How do I get dragged into things like this? Well, I suppose I'm just lucky like that. I also suppose that I should be extremely grateful. Sort of.
Following my shocked state of silence in which Coach Jelena's voice spoke worriedly from the carelessly dropped phone, came a onslaught of but's, how's, and no way's. I had no idea how Coach Jelena came up with such a rash preposition or why she thought I wasn't currently good on technique and stamina (hey…), but surely I couldn't just drop everything and go. Plus, where would I get the money? I'm feel like I'm pressuring Uncle Beny with my trip to Barcelona, plus my ballet classes, plus my skating and tuition fees. But of course, like whenever I bring up money, he just reminds me that he's my guardian, and I'm like his own child.
I sigh, peering out the plane window, watching the pale moonlit clouds wisp by, ghosting over the wings. Coach Jelena really convinces me. All she had to do was say that it was for my skating and was a chance for me to greatly improve. And she also emphasized that I would be training with the Lilia Baranovskaya, a world-renowned prima ballerina, and that I would have the best ice skating resources in Russia. It was a once in a life time chance. It was a once in a century chance. In retaliation, I said "Bloody hell, there are going to be the best bloody brilliant skaters in the world, I can't train there!"
Guess what she replied? "And you're training to be the bloody best too! So pack up, close your mouth, and stop spewing obscenities, you sound like the damn hockey players." "I live with two of them!"
Nope. Nothing could stop Coach Jelena after she finished nagging me. One stutter from me that I admit it would be a good idea, and suddenly Uncle Beny is willing to send me there.
Glancing down at my neglected book, I put a crinkled receipt from my breakfast at a little café between the pages, shutting it with a sense of finality. Coach Jelena is asleep on my right, dozing off with her silky eyeshades slightly askew. The drone of the airline is dizzying, a monotone hum that seems to be squeezing the air out of my lungs. Swallowing thickly, I try to distract myself from the numbness of my feet and thighs, and the crimping ache of my lower back.
It happens when I don't stretch for awhile, being a very active athlete. I bite my lip, and will it to all go away. I shut my eyes tightly, imagining the clap of my skates on the ice, the cool caress of the frozen air, the smell of sweat and beauty and determination. I imagine the strong beats of music that pound in my heart, matching with my body, overtaking it and moving it out of my own control.
My phone vibrates. I sigh, exasperated, and clench my fists. Struggling to reach it, I finally wrench the device from my jean pocket in the cramped seat, fingertips brushing the scratchy airline seat before clenching it. Looking at the notification, I notice it's Yuri again. This time a picture of the snow outside. And all of a sudden, I remember that I'm going to skate in Russia. In St. Petersburg. Yuri's in St. Petersburg.
No way. I blink. I'll be able to skate with Yuri. Train with him? Maybe. But I'll have a chance to see him because Lilia's his choreographer. Last I heard she helped him train for the grand prix. Yuri's lean figure jumping up in an immaculate quad flashes before my eyes. He was so beautiful, graceful, during the prix. I know for a fact that his agape program improved immensely after he went back to Russia and trained under Lilia Baranovskaya. If she's going to make me look like that, I would gladly give in and even live with her. I'll do anything she tells me if my skating will look like Yuri's.
Upon that realization, I am hopeful, even more so than I was before. This could really up my game. I jam in my cerulean ear buds, and scroll down for a song. I need inspiration. I'm already formulating my newest ideas into my next program. I smile as the beats tap rhythmically in my ears, and the modern yet harmonic melody echoes throughout my head. This one will shock and shatter the ice skating world. And from the pieces, I'll create a better one.
The pause in the constant clack-clack of my roller bag is in time with the gaps in the gray pavement right outside the airport terminal. We landed in St. Petersburg an hour ago, and we swiftly collected our luggage and went through security. I caught my first glimpses of the new city through the airplane window as we soared over the city. The little houses were all dotted with snow, buildings unidentifiable in the blanket of white. Just coming out of the terminal, I thought that it would be all grey and cold, the snow only emphasizing the harsh shadows and sharp edges. How wrong I was.
