Annabel Joseph - Firebird

Prosper worked less as Jackson fine-tuned the other dances, and she had no part at all in the final act, when Blake, as Prince Ivan, and Kristen, as the Tsarina, had a glittering wedding amid the climactic fanfare of Stravinsky’s score.

She haunted the backstage and watched Jackson interact with the others. She could tell he was excited to finally be seeing the ballet in its final form. She was excited too but increasingly nervous. The costume arrived and had to be taken in, to the cluckings of the costume mistress. Jackson frowned over it but didn’t lecture. She posed for the publicity photos in full costume and makeup with a great plume of red feathers decorating her hair.

Finally the day arrived when Jackson left for Chicago. He wouldn’t let her drive him to the airport but left straight from rehearsals. That night after the performance, she broke down in the dressing room and cried. By now only Glenna spoke to her regularly. The company gossips had decided that yes, she and Jackson were a couple, albeit a secret one. The secrecy seemed to irritate them more. Some were jealous and snide because of it. Others looked down on her with holier-than-thou derision. With Jackson leaving her behind for the holidays, she looked all the more pathetic to those who judged her. Kristen was in her element, rallying the entire company against her. In the dance world, sleeping your way into roles was considered playing dirty. Well, they had no idea how dirty things really were.

Prosper tried to push it all from her mind. She couldn’t go back. She couldn’t change how things were. And she couldn’t change the future, change the fact that he would leave her soon, leave her behind in this company where everyone, even the director, seemed to hate her. She couldn’t think about any of it, because it all upset her too much. She thought about asking Jackson to take her to Chicago. She needed a change, needed a new direction.

She needed him.

She was falling apart without him. She couldn’t eat; she couldn’t sleep. Whenever he called, she pretended everything was fine because she didn’t want to ruin his holidays. But without him, without his strength and encouragement, she began to be tortured by doubt. She became more and more certain she couldn’t handle his ballet. What on earth was she thinking? She would never be able to pull it off. When she royally fucked it up, he would be furious with her. They would part on bad terms, and she would be alone.

The days crawled along in a blur. At last it was New Year’s Eve. Jackson would return on the third of January, if she could just survive until then. And after two final performances of Nutcracker on New Year’s Day, she could hang up her long tulle tutu until next year. Everyone was tired of Nutcracker , and she was so worn out that her costume was practically hanging on her. She had to cinch it in with needle and thread.

The dancers of Townsend, from highest principal to lowliest corps, traditionally celebrated their own “New Year” the night of New Year’s Day when the curtain came down on the final performance. Prosper thought she would go to the party. No matter what they thought of her, she was a member of the company too. She was as relieved about the end of Nutcracker as the rest of them. She would go and hold her head up, as Jackson always told her to do.

She would go because she was so lonely that even being at a party of people who hated her was better than going home alone.

Jackson looked around the New Year’s Eve party. Typical collection of Chicago dancers and dance whores, friends and hangers-on who either didn’t or couldn’t make it in the actual world of dance. He’d been invited here by his friend Kurt, who’d recently organized a small avant-garde troupe called the Movement Project. He’d gone to a couple of rehearsals and shows and was impressed by what he saw. Their quick, intricate style of modern dance struck him as ideal for Prosper’s skill set.

Prosper. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. He even talked to Kurt about her talent, about Firebird . He stopped short of asking if Kurt might consider making a place for Prosper in his troupe.

Hell, he didn’t even know if Prosper would be interested. They hadn’t talked about February, about what was going to happen when he had to leave; in fact, both of them stubbornly avoided the topic. They’d agreed to “no strings attached,” but over the weeks they’d spent together, he felt drawn ever closer to her. He wanted to be with her. He wanted more time with her. He wanted to ask her to come to Chicago, not just because he was selfish, but because he truly felt she’d be happier there.

But Firebird would open up opportunities at the Townsend she wouldn’t want to miss, opportunities she’d worked toward for years. It was a highly respected company, and it was in New York, the capital of the dance world. Why would she choose to leave just to try her hand at a small struggling group like Kurt’s? He went back and forth in his mind, weighing the pros and cons of every possibility.

Around him, drunk revelers danced and hung on each other. He felt his shoulder jostled and turned to see a curvaceous blonde woman smiling at him. He knew her, tried to place her.

“Jackson! It’s Courtney. Don’t you remember me? We danced together at school.”

Courtney, Courtney. The only Courtney he remembered had been a skinny, thin-lipped girl who had repulsed him in partnering classes because of the pimples on her back. He looked again. Some plastic surgery on the nose, Restylane in the lips. No more zits.

“Courtney. Hi. Yes, of course I remember you.”

“How’ve you been? You look fantastic! Kurt said you’ve been in New York.”

“Yes. I’ve been mounting a production of Firebird there. New choreography, everything.”

“Really?” Her shrill voice and disproportionate lips were squicking him out. She stepped closer, and he stepped back. “Where? Anyplace I’d know?”

“The Townsend Ballet.” He turned away and took a drink of his beer. “We begin serious rehearsals next week for an opening in February.”

“Wow, the Townsend. They have a great reputation.”

“They’re a small company, but they have good hardworking dancers. A good director.”

“Well, I’m happy for you.” She pulled a theatrical pout. “But when are you coming back to Chicago? We need your talents here.”

When she said “talents,” she put her hand on his lower back. He shifted, and her hand moved lower.

“Oh, I’ll be back. I’ve promised to do some choreography for the Joffrey Ballet.” He pulled back a little as her hand moved even lower. Was she going to squeeze his ass? He turned to face her, but then she used the opportunity to thrust her chest in his face. He looked down, remembered skinny dance-student boobs. More enhancement. They looked like double Ds now.

“Are you still dancing?” he asked.

“Oh, I’m teaching. I got married. Big mistake. Just had a messy divorce. God, it’s just horrible out there, the single life. Are you seeing anyone right now?”

Her casual tone didn’t hide the desperation behind her voice.

“I am seeing someone. A dancer. For a few weeks now.”

“Oh, that’s great!” The fake enthusiasm in her voice didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Is she at the Townsend?”

“Yeah. She’s dancing the Firebird actually. Just a coincidence.”

“Oh, sure.” Courtney winked. “A coincidence. I believe you.”

Jackson laughed and shrugged. “Whatever it is, it’s a good thing.”

“But she must be based in New York. If you’re coming back to Chicago—”

“Well, we haven’t quite worked that out yet.”