Christine wasn't returning to Paris? I could not believe my best friend
would be so far away. What would I do without her? It struck me how lonely
I would be, now that she was gone. Without her, I would go home to an empty
house day after day. I almost could not bear the thought of it. I sat,
pondering this for days.
Throughout the next month, I was cross, snappish, and lonesome. I sulked, to say the least. Life was not worth living, it seemed to me. Every fourteen year old should have something to live for, and I felt as though everything had been taken away.
After a few months, I got used to the emptiness I had experienced. My mother and I were once again alone, and we bonded because of it. That year was the longest year of my life. Instead of joining friends at a sunny home filled with music, love, and laughter, I returned to a dark, empty, lonely flat. I wrote to Christine once, and she politely returned the letter, but we did not have a proper correspondence between us. After a few months, I stopped writing altogether, and threw myself into dance. It was the only thing I had left. As the year progressed I improved greatly; both in ballet and in life. Under my mother's firm hand, I perfected my dancing. After I turned fifteen, I began to get solos in operas. Naturally, I was quite thrilled with the improvement, which spurred me on to be even greater. The challenge of Ballerina Prima, now an empty position at the opera, impelled me to work harder than I ever thought I could. I think Mamma was pleased to see the change in both my dancing and my attitude, and encouraged me. Over the summer, I stayed at the opera and continued to pursue my dream; the summer flew by. The next year past in the same fashion. The bitter pang of the loss of Papa Daae and Christine had passed; the sorrow no longer controlled my life. Indeed, I rarely thought of them; it was better to leave such thoughts alone.
My sixteenth birthday came and passed; I was given a pax de duex in an opera, and I enjoyed myself thoroughly. I looked in the mirror that night and realized I had grown up. No longer was I the gangly girl with freckles. I had to admit to myself, I was not ugly. Perhaps- did I even dare to think- I was a bit pretty? I smiled at my reflection, and thought that just maybe growing up was not so bad after all. On the first day of a new season, I decided to take a cab to the opera. When we arrived, I paid and stepped out to the curb. Standing on the steps, with her back to me, was a tall girl with dark curly hair. With her back turned from me, she looked uncannily like Christine. However, it was impossible, Christine was in England. As I approached the steps, the young woman turned to face me.
With a gasp, I exclaimed, "Christine!"
Startled, the girl looked me up and down. "Meg? I. I can't believe its you!"
We embraced, then she pulled away and stared at my face searchingly. "You look different," she remarked. "Different, but very pretty!"
I blushed. "Thank you. You look well yourself," England had given her a tan, and her eyes were bright, though they lacked the sparkle she had once possessed. "What has brought you back to Paris?" I questioned.
"Well, my nurse has retired. Besides," Christine added with a laugh, "I am eighteen now, I can come and go as I please."
What a long time ago it seemed since we were careless children playing games! Christine turned away from the opera with a sigh.
"At least the Opera looks the same-although I can tell it's gotten a fresh coat of paint. Still, everything else seems strange to me." She sounded wistful.
"You will come in, wont you? Mamma will want to see you."
"Of course. I have come back to dance." Christine laughed at my surprise.
"Back to dance? How wonderful! Where are you staying?"
"On a little flat near the opera. It is closer than the old cottage. It was sold, anyways."
I mourned for the dear little house that had been the location of so much joy. "That is too bad. What fun we had in that house."
Christine smiled. "I remember."
I continued on, "Remember the stories? Little Lottie and her Angel of Music? And the music and singing and dancing." I trailed off as tears filled my eyes. Brushing them away, I headed up the stairs. "We'd best go, practice starts soon."
I felt exuberant; my best friend was back. She was a bit different; sadder, older, but underneath the same Christine. Mamma was thrilled to see her. All the old dancers were glad to have her back, as well. I prayed everything would be just the same as before, just like I remembered. But I knew that was impossible.
Throughout the next month, I was cross, snappish, and lonesome. I sulked, to say the least. Life was not worth living, it seemed to me. Every fourteen year old should have something to live for, and I felt as though everything had been taken away.
After a few months, I got used to the emptiness I had experienced. My mother and I were once again alone, and we bonded because of it. That year was the longest year of my life. Instead of joining friends at a sunny home filled with music, love, and laughter, I returned to a dark, empty, lonely flat. I wrote to Christine once, and she politely returned the letter, but we did not have a proper correspondence between us. After a few months, I stopped writing altogether, and threw myself into dance. It was the only thing I had left. As the year progressed I improved greatly; both in ballet and in life. Under my mother's firm hand, I perfected my dancing. After I turned fifteen, I began to get solos in operas. Naturally, I was quite thrilled with the improvement, which spurred me on to be even greater. The challenge of Ballerina Prima, now an empty position at the opera, impelled me to work harder than I ever thought I could. I think Mamma was pleased to see the change in both my dancing and my attitude, and encouraged me. Over the summer, I stayed at the opera and continued to pursue my dream; the summer flew by. The next year past in the same fashion. The bitter pang of the loss of Papa Daae and Christine had passed; the sorrow no longer controlled my life. Indeed, I rarely thought of them; it was better to leave such thoughts alone.
My sixteenth birthday came and passed; I was given a pax de duex in an opera, and I enjoyed myself thoroughly. I looked in the mirror that night and realized I had grown up. No longer was I the gangly girl with freckles. I had to admit to myself, I was not ugly. Perhaps- did I even dare to think- I was a bit pretty? I smiled at my reflection, and thought that just maybe growing up was not so bad after all. On the first day of a new season, I decided to take a cab to the opera. When we arrived, I paid and stepped out to the curb. Standing on the steps, with her back to me, was a tall girl with dark curly hair. With her back turned from me, she looked uncannily like Christine. However, it was impossible, Christine was in England. As I approached the steps, the young woman turned to face me.
With a gasp, I exclaimed, "Christine!"
Startled, the girl looked me up and down. "Meg? I. I can't believe its you!"
We embraced, then she pulled away and stared at my face searchingly. "You look different," she remarked. "Different, but very pretty!"
I blushed. "Thank you. You look well yourself," England had given her a tan, and her eyes were bright, though they lacked the sparkle she had once possessed. "What has brought you back to Paris?" I questioned.
"Well, my nurse has retired. Besides," Christine added with a laugh, "I am eighteen now, I can come and go as I please."
What a long time ago it seemed since we were careless children playing games! Christine turned away from the opera with a sigh.
"At least the Opera looks the same-although I can tell it's gotten a fresh coat of paint. Still, everything else seems strange to me." She sounded wistful.
"You will come in, wont you? Mamma will want to see you."
"Of course. I have come back to dance." Christine laughed at my surprise.
"Back to dance? How wonderful! Where are you staying?"
"On a little flat near the opera. It is closer than the old cottage. It was sold, anyways."
I mourned for the dear little house that had been the location of so much joy. "That is too bad. What fun we had in that house."
Christine smiled. "I remember."
I continued on, "Remember the stories? Little Lottie and her Angel of Music? And the music and singing and dancing." I trailed off as tears filled my eyes. Brushing them away, I headed up the stairs. "We'd best go, practice starts soon."
I felt exuberant; my best friend was back. She was a bit different; sadder, older, but underneath the same Christine. Mamma was thrilled to see her. All the old dancers were glad to have her back, as well. I prayed everything would be just the same as before, just like I remembered. But I knew that was impossible.