The snow is glittering; everywhere it touches glimmers at different times from every angle. An opportunity for a rainbow beam to shine back at me any way I turn. I part my lips in awe, sucking in the cool, crisp air. To a normal passerby or tourist, it would seem chilling and unforgiving, but to me it's a comfort. Not so different from the London air in winter. While other places might have people who strive to stay inside, bundled up and away from the cold, St. Petersburg is alive, bustling about no matter the cold. The splashes of color from scarves, coats, and boots accentuate the snowy scene, giving it a subtle beauty beyond what the plain ice does.
Coach Jelena enthusiastically waves, invigorated by the outdoors after a cramped flight of stale air, and hails a cab. Its tires crunch on the icy road as it pulls up and the driver opens the trunk for us. I haul my bags into the back and get into the car while Coach Jelena quickly relays the address to the driver in broken Russian, soon following and crashing into the backseat. We drive quickly, and I catch only glimpses of the sights, colorful spires toppling high into the air, squarish beige colored buildings with skinny windows, and a sense of royalty imbedded within the cream and golden colors of the city. It reminds me a bit of England, in the theme of aristocracy, yet it's a slightly different theme from the grey charcoals with hints of color on the London streets. It's just as lovely, in my eyes.
We turn into a neighborhood of the main road, and I can tell that this isn't the normal residential street. The arches are ever-so-slightly more decorated, the columns more engraved and embellished, even the air is different, tinged with the aroma of fresh mint. The taxi approaches a looming mansion, seeming to blend into the background of regal houses right until you're in front of it. It was different, but barely, with subtle decorations that hint into what's inside.
Twin detailed, grey dragon statues flank the porch; elegant as whom I know resides in there. Their sharp edges and fluid movement captured within the sculpting perfectly matches the immaculate ballet I've seen from videos. The curtains from what I can see are an off-white edged with lace, quite elegant yet practical. I knew that Ms. Baranovskaya had to be wealthy, considering her ground-breaking routines and world-renown choreography after her retirement from the ballet world, but I never imagined something so elegant yet stoic and strict. It's as if the house itself is looking down on me, as I feel the windows and cement statues and sharp edges scrutinizing my weak figure.
Coach Jelena doesn't falter, however, and raps three times on the regal doors. The powerful sound will echo in my ears for days. I grip the handle on my suitcase tightly and stiffen as the door opens to reveal a single butler, clean shaven and as composed as the mansion, his face never betraying his thoughts. I would be surprised at seeing a fashionable, curvaceous French lady accompanied by a timid little girl, but I am not so immersed in the ballet world. That kind of emotionless elegance is reserved for those who have known much greater pains than I.
"Well, bonjour Dimitri, how is Lilia? Is she here or out shopping? I assume you were informed of our arrival, no?" Coach talks with her usual French accent and stylish nonchalance, something that I will never really master. I just stand silently there; most of the time I do.
"Hello Mademoiselle Allaire. Mrs. Baranovskaya is here indeed, and I have been informed of your stay. Your rooms are already prepared." Mademoiselle Allaire. What flair her name holds. Sometimes I wish I could feel as beautiful as Coach Jelena's name sounds. Jelena Allaire.
Dimitri the Butler opens the door wider, enough for us to come in. I dip my head slightly in his direction as I cross the threshold.
"Natasha Edwards." I say softly, as quiet as a mouse. I nearly wince at how timid my voice sounds; the only time I'm not so shy is on the ice. Or it could be because the house is so daunting.
He nods at me in return. "Dimitri Sokolov. A pleasure. I've heard much about your accomplishment. Congratulations on the Prix." His Russian tone bleeds through his voice, making it huskier. I flush red and can only muster a smile. It really isn't a big deal. The Prix really only gives you the privilege to compete at Worlds and Four Continents, a way to size up your competition.
My steps echo through the halls in time with Coach Jelena's, Dimitri leading us towards our rooms, I think. I'm so focused on admiring the high ceilings and not tripping over my own feet, I don't even realize someone else coming from the opposite way. We turn the corner, and I feel someone else's eyes on me.
I turn, looking for a split second, and I find pools of blue green staring at shock right back at me. All those Instagram photos I liked, the media interviews I watched, and the night of the Prix banquet I have been staring right back at those beautiful eyes.
"Yuri." I breathe.