Chapter 5:
"And jete, jete, assemblé! Pas da bourree, cot, cot!" Peter's voice slices through the crisp air. It's 11:23 and company class time. Studio AB is packed full of soloists and corps members. The mirrors show everyone thier hard work. I stand behind Zoe, who is examining the soloists as they run the petite allegro. "Tombe pas da bourree, assemble derriere. And repeat, repeaet." He claps his hands to the beat, each accent marking a certain step.
Zoe points her feet into B-plus and elbows me. "Get ready." She whisper hisses. We get ready and start the combonation. Zoe and I are a good pair, but we defiantly don't look the same. That's why she's usually paired with Lottie and I am paired with Joanna Chang, the other highest ranking soloist in the company. Not today, thoguh. I jete across the floor, in unison with Zoe. We assemblé at the accents and cot each beat. When we're done, Peter gives us a small nod and then yells at the next pair to begin.
A breath of cold air stings against my skin. As I walk down the street, the blisters on my toes and heels start to react to the soothing cream I put on them before I bandaged them and slipped on socks. Pedestrians, or ballet talk for regular people, fill the busy New York City lunch time hour. I spy my favorite sandwich place out on the corner, but he lines have people coming ot the door. Everything is busy, which is normal for NYC. I decide to go to a little Italian place two minutes away from NYCB; Cafe Portabello. THe cafe has good food, and it's not usually busy around lunch; dinner is when the crowd hits.
I reach the small cafe. A red awning stretches over the wood and glass moving doors and Cafe Portabello is etched over a window in a gold ink. I let the doors swish me in and stand inside the resturant. It smells like garlic and wine. Jazz music plays from a live band in the bar area. Some college girls are seated at a long table. They squeal when one of them says some bit of gossip and they nibble on crostinis. When the jazz musicians finish a number, they clap loudly. My heart throbs when I see them. Yeah, they're probably not Julliard stdents. But they go to college, and have a good education to look foward to. Me on the other hand, ballet is probably going to get me nowhere.
A thin waitress greets me at the hostess stand. "Welcome to Cafe Portabello. Would you like a table inside, or out in our courtyard?" She picks up a menu and beams at me.
"Um...inside please." I say, trying to find the courtyard she's talking about.
"THis way please." She takes me to a single table near a window and pours me some water. "Do you know what you want to drink or eat yet?" She asks, her MontBlanc poised over a notepad.
I quickly examine the menu. "I'll have a Coke and your fresh bowtie pasta salad." I hand it back to her.
"Good choice." Her black Fossil watch glints in the gold light. "I'll be right back with your Coke and some bread." She walks off, barking orders to the cook once she's in the kitchen.
While I sip my ice cold water, I listen to the jazz band strum thier double basses and their saxaphones. Then, a college aged guy hands someone his trumpet and walks over to the microphone. My eyes stare. He's pretty cute, wearing a pair of worn jeans, Addidas tennis shoes, and a A&F t-shirt. The band starts a famliar Frank Sinatra melody, Fly Me To the Moon. He taps the beat out with the drummer and then starts singing.
"Fly me to the moon, so I can sing among those stars. Let me see what spring is like. On Jupiter and Mars." He croons. His voice is defiantly not Micheal Buble or famous worthy, but its still pretty good. Its unique, a blend of deepness and jazz. "In other words, hold my hand. In other words, baby, kiss me." THe band grows a crescendo as they melody hits. When he's done, everyone claps loudly. The waitres brings me my Coke and a basket of breadsticks, warm and toasty. I listen to the guy sing for a while, eating bread and sipping my drinks. Then, he leaves the set. The jazz band just lightly plays. Everyone goes back to talking.
The guy scans the room and his eyes spy an empty table, which happens to be right near me. HE sits down. THe waitress comes back around, with my basil, tomato bowtie pasta salad and another menu. She hands the pasta to me and walks to the guy. "Do you know anything you'd like?" She asks.
He nods. "I'll take a Budwieser and some pesto rigatoni." HIs deep voice says. After the waitress leaves, he notices me. "That looks good." He says, motioning to my pasta.
"Th-thanks." I stutter. Quickly, I busy myself by stuffing my face with the pasta. He scoots closer to me. I can now tell that he has dark blonde hair and green eyes.
"I'm Jacob." He offers his hand out. I smile.
"Massie. You sing pretty good." I stab a bowtie and nibble on it.
He laughs. "Oh that, that's just a hobby. I'm a student at NY. My major is in biology. What about you? What major are you in right now?"
My heart beats fast. He thinks I'm a college student. I gain control and then just tell him the truth. "I'm a ballet dancer and New York City Ballet, but I study at Julliard." There, that's true.
"Oh wow, Julliard and a ballerina. You must be talented." He picks up his BUdwieser, that the waitress just delievered to him, and sips it. "So, how hard is the life of a ballerina? I mean, you must go through like three shows a night."
I have to stop myself from jumping up and screaming with happiness. This guy, Jacob, is the first pedestrian I've ever met that understands the effort that goes into ballet. Most people want to know if the guy dancers are striaght or somethign like that. "IT's hard. ANd painful. But i really enjoy it."
He grins. We talk for a long time, and then I remember i have rehersals. "I've got to go." I say, getting up and ready to leave.
"Here's my number." He scribbles his phone number on a Post-It and hands it to me. Our hands brush and I feel a spark of happiness. Jacob walks me to the door, and opens it for me. "Text me or something, okay?" He smiles and then turns around to go back inside. ONce he's gone, I start squealing and hop up and down.
"Fly me to the moon." I sing as I hurry back to NYCB, my navy blue Coach flats sparkling in the cool Fall wind.