Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 157273 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157273 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
“Hey, are you—” Anne peeked in through the open studio door, fully dressed for the day in white linen shorts and a blue polo, holding a small silver picture frame. “What are you doing?” She kicked off her sandals and walked in.
I swept my right foot forward back into first position, keeping my left hand on the barre. “Rond de jambe. What does it look like?” I repeated the move, tendu to the front, pointing my foot, then drawing it out to the side, then back before bringing it back to first again.
“It’s seven a.m.” She studied the movement of my foot. “How long have you been in here?”
“Started my workout at six.” I repeated the move, testing my Achilles with each flex and point of my foot. The pain was minimal, whatever that meant. “Cardio on the bike, Pilates machine, everything the doc prescribed.” No demi-pointe.
“Turnout looks good.” She walked over slowly, eyeing me like I was a wild animal poised for flight. “What else have you been doing?”
“I warmed up with the fouettés from Swan Lake.” Forward. Side. Back. First. The motions were muscle memory after decades in the studio, but my ankle wasn’t quite getting with the program.
“Ha ha. Very funny.” She folded her arms. “Do you do this every morning?”
I nodded. “While you’re asleep so I avoid the lectures.”
“Alone?” There was a definite purse to her lips.
“Sadie keeps me company now.”
The golden lifted her head in the corner in response to her name, then went back to chewing on her toy.
“I thought you only worked out once a day, not twice.” A hint of disapproval slid into Anne’s tone. “You have to take it easy on your ankle or you’ll . . .” She sighed. “Train yourself into the ground.”
“This is easy. I’m used to being in the studio ten hours a day.” I wasn’t taking baby steps; I was barely crawling from where I wanted—needed—to be.
“If you tear that tendon again—”
“I know!” I dropped my hand and yanked off my split-sole slippers. “I’m well aware that if I push and it snaps again, I’m done.” One. Two. I tossed them at my canvas ballet bag beneath the windowsill as I crossed the studio floor. “But if I don’t push, don’t fight to heal, I’m done too. They’ll replace me, Anne. There’s always someone waiting in the wings. Charlotte danced my part all of five minutes after they carried me off the stage that night.” I snagged my Hydro Flask and my phone off the windowsill, then opened it to Eva’s text message and handed it to Anne.
“You are irreplaceable,” Anne said gently. “There is no one capable of taking your spot, Allie. You’re a once-in-a-decade talent.” She glanced down at the phone. “What is this?”
“Watch.” I sat on the floor and stretched my warm muscles between drinks of water, cringing when I heard the content creator’s voice.
“This is bullshit.” Anne crouched in front of me. “Allie, tell me you know this is bullshit.” Her eyes searched mine, and when I didn’t respond, she scrolled down. “And please tell me you didn’t read through these heinous comments.” She closed the app and put my phone on the floor. “Why would Eva send something like that to you?”
“I’m sure she thought it would motivate me to hit the workouts harder. Which it did.” I put my feet into a butterfly stretch, sole to sole, then tugged my ankles toward my torso. “After it cut me into bite-size pieces.”
“People say stupid shit when there’s no accountability for running their mouths,” she muttered.
“It was both physique and overuse.” I released the stretch. “My Achilles never fully healed after the accident, and I refused to slow down even when it became apparent I needed to. I had every intention of rehabbing post-Nutcracker season, but then Vasily offered me Giselle, and all I could think was . . .” My shoulders dipped.
“You wanted to make Mom proud. I get it.”
“Yeah.” But she didn’t. Once Anne quit, the pressure evaporated off her shoulders, only to be redistributed between Lina, Eva, and me.
Now there were only two of us to carry it, and if I broke, it would leave only Eva.
“Speaking of Mom.” She sat in front of me. “I looked through the pictures in their room last night.”
“Feeling nostalgic?”
She handed me the five-by-seven frame. “Something wasn’t sitting right about Lina.”
“You mean the part where she hid an entire pregnancy from us? Or the part where she never mentioned she’d had a baby and given it up for adoption?” I glanced at the photo, noting Mom’s and Lina’s bright smiles, their heads leaned together in front of the lit-up poster advertising Don Quixote. “What am I missing, here? Mom went to San Francisco to see Lina perform. We all knew that.”
“They’re in full winter coats.” Anne sat up on her knees and tapped the glass at the top of the frame, where the poster read March 3-13.