How are you still alive?” He joked and I snickered,

“For the love of ballet.”

The stranger shook his head and I pursed my lips,

“You never say your name.”

“It’s Michael-- Michael Jones.” He says, and I nod before he speaks again, “What’s yours?”

“Amir Dubois,” I reply, and he nods.

We eventually return to our routines as people fill the studio, yet our eyes continuously meet throughout the many rehearsals of the day. He’d stare, I’d stare, we’d catch one another red-handed mid-glance and brush it off with a soft smile. He was talented. His pirouettes were perfect, and his techniques were unique, and based on core strength-- It explained his slim physique.

Although, I wasn’t the only one admiring and taking note of techniques. He and most of the other dancers watched me closely when it was my turn to display my talent. Many mumbling under their breaths of how they’d never attempt my stretches or that I should’ve been good at ballet simply because I was French.

Laziness and ignorance summed up the negative and condescending gestures and statements in my eyes because I knew that my salary was higher than that of every person in that room, not including the master. I was achieved and experienced with no intention of letting anybody at that company take away the gust in the wind beneath my wings. I wasn’t there to make friends, I was there to make a name for myself. If the former happened then I’d be grateful, but the latter was my priority.

Our ballet master went over what was required of us; the 64 straight performances that’d begin in a few weeks, and our everyday rehearsals from 9AM to 6PM before our shows at 7:30PM. The idea of that many shows may have seemed intimidating to most people in the room, but it was normal to me. I had to push to be seen in the ballet world, and that pushing included intense training that I’d never forget. In my hometown, I was one of the only black ballet dancers and the only male. In Russia, I was one of two black dancers in the entire company.

It wasn’t fair, but my mother taught me from early on, that if I wanted to be seen, that I always had to do more than my counterparts because their race put them ten steps ahead of me. I always had to give 110% just to be seen as an equal, and that effort would never cease; even in my professional career.

The day seemed to end for the rest of the dancers sooner than later, and I was left in the studio alone to get more practice in. 110% included late nights, no matter how early the morning started. I practiced my balance for arabesques that’d have to be executed on changemant for the Nutcracker. We had another rehearsal tomorrow, and roles would be assigned for every show. I wanted lots of lead parts, so I practiced uninterrupted for about half an hour before the studio door opened, distracting me for a moment.

My focus shifted from my perfect center to the door, where I met those perfect, brown eyes once again. There was this majesty about them that drew me in and kept me staring for longer than I was supposed to. I could look into them all day, finding a new hue or aspect in them with each minute that passed.

“What are you still doin’ here?” He asked, and I continued to dance as I spoke.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” I ask goofily, the corners of my lips rising into a smile,

“The Nutcracker, but you do know I’m gonna be the one getting that part.”

I winced playfully, “My jumps are better than yours and my turns are better as well. I’m opening that show even if I have to do arabesques all night, I don’t care about what happens after.” I said, executing a perfect fouetté.

I could see the intrigue on his face, he wasn’t able to mask just how he was feeling very well. He was intimidated, but his racing heart wouldn’t deter my determination to open the show.

He kissed his teeth, but observed my technique anyway, leaning against the mirror, my eyes occasionally shifting over onto him. My desire to be the best fueled me as I hit those turns perfectly, but his voice pulled me out of focus about 20 minutes back into my changemant arabesques.

“Do you know the paux de deux for Sleeping Beauty?” He asked, and I raised an eyebrow,

“Why?”

“You look like you secretly dance on pointe.” He said, and I paused, turning to look at him, my feet flat on the ground, “Your arch gives it away.” He informed me and I shook my head.

“When I was young. They’d make me dance with the girls because I was so small. I do all the girl ballet parts until I was around 14.” I informed him, and his eyes widened, “Yeah,” I laughed.

Boys often trained on pointe but rarely danced in the shoes, the male roles of ballet often focusing on leaps and bold jumps. The lighter, airy work was left for the women, although, in my adolescence, I was trained for both.

“Why do you ask?” I say, resting my hands on my waist.

“Sleeping Beauty follows the Nutcracker, and I know we don’t know each other that well, but if you help me to perfect the steps I’ll buy you dinner.” He proposed and I grinned.

Food was costly in this city, and although I was being paid handsomely, I loved to save money when I could, so I nodded, taking him up on his offer. However, it wasn’t solely in my frugality that I helped him. It was also in my curiosity of how his hands would feel on my waist. They were huge, yet they appeared soft and were without calluses.

He walked with me to the locker room, which was down the hall, to retrieve my bag which had a pair of pointe shoes in it. We filled the silence with small talk. I usually wasn’t a fan of it, but he had good intentions so I didn’t hold it against him. He expressed his love for dance, and told me that he originally started as a contemporary dancer. However, when I asked why, he brushed me off, which was strange, but it may have been a touchy subject so I let it go.

