A gift, the small piece of paper reads, attached to a nondescript brown box. Without a second thought, I rip off the tape sealing it shut and push open the brown flaps.
And discover a black dress with thin straps inside along with another note.
More than likely, you don't have appropriate wear for tonight's ceremony. It was the least I could do; you'll look pretty in it.
— E.M.
The initials of Elara Merandus, as said in the Academy's pamphlet. Her cursive scrawl is pristine and light, and the ink is every bit as immaculate as the woman herself. I toss the second piece of paper to the floor beside my bed.
Sneering, I gingerly remove the cream tissue paper enveloping the dress. It's bad enough I found this box on my bed when I returned from practicing in an empty studio this morning, meaning either Elara instructed a maid to leave it here or Elara herself has access to my room. I shiver at the thought but pull out the dress anyway.
Well. Shit. The inky material is smooth and soft beneath my fingers, thicker than I expected something made of silk would be. Good; better than an overpriced, chintzy dress from a mediocre boutique I would've had to trudge to this afternoon. At least Elara got that right.
I hold it up, straps at eye level. Once I've put it on, the skirt will stop just below my knees. It flares out at the hips from a relatively tight bodice and at the top rests a sweetheart neckline. Pretty, I can't help but think.
God, I haven't felt like this much of a girl in a long time, between Elara's gift and yesterday's shopping trip.
Half annoyed, half weak at the knees from staring at the simple yet bewitching garment, I lay it flat on my mattress next to the pair of heels I found at the box's side when I returned to my room. Like the dress, they're black and plain, yet not unremarkable: they're lustrous, spots becoming bright as I turn them over in my hands, and will give me some much-needed height.
I feel a mild sensation of bile rolling in my stomach. For once, I wish I could be happy for Elara's gift. She hit right on the mark with her selection for me, nothing extravagant or theatrical, and it was kind of her to remember I might not have the right sort of . . . attire for the ceremony. I give her that.
On the other hand, there has to be some ulterior motive, when I have a hard time believing the women actually likes me. Her cold eyes and judgmental expressions don't suggest otherwise. Whether it be to get in my good graces, to make me a docile student—though I wouldn't dare behave in any other manner—make me in debt to her, or for another purpose I don't yet understand . . . I need to stop overanalyzing this.
Taking a deep breath, I round my bed and sprawl out on the side not crowded by new things. And attempt to stop overanalyzing.
It rains.
Hard.
Outside of the lobby, behind the glass windows protecting it, rests an overcast New York. And it's not just a few puffy white clouds passing over the sun, but a thick blanket of charcoal erasing every inch of July's crystalline blue sky. The street outside is dark like it's the end of dusk and nearly nighttime, but the sun won't set for another hour. From the sky spills tremendous amounts of rain, soaking every inch of the city in the water it's needed for over two weeks.
It storms too.
Thunder booms far off, and the windows flicker with distant flashes of lightning. I suppose Shade's wish finally came true for a storm to wash out all this heat.
Though I find it strange that rain—or better yet, a storm—decided to show up now. I don't religiously keep up with the papers and news, but I would've thought I'd hear about an impending downpour on the streets this week. The weather's usually a hot topic in Manhattan, especially with the wave of heat.
People are tired, gardens are suffering, and everybody is sweaty as hell.
I brush the thought aside to glance at the crowd behind me. Always a refined and distinguished group of people I've recently discovered, the dancers and the wannabes of the Academy wear first-class clothes and jewelry; I can almost picture them in their dance clothes and shoes again, anxiously waiting in this very room to go and audition. They still stand and socialize in their groups as I saw them on Sunday, but the dancers have exchanged their pointe shoes and taps for heels and dress shoes. The room happens to be even more cramped than it was then, and security's directing new arrivals upstairs. For the sake of everybody being able to find a seat, only those who auditioned are allowed into the theatre.
My dress ranks on the lower end of the glamour spectrum, some of the ladies in the room wearing near-floor-length gowns in contrast to my simple black, knee-length one. I forced myself to go out and buy some mascara, foundation, and even a light eyeshadow, but my basic cosmetics are nothing compared to the bloody lipstick and foot-long eyelashes the other girls wear.
