Brandy Colbert - Pointe

So I say nothing as I spread my fingers apart and his dip down into the gaps between them, as we squeeze our hands together and the pads of his fingers brush against my palm.

We sit like that for a long time, for the rest of the period.

I sit in the smoking spot, holding hands with Hosea, and I can’t remember the last time I felt so alive.

SUMMER INTENSIVE AUDITIONS ARE A TYPICAL BALLET CLASS with barre and center work, combinations across the floor, and a focus on pointe work for the girls, jumps for the guys.

A typical ballet class that also happens to be the most important class of your life.

I stay late to practice at least a couple of times a week, and usually more than that. The thought of my auditions makes my body hot and my head too light, but the extra time in the studio gets my mind off the trial, and that’s the most I can hope for at this point. Only two weeks until Christmas, so the trial is just six weeks away.

I’m in an empty studio on a Tuesday night when Marisa walks in. I’ve just moved to the barre and I look over, hold my breath, wonder if I’ve done something wrong. She’s only ever checked on me a couple of times when I practice solo, and even then, she comes in at the end of my session, not the beginning.

Her hair falls around her shoulders in loose, coffee-colored waves and she’s dressed in street clothes. Dark jeans, a long-sleeved white V-neck, and a pair of buttery gray boots I’ve been eyeing for a while now.

“I just thought I’d sit in with you today,” she says as she closes the door behind her. “Lead you through a class, like at your auditions. Is that okay?”

“It’s fine,” I say, and hope she doesn’t spot the apprehension in my tone.

Actually, once I get over my initial nerves, I’m glad she’s here. I work best when Marisa is in the room, because she always expects the best from me.

She walks over to the stereo and I adjust my leotard while her back is turned. I feel like I’m shrinking inside this one, which means none of the others will fit me well, either. I can’t ask my mom to take me shopping again so soon; we just stocked up on new leotards and tights and two new pairs of pointe shoes at the beginning of autumn. It’s too soon to ask for more, and if I tell her how loose this one is, she’ll be suspicious.

I wonder if Marisa noticed when she walked in, but all she says when she turns around is, “Full out, no marking.”

She leads me through the barre work, assesses my turnout, and studies the movement of my port de bras as I work through the steps. I push myself harder than I have in weeks, maybe even months. I want her to see how much I’ve grown, that she didn’t make a mistake when she said I should audition.

When I move to the center, Marisa tells me not to get too tripped up on the fouettés, but this is the moment I’ve been waiting for: to prove that even with everything else going on in my life, I can focus on what matters most. She says not to get too caught up in them, but I know she’s dissecting every move, examining how I rise from plié to relevé en pointe, how my working leg extends in fourth position before I pull my foot in to touch the back of my knee. I do this again and again and again. I am in total control, taking charge of these fouettés like the first Odile I ever saw.

I’m gearing up for my tenth fouetté when I see him. When I remember that for the first couple of years after we broke up, the sound of a pants zipper still made my breath hitch in my throat. I stop keeping count of my turns when I recall that the first few times I was too aware of everything: the blood pounding in my ears, the random movement of my arms because I didn’t know what to do with my hands.

I got used to it, eventually. The pressure from his palm as it pushed down on the back of my neck. The little moans that escaped when he was close and the blank look in his eyes immediately afterward, like I could be anyone.

It didn’t seem wrong. Chris was my boyfriend and it made him feel good. All I ever wanted was to make him happy, so I never let on that every single time, it made me want to wash my mouth out with bleach afterward.

My ankle gives out and I lose my balance. Crash down from relevé and nearly tumble to the floor before I catch myself. So damn stupid to let him in my head like that when I have Marisa’s undivided attention, when I’m so close to auditions, I can practically taste the nerves. I take my time righting myself. Look down at the ankles that failed me, at my anxious reflection in the mirror, and finally at Marisa, whose face is a mixture of confusion and sympathy.

“I’m so sorry,” I say in a whisper, my eyes dropping to the floor again.

She sighs. “I know you’re tired, sweetheart, but you’ve got to keep pushing.”

“I am. I mean, I was trying.” I stand in place as I cross one foot over the other and back again. “I’m just a little nervous with this . . . and the trial. It’s a week before my first audition.”

I still don’t understand how two of the biggest moments in my life are barely a dozen days apart. I thought trials like this took months, sometimes years to go anywhere, but that’s not the case with Chris Fenner. It’s sort of ironic. He was never good at waiting and now the one thing he must be desperate to postpone is moving faster than anyone can grasp.

“I’d be worried if you weren’t.” Marisa pauses. “Sometimes these things don’t run on schedule, so you know if there’s any conflict with your auditions and the day you have to be in court, we can work around it. I have no problem explaining the situation to the heads of the programs.”

I force myself not to pull at the loose fabric of my leotard, clasp my hands in front of me instead. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t have to. I want to.” She steps closer, though the studio is so empty, our voices echo off the walls. “And I wanted to tell you that a couple of the schools already have their eye on you.”

I dig the heels of my pointe shoes into the floor, lock my knees so I won’t fall again.

“I’m guessing this comes as a surprise.” Marisa smiles big, like she’s been waiting to say this to me for a while now.

“Just a little.” I wipe my sweaty palms on the front of my thighs. “But they have their eye on me . . . What exactly does that mean?”

“It means I have friends who know that I count you as one of my top dancers, so they’re looking forward to your audition.” Marisa puts her hand on my arm and squeezes. “You were one of my very first students after I opened the studio,” she says, looking at me with eyes as kind as her words. “Back then, I knew you would go far and I’ve never stopped believing in you, Theo. Not for a minute. If anyone can do this, it’s you.”

My toes are throbbing as I walk back to the dressing room a half hour later and when I sit down in front of my locker, lower myself to the floor so I can stretch, I see it. I sit with my legs straight out in front of me and push my fingers to the end of my feet, to the crimson blemish on the box of my pointe shoe.

Bleeding feet are no real cause for concern around here. It’s impossible to avoid when you’re on them all the time, when the skin across your toes is a canvas of ever-present blisters. It’s nothing new for someone who dances this much. But I haven’t bled through my shoes since I first went on pointe. I stroke the satin and look at my thumb, now stained a faint red. The smell of metal courses through my nose.

I’ll never forget the day I was rummaging through my dance bag and Chris saw my pointe shoes again. But by then, they were almost dead; the satin was dirty and starting to rip, and the platforms were nearly too soft to support me. Dried brown spots decorated the toe, and when I waved the shoe jokingly in front of his face, he pushed it away from me, told me not to be gross.