Returning to the studio, I put on my shoes and stretched my feet in them a little. I turned to Michael, who had been stretching his feet as well.

“Do you want do this with just the steps or do you have the cassette?” I asked, and he walked over to the tall cassette player in the corner of the room, his bag resting slouched against it.

“I have it.” He informed me, and I nodded.

It was always strange dancing with a new partner because I had to learn what made them tick. How slow or fast they were, and I had to work within their limits, depending on how talented they were. I may have had to shift my technique as I worked with them, and my only problem with Michael, in the beginning, was how slow he was.

I reprimanded him for it by starting from the top every time he missed a step, and eventually, he had almost perfected the dance. I wasn’t perfect either, but I knew how to play my mistakes off-- Michael didn’t. He gave it all or nothing, which was admirable, yet stupid.

In about two hours, the steps had been drilled into him by repetition, a few chides, and falling a couple of times. He’d be fine in the long run, but at least now, he knew the dance and I’d get to take my shoes off.

“I don’t like Italian food.” I said to him as I pulled a pair of straight-legged jeans over my tights, a black long-sleeved shirt going over my head, not too long after.

“Noted.” He said from the other side of the room, getting dressed as well, facing the grand window that was so clear that it appeared to not exist. It looked as though you could walk straight through it and fall a few stories to the ground.

Michael intrigued me more than expected. He was more talented than expected. He was almost as good as I was, and that was frightening for me.

We left the company pretty late but left some dancers at the company perfecting their crafts. The harsh, cold air attacked my skin as soon as we stepped out of the building, and Michael seemed to be much more affected by it than I was. The cold reminded me of home, but no warm soup sitting in my stomach made it less than welcome. I was used to it by nature, but that didn’t mean I enjoyed it half of the time. It wasn’t snowing, but it was cool enough to keep a soft drink chill if you left it outside.

I was just as tall as his armpit and had to glance up at him to make eye contact, but I didn’t mind. He was passive so his tall stature didn’t matter to me, and his eyes told me what he was going to say before he said it. They had an unreal sparkle to them, and under the harshness of stage light, they could probably blind an audience.

Our conversation rarely strayed away from our favorite ballets as we walked a few blocks to get to a nearby McDonald’s. We ordered, and I didn’t stray away from my usual Big Mac combo accompanied by nuggets, and he paid for it as promised. I thanked him, and we ate in silence at a booth by the window.

It was 1986 and the streets weren’t as busy as they’d be in a few hours. I enjoyed the rare calm and I assumed that he did as well, my harsh thoughts if the city softened by the soft McDonald’s jingle playing from their speakers. It was bound to get annoying, but the scene was perfect-- almost everything eleven-year-old me dreamed of. Sitting in a booth at McDonald’s in the USA with a handsome man buying me dinner after I left work.

The circumstances weren’t ideal, but it was funny to think about until a hot fry hit my nose. I instantly looked away from the window and over at Michael, who I thought had thrown the fry.

“Hey.” I whisper-yelled, which seemed to be the funniest thing to him.

His smile was the only reason he had escaped a lecture. He did have a gorgeous smile with straight white teeth that I could admire all day. We engaged in conversation about France out of Michael’s curiosity, and because of my desire to watch his eyes sparkle under the soft lighting stemming from the lights hanging from the high ceiling.

We went our separate ways after leaving McDonald’s, and I walked the streets for a while thinking of him, my first and only friend thus far. My hands comfortably filled the pockets of my dark denim jeans, as his sweet, polite mannerisms filled my head. His hands on my waist, supporting me through arabesque turns. I wondered what his life was like beyond the company building. I wondered who he was, not in New York, but in Indiana.

I let my thoughts run rampant before coming across a jewelry store called ‘Beads of Paradise’. Its window display featured lots of intricately designed pieces-- Necklaces, bracelets, even a facial bust. I entered the store out of curiosity, and upon brief inspection I concluded that they sold accessories and textiles, each one unique. The cashier barely acknowledged me as I entered the empty store, seeming to be fighting sleep.

I walked toward a rack of gold ankh earrings, intrigued by their shape and wondering if they were pure gold or not. I glanced over my shoulder at the man, who had fallen fast asleep behind the cash register before slowly disappearing behind a wall that had racks of necklaces on it, going for $5 a pop, and picked up the one that intrigued me the most with its red, orange, and yellow beads and pushed it into my pocket, following it up with my hand.

The bell above the door chimed, awakening the cashier and putting my urge to sleep. I left the store with a sense of relief that I yearned for daily. I had finally scratched the itch that’d been burdening me all day. I’d fed the monster that existed within me, and was finally at ease.