Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Upon arrival at our final destination, the stage is already abuzz with energy. Dancers in costume whip out the moves they struggle with most, practicing tirelessly while they still have the chance. Also busy at work are the conductor, lighting manager, master carpenter, and stage manager. Just a few of the cogs that make this giant ballet machine purr.
There isn’t enough time to prepare. The only faith I can subscribe to is my unwavering practice. I have lived, breathed, eaten, and slept with this ballet. My mornings are spent with the company. Warm-ups at the barre. Rehearsals and exercises followed up with more training on my own time. Yoga and Pilates for strengthening any of the perceived weaknesses jotted into my journal. I have subsisted with the intent that this moment would be perfection. That every chance I seize to shine will be perfection. If I am to be appointed principal, I must be faultless. Every role, large or small, is an opportunity to prove my worth. Time is not a dancer’s friend, and when you are the daughter of Manuel Valentini, it can only be your enemy. I have a dream, short lived as it may be. As long as blood warms my veins, I will fight for it.
There are no excuses.
So when I am called upon, I float onto the stage, and I dance. Sometimes, false bravado is all you have. You can only hope and pray that you’ve done everything right. I slept for nine hours. I ate some light protein. I’ve stretched, though not as much as I would have liked. Now, I have only my skill to rely on.
The initial shot of adrenaline flooding my veins buffers the pain, gifting me false confidence. But upon stepping into my first croisé position, I become aware that something isn’t right. The toe box is cramped, and I blame myself. I should have been better prepared. I should have tested the shoes one more time backstage to ensure everything was correct. But my duty was to my father. I must always do what’s right.
The choreography lives on, and so do I. Regardless of the distraction, my moves are flawless, but I don’t allow myself an ounce of arrogance. Every position is performed with care, each step precise and light. My father is watching from the audience, of that there is no doubt. I can’t disappoint him. Every performance is a justification for the countless years I have dedicated to my practice.
I need ballet like I need air to breathe. It is my life. My heart. My soul. And the thing I fear most is what will become of me when I am no longer a dancer. I’m on track. For as long as I can remember, this train has been moving in one direction, and I’m going to get there. It’s in my bones. It’s the only thing I know for certain.
But Vivi would be quick to tell me that nothing in life is certain.
The first blow comes when I rise en pointe. White-hot agony pierces through my toes without warning, and warm, sticky blood fills the toe boxes.
I close my eyes and attempt to breathe through the pain while I come to terms with one unwavering certainty. My shoes have been sabotaged. There is nothing I can do but go on with the performance and pray I don’t bleed onto the floor. Whatever tore through my flesh is already embedded there, and I don’t care. I must finish at any cost.
I must not falter.
It is with this grand intention that my entire world topples in a matter of seconds. One leap and one failed landing, and it’s all over.
As I crumple to the floor, the fear at the forefront of my mind is the snap I felt in my ankle. Logically, I’m aware an entire audience is present for the worst moment of my life, but I have disengaged. Clouded by disbelief, I attempt to get up, only to collapse again. My ankle no longer functions. It doesn’t move.
I could think of a thousand ways I would rather die before someone finally takes pity on me and carries me off the stage.
“Have some mercy, won’t you?” Papà’s shadowed figure whispers from behind the curtain.
“Were you under any illusions that this might end differently when you made the agreement?”
“She is my only daughter.”
“Ahh, yes. That does pull at the heartstrings, I suppose. But I believe she was also your only daughter when the matter of collateral was explained to you. If you are not happy with this solution, then perhaps you should pay the debt and be done with it.”
“You know very well that I can’t,” my father says. “She is injured. At least allow her to heal, and then perhaps we can work something—”
“She can heal just as well under the supervision of my doctor.”