Phantom's Dance by Lesa Howard
“Well…” I was so nervous my voice cracked. “I was wondering…has Ms. Zaborov talked to you—about me?”
She scrutinized me as I stood before her, fighting the compulsion to say never mind and run out of the room.
“She has, but I’m afraid I haven’t seen much reason to change my mind.”
I raised a hand to my throat and gripped it. Suddenly I couldn’t breathe.
“Christine, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. If you’re not ready, you can always try again next year. Honestly, I think you’d benefit from taking some acting classes. Technically, you’re flawless, but if you can’t convince the audience you are that character, they’re not going to give a flying fig about your technique.”
“But…but I’m improving. Ask Ms. Z.”
“I’m sure Ms. Zaborov has seen improvement in your performance, but I’m not convinced. And as I am the one who counts…” She let her meaning hang in the air. Then she picked up her glasses and set them on the bridge of her nose. “Now, if that’s all, I have work to do.”
“No. I mean, yes, ma’am. That’s all.” I curtsied and backed out of the room.
I cried on the walk home. People on the street looked at me like I was crazy. If Mom knew I was blubbering my way down the streets of Houston, she’d have a cow. But I didn’t care. I’d foolishly let Mrs. Hahn see my weakness. It was a power struggle and she made it clear she had the control. She was wrong, though. I had improved. Erik had helped me and I knew it.
To assuage my miserable failure with Elaina Hahn, I stopped at the corner store and bought extra-cheesy cheese puffs, a bag of bite-sized chocolate bars, and a two-liter bottle of soda. I’d deal with the zits later.
With my comfort foods gathered around me in my room, I called Jenna.
“Wow, Attila really seems to have it out for you.”
“I know! That’s what I’ve been saying.” I crammed a handful of cheese puffs into my mouth. “What has she said to you?” I asked. “Is she going to let you audition?”
“Yeah, I dropped the five pounds.”
I shoved more chips in and mumbled, “I think I’m gaining them.” Then I tossed the bag aside and lamented, “Why can’t some other school come along and recruit her? Let her go to New York and teach at the American Ballet.”
“If only,” Jenna said.
“No, seriously. Sometimes I wish she’d leave. At least until the auditions are over.”
“Unfortunately,” Jenna surmised, “that’s not going to happen. You’ve got to find another way around her.”
“There is no other way around Attila the Hahn.”
Chapter Fifty Seven
I regretted the junk food the next day. My stomach was upset and I was lethargic. I had a processed foods hangover. Raoul was the one bright spot in the day. He drove me home Thursday night, rode up in the elevator with me, and walked me to the door, trying to encourage me the whole time.
He surprised me when he asked, “Do you want me to talk to my uncle for you?”
“What?”
“I’ll talk to Uncle Mark. He has pull on the board. Maybe he could get the old crone to lay off.”
“That’s so sweet, but if I can’t do it on my own, I don’t want to do it at all.”
His text alert went off, and he pulled the phone from his pocket to read the message. “I gotta go. Mom’s looking for me.” His mouth curled into a naughty smile. “But I think I can make you feel better before I leave.”
Lightly, he pushed me against the apartment door and kissed me until I thought my hair would curl. After several seconds, he lifted his head, more than satisfied with himself he teased, “Told ya.”
I gave him a playful shove and unlocked the door to go inside. As much as I liked kissing Raoul, it really only served as a temporary distraction. Mrs. Hahn would still be there tomorrow. It—she—was a problem that wasn’t going away.
At lunch on Friday, Jenna and I toyed with the idea of skipping again, but we both knew we’d never get away with it so soon after the first time. It was a lie to be used sparingly, so we stuck it out the rest of the day, and I ended up glad I did.
Classes had been dismissed and kids were piling out of the building to their waiting rides outside when I walked into the kitchen and discovered Mr. Sims tinkering under the sink. When he scooted out and saw me he said, “Hello.”
“Hi, Mr. Sims.”
Bearing himself up, he continued, “Sink’s plugged. Kids pouring stuff down it they shouldn’t.”
Listening to his small talk about coffee grounds blocking the drain, I realized the answer to my problem was standing in front of me with a wrench in his hand.
“Mr. Sims,” I interrupted, “have you seen Erik lately?”
His gaze darted to the door.
“There’s no one here but me. Have you seen him?”
“I may have,” he responded vaguely.
“Did he say anything—about me?”
“No.”
“Can you get a message to him for me?”
“I don’t know ‘bout that. I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Please. I’m afraid I said some unkind things, and I really hurt him.”
Turning away from me, he tossed the wrench into his toolbox.
“Will you tell him I’m sorry? That I was wrong and I’ll be at the theater tonight. If he’s there, I’ll know he’s forgiven me, but if he’s not, I’ll never bother him again.”