To bring myself a little closer up to par with them, I've secured my hair into a low bun, and I self-consciously touch my fingers to it every few minutes.
The doors to the auditorium haven't opened, leaving everybody scattered around the lobby and murmuring over various topics. Some of the attendees pace, and they pass by me every so often, talking about the rain and dance, unsurprisingly. I lean against the long pane of glass looking out on Forty-Second Street; with nobody to talk to, I wait in the lobby like everybody else, but with nobody else.
Just like moving to a new school, I try to remind myself, though I roll my eyes at my reflection in the darkened glass. My family's lived in the same building for as long as I can remember, and I went to school with the same kids from kindergarten until eleventh grade. The people in this room are totally out of my league, complete leagues ahead of me, honestly. The idea of integrating myself into their little cliques seems like an impossible task, much less something I'm looking forward to. Maven's a lucky exception. And Cal . . . I don't know where to start with him.
I intentionally took my time in getting down here to wait, knowing I would have little to do besides for stand around awkwardly and wait for the doors, only to find a seat within the auditorium alone.
Yet I still managed to arrive too early.
So ever since then, I've leaned against this window, pondering why I didn't hear it was going to rain. There isn't a soul outside, leaving the typically bustling streets of Manhattan desolate. How odd.
In my periphery, people begin shifting towards the auditorium side of the lobby, and with another look over my shoulder, ushers have slipped through the doors to open them and begin gesturing those nearest the doors inside.
In the area of the lobby furthest from the doors, I rock from foot to foot. It'll take a little time, with the ushers checking everybody's audition forms to make sure they're actually dancers and not psychos trying to mess with the Academy and the Calores, as Lucas so-professionally stated when I asked him about it.
Tonight at seven o'clock, remember to be in the auditorium for the ceremony, he reminded me this afternoon, shortly after I unwrapped Elara's gifts. He knocked on my door, apparently under the impression I was going to forget about the ceremony he mentioned after the meeting in Tiberias's office. Don't worry. It's nothing you have to prepare for. No dinner or dancing, or anything like that. But do dress nice . . .
Lucas told me about tonight's logistics earlier, how dozens of divisions for placements are mind-numbingly called up by the instructor of each genre and level, while every last dancer in the audience is shaking beyond belief. He said it's safe to say there'll be plenty of screaming and crying afterward, enough to drown out the laughs and whoops of the ones who get the positions they want.
"Ready?" a male says, and I flinch at the suddenness of it.
Maven Calore is developing a tendency of sneaking up on me.
Or maybe I just zone out too much.
I wasn't expecting him to be out here in the public eye. Behind stage with his parents would make more sense, where I imagine Cal is as well. Yet he's out here, raising his brows at my dress and probably wondering where it came from.
He extends an elbow to me, but I gawk at him instead. "Not particularly," I murmur in response, looking him up and down: he adorns a suit and dress shoes like the other guys, a white button-up contrasting his black ensemble—including a bow tie—and about the most hair gel I've ever seen in my life.
"Scared?" he asks, elbow still pushed outward. I have no idea where he came from, just that now he's by my side and people have halted their conversations to watch us. Great. Now they want to watch us. My eyes flicker from side to side, trying to take in the stares without turning around myself. Maven leans into my ear. "You know you shouldn't be. You got up on stage once and didn't balk. And you don't even have to dance this time."
I can't help but laugh, finally looping my arm through his. "I don't buy it."
While Cal's the dancer all the young girls want to be partners with, Maven's a fine consolation prize. Evangeline has the kind of personality that fends off any bitter competitors, but I've come out of nowhere with no allies. None of the other dancers know anything about me, the girl who fell from the stage rafters as a lowly maid and emerged as a worthy dancer, stealing one of the Calore brothers for myself.
All of this was unintentional, I should add.
Maven shrugs. "It's no big deal. You'll go up a few times for your different genre placements, stand on stage while they call the rest of your group, and then sit down."
He puts it so simply. "That's a lot of hair gel, Maven," I say instead of responding to his reassurances.