Mr. Sims stared at the floor, and I held my breath awaiting his answer. “I think that’s a mistake. I think you should stay away from him. There’s something about him that’s not right.”
“He can’t help what happened to him,” I said. “You have to understand what it means for a dancer to lose his career like that. No one will ever pay the price of a ticket to see someone like him dance. Box office receipts are made off pretty people. I’m grateful for what he’s done to help me, and I won’t turn my back on him just because he’s eccentric. So if you don’t tell him for me, I’ll be forced to go to the boiler room to find him.” When he didn’t say anything, I went on. “I only want to talk to him one last time. After tonight, when I’m sure he’s forgiven me, I won’t bother him again.”
“If you promise me you’ll stay away from him after that.”
He sounded so ominous that I was sure he was overreacting, but I knew if I didn’t agree he wouldn’t help me.
“I promise. After tonight, I won’t see Erik anymore.”
Chapter Fifty Eight
My stomach swirled all evening. Nervous and unable to eat, I knew if Erik didn’t show this time, I’d never see him again. And I didn’t want to live with the knowledge that I’d added insult to his injury.
Around nine o’clock, I decided to call and chat with Marisol until it was time to leave for the theater. Lately, we hadn’t talked much. We were growing apart—the thing that had concerned me most when I knew we were moving. So much had happened in my life and less and less of it had I shared with her.
Marisol’s face appeared onscreen and we’d barely said hello when she set off on a tangent about Inez stealing the teacher’s test key in her math class, and her mother, wasted out of her mind, showing up at school to deal with it.
“That sucks,” I said, trying to sound sympathetic, all the while selfishly concerned with my own problems.
When it finally seemed appropriate, I told her everything, recounting Van’s broken leg, his nonsensical version of the accident, and my argument with Erik. For the first time in a while, I told her everything on my mind.
“What should I do?” I asked.
“I don’t know. This whole thing is sounding pretty wacked out. What do you think happened to that kid? Do you believe he was pushed down the stairs?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then what are you getting at?” she asked.
Looking away, I shrugged. “I don’t know. I feel bad about how it went down. Erik was offended. And I don’t know what to do
“I dunno what to tell you, mija, but you should be careful—just in case. Ya know?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you really don’t know this guy. What if he is a mental case?”
“That’s rude,” I grumbled.
“Still, I think you should watch yourself. Just because he’s a good dancer doesn’t mean he’s not a creeper.”
“Marisol, that’s coldhearted.”
“I’m just sayin’.”
Suddenly, I regretted contacting her. She’d called Erik a mental case and a creeper and she didn’t even know him.
“Well, I’m going there tonight to apologize. I have to.”
She opened her mouth to respond or protest, but I cut in. “I’ll call you and let you know how it goes. I have to get off now. Talk to you later.” I pushed End.
When Mom went to bed, I slipped out of the apartment and headed to the Wakefield Center. I wasted no time getting inside to walk briskly down the hall toward the Griffith Theater. To my surprise, the smell of hot wax hit me as I neared the stage entrance.
My hands sweaty, I made an opening in the curtains and stepped through onto the stage. I smiled and my heart filled with relief when I spotted Erik seated on the ledge like the last time we’d been here together, before the argument. His back to me, the headpiece’s black fabric was sleek and inky in the dim light. A blanket lay spread on the floor next to him, and in its center were the candles I’d smelled. A tray of fruit and cheese, a bottle of wine, and a vase filled with lively pink flowers were on it, as well. I smiled because the flowers were like the one I’d taken from Claudette Sunderland’s dressing room. The one he’d caught me with.
“Erik?” My voice sounded feeble in the cavernous theater. He’d heard me, though, because he stiffened in response. Slowly, he twisted toward me. The rigid, unyielding features of the mask made it impossible for me to guess what he might be thinking. He could have been either frowning or smiling for all I knew.
Diving into my apology, I took a tentative step. “I’m so sorry. I was wrong. The whole thing was a big misunderstanding.”
Some of the tension left me when he waved his hand in the air as though something minor had passed between us.
“I’m the one who’s sorry,” he said. “My ego got the better of me. But I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” Then he held out an open hand. “Will you sit down?”
I sprinted across the stage to settle on the blanket next to him. He adjusted the mask, securing it in place, and I apologized again. “I’m truly sorry.”
“Shhh.” Airily, he placed a finger to the mask’s golden, inert lips. “It’s over. Really” Then he picked one of the flowers from the vase, broke off its stem, and placed the bud in my hair. “For the ballerina,” he said.
My fingertips fluttered over the feathery petal lodged behind my ear. “Thank you.”