His eyebrows narrow and his lips twist into a smirk. "Let's go sit down."
From the stage, a woman with near-white hair announces another pair of dancers, nothing about her tone welcoming or relaxed. She reads names off mechanically from a folded piece of paper with arched eyebrows—either from surprise, displeasure, or they're truly just shaped like that—and makes no attempts at lightening her stern voice.
"Blonos is one of the dull mistresses, but nobody can say she's bad at her job," Maven explains to me in a whisper from the chair next to me. "She's an expert in ballet technique and has a dancer in tears at least once a week; the only way to build you up is to break you down, she says. Every year companies around the world try to steal her from us. London, Paris, Bolshoi . . . we pay her handsomely."
Interested in Maven's words, I squint a little harder at the woman. She must be in her fifties, but whatever anti-aging cream she's using works terrifying miracles; there isn't one wrinkle on her pale skin. More than anything, I notice her perfect posture. Though it would be a sin for a ballet instructor to slouch. And of course, like every other lady here, she's wearing a dress, silver with black lace.
Maven and I sit near the front on the left side of the theatre, having snagged two chairs on the aisle. Since the program began a while ago, the audience has practically held its breath, unlike the steady hum it held before Tiberias and his board members walked onstage to signal the start of the ceremony.
Rather than listen for names and focus on the dancers and their partners lining up on stage—we're currently in the returning Corps ballet dancers category—I look to more exciting things, which include counting shimmering hairpieces and the number of seats in the theatre: eight-hundred-seventy-five, to be precise.
Meaning eight-hundred-seventy-five people, not eight-hundred people watched me, applauded me, on Sunday. Tonight every one of those seats is filled by men in dark-colored suits and ladies in a rainbow of dresses. A few late arrivals crowd the back wall by the doors, making for a suffocating atmosphere.
The lighting is seductive and golden, ceiling lights faintly illuminating the audience so that we're not in complete darkness. But it's the stage, as is the usual, stealing the show. Set apart from the dancers on stage, Blonos is on its front and center while everybody else is cast in the shadows of the expansive theatre. She must be immune to stage fright by now.
I sink a little deeper into my seat and curl my fingers into the red velvet. Blonos calls more names, summons more dancers onto the stage, where ladies line up in front of their male counterparts. Some get called alone, not having a partner. They're veterans up there, already part of the best Corps de Ballet they'll ever find. Older than Cal and Evangeline, but apparently not as good. Earlier, the two got called up with the returning soloists and Principals. Though Evangeline is new to the Academy, wherever the hell she came from, Cal isn't: apparently he was a soloist last year and became a Principal this summer.
I'll be training with all of them soon enough, in the top tier of the Academy's ballet classes.
I can't believe I can still dance when I haven't had professional instruction in so long. I credit it to my disorganized bedroom-floor practice, where I somehow maintained most of my skills, but . . .
It confounds me. I've had nearly a week to let my new life sink in, and still, this is so . . . insane. To be in the Manhattan Dance Academy's auditorium, to shortly hear my name said by one of the greatest ballet teachers in the world . . . I didn't think I'd ever dance on a stage larger than my bedroom floor again, and yet I'm here. Here.
Among some of the greatest names in ballet, soon to dance with them. I've probably watched some of them on YouTube before, probably learned how to do fouettés and leaps from them.
"This is crazy," I say under my breath and hope only Maven hears. "This is insane."
This is so fucking insane.
"And now to announce our new arrivals for the year," Blonos says tightly, almost in time with my thoughts as another usher comes from the wings to hand her a new paper. Without Blonos or anybody else directing them, the veteran of the Corps shuffle their feet back until they're a few paces more upstage. To make room for the new arrivals.
Maven told me earlier that this'll be his first year in the Corps, having trained in Academy's preparatory courses up until now. This is our category.
The rhythm of my heartbeat picks up, though I'm not in the same situation as the others, unsure of if they'll make it or not.
The usher meets Blonos with the crisp and pristine parchment, and she grabs it with a dainty hand.
"We had both plenty of good and bad auditions for our new ballet dancers," she says, looking out at the audience as if she's judging us even now. It's the first time she's glanced up from her paper. "As many of you know, I was out of the state scouting for already next year's ballet prospects, but I regret that I didn't get to see your auditions for myself, especially considering what Mister Calore has told me of them. Yet regardless," she pauses, dark eyes whipping back and forth, almost in search of somebody, "I'm delighted to begin a new year of teaching you all."
Impressive. She had the taste to give a brief introduction. With an "ahem," to clear what must be a dry throat after dozens of names called, Blonos cracks open the folded paper.
My heart pounds, but I'm just another name, another person on the stage, regardless of who my partner is.
Though I get a vague feeling Blonos's scanning eyes are searching for me.
"Why did you come and find me?" I ask Maven suddenly, in need of a distraction. And even if I didn't, it's still a question on my mind, repeating itself over and over again. Why aren't you backstage with your family? Why are you here with me?
For the entire evening, it's just been Maven and I whispering random comments to one another, never turning our bodies to make eye contact. I never asked for it either, content to have a friend nearby while we listened to name after name in category after category in silence. But now I do, twisting my hips towards him.
He's already there, his eyes pronounced in the darkness. So unlike Cal's fire and so similar to his mother's.
"I was on my way backstage. But I saw you by yourself, staring out into the rain. I would've felt awful to leave you alone," he says quietly, quieter than quiet.
Without a mirror, I know my eyes break. Break because I did feel so alone before Maven, my newfound knight in shining armor, showed up with his elbow extended to me in greeting. Break because Maven came to my side when he must know how it feels to be left alone.
The two of us . . . we really need to work on getting out of these types of conversations.
"Thank you," is what I have the capacity to say before turning back to the front. I almost wish I hadn't asked, because somewhere deep down, I already knew the answer.
"Mare Barrow and Maven Calore," Blonos reads from her paper.
Her voice is laced with a foreign curiosity as she says my name, and I swear her eyebrows arch higher.
My vertebra locks up, in spite of preparing for this, those words the entire night. For a moment, just a fraction of a second, some invisible force presses against my throat, and I can't breathe.
But Maven nudges me gently, chasing away any ghosts perhaps roaming around the auditorium, and gracefully as possible, I rise from my chair and head down the aisle, trying to pace myself. Too fast would come off as too eager, and too slow suggests fear.
They watch. I was expecting it and certain it would be the worst part of the night. Maintaining a pleasant smile, my hands are relaxed, one holding the other against my back. And along with my hands, I feel burning gazes searing into my back, of envy, of anger—or maybe I'm making it all up.
I'm lucky I can walk in heels, high enough that I have to think Elara had a dream of me tripping on stage last night. My ankles don't betray me on my elegant trek down the aisle, Maven close so he might have a chance at catching me if I fall.
The audience watches, and heads turn my direction as I promenade by, but when I hit the set of stairs—with a railing, to my delight—Blonos calls another pair. Though not all, some of them lose interest in me.
Clearing the stairs, the heat of the stage assaults me right away, but I do my best to welcome the white-hot lights.
The clicks of my heels on wood are the only sounds in the world. To my left, the veteran dancers and the newbies lining up stare straight out into the audience; to my right, the audience stares back and another pair makes their way forward from the other side of the auditorium.
Right ahead is the left stage wing, and Cal stands with Evangeline at its edge. His father, Elara, and a gaggle of directors, instructors, and stagehands are situated deeper within, some standing and others seated in basic metal chairs. How glamorous.
Cal comes across every bit as ridiculous as Maven does in his suit and hair gel. He gives me a wink as I take my place next to the girl called before me, and I resist every instinct telling me to roll my eyes and stick out my tongue at him.
In time, Maven slips into his place behind me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Evangeline with a stupid, arrogant smirk on her face.
Bitch.
Hundreds of people watch us don our best fake smiles, their own faces hidden under the cover of shadows in the auditorium. Like Sunday, the crowd is dark and infinite, difficult to see where it begins and ends, made up of blurry human beings and their shiny jewels.
We don't stand there for long. The Academy only selected two new pairs of Corps de Ballet dancers and three other girls.
The audience starts clapping, and I keep on smiling through my teeth.