“Do you know what these are?” he asked, gesturing toward the bouquet.
“No, but they’re lovely.” I looked at the vase overflowing with the pink blossoms.
“They’re dahlias. They symbolize hope and everlasting union between two people.”
His statement amped up my guilt-ridden conscience, and I groveled again. “I can’t believe what happened. I’ve seen Van and he told me it was all a mistake. I came one night to explain—I wanted to tell you—but you weren’t here.”
“Don’t sweat it. It’s over. Let’s talk about what’s next.”
“What are you saying? Will you tutor me again?”
He nodded. “Only a fool would walk away from a dancer like you. And now that I know you’re loyal, nothing will get in our way again.”
I was surprised how easy it had been. I’d been so concerned—both dreading and dying to have this conversation—but everything had turned out fine.
Motioning to the blanket and the picnic arranged across it, I asked, “What’s this?”
“I thought we would celebrate. It’s a special occasion.”
The candle light flickered off the gilded facemask, and again, I wondered if he’d been a handsome man before the fire. As a principal dancer, many girls—and women—would have fawned over Erik. How many hearts had he broken? I envisioned Raoul, how gorgeous he was, how lucky I was to have him, and the grief for what Erik had lost squeezed my heart.
“Please help yourself.” He dipped his head in the blanket’s direction.
Taking his cue, I picked up a piece of cheese and nibbled on it, but I was acutely aware that he couldn’t join me.
“You don’t have to be uncomfortable,” I said. “If you want to eat something, it would be okay.”
He picked at the seam of his jeans, and it frustrated me that I couldn’t see his face. Then he murmured, “No, I don’t suppose I do. But maybe some other time.”
While I ate a few grapes, he poured the wine, and I grew uneasy as the blood-red liquid sloshed into the single glass. I’ve never had anything remotely alcoholic before. I didn’t want to sputter and choke like I’d seen people on TV do.
“Here you are.” He passed the glass to me.
Stalling, I asked, “You’re not having any?”
He chuckled and fanned his hand before the hard exterior of the mask. “I would look ridiculous drinking wine through a straw.”
“Oh, yeah, right.” My face heated with embarrassment.
Then, after raising the glass in a mock toast, I sipped the scarlet liquid carefully. It was strangely bitter, but I assumed that that’s the way it was supposed to taste.
After more of the food, I finished the wine. Quite relaxed now, I placed the glass back on the blanket, and licking my lips a few times, I noticed my tongue tingled from the alcohol and apparently, it had loosened it as well.
“I hate ballet,” I groaned, swinging my legs like a toddler along the stage’s drop-off.
“No you don’t.” Erik sniggered. “You hate the bull shit that goes with it, but you love the dance, and you know it.”
I nodded and got serious then. “There’s something I have to tell you. A confession.”
“Oh, yeah? That sounds intriguing.”
Shaking my head, I frowned. “You’re probably going to think I’m scum when I tell you.”
“Well, now I have to know.”
“I took drugs before auditioning to get into the Academy.” I held up my hand, my thumb and forefinger centimeters apart. “It was only a half a sedative, but if I hadn’t taken it I would have had a panic attack and never gotten in. I’m ashamed of it now, and I wanted you to know. It’s not fair for you to help me without you knowing.”
Bit by bit, I relayed my story from the first visit to the ER, missing the recital I so badly wanted to perform in, my appendectomy and subsequent infection, and even the phantom pains that ultimately led to the panic attacks. When I’d finished, I waited for his response.
Beneath the mask, he took a breath and stared off into the empty theater. Then propping his hands on his thighs, he addressed me. “That explains a lot, Chrissy. But there’s more, isn’t there.”
Sucking in a breath, my eyes widened. Chrissy. He’d called me Chrissy.
I nodded and tried not to cry. Why was I being so emotional about this? It had happened so long ago, but I couldn’t get free of it.
“Tell me,” he pressed.
“Why’d you call me that? Only my grandmother called me Chrissy.”
“Called?”
“She’s dead now. But she always called me Prissy Chrissy.” I swallowed hard. “She was supposed to come to my recital—the one I missed because of my appendix, but she’d been sick, too. That’s why I didn’t want my parents to know I was ill. They were so stressed dealing with her in and out of the hospital, chemo, and radiation. She wanted to come, though, so Dad made special arrangements. I remember hearing him talk about her pain meds, hoping it would be enough to get her through. She was determined to be there. And I—I blew it.”
“You didn’t blow it,”
Dropping my gaze to my hands in my lap, I chewed the inside of my lip. “She did die—while I was in the hospital. My dad was the only one to go to her funeral. It was his mother.”
The theater was silent then, as silent as the tears that slipped down my cheeks.
Never trying to stop me, he let me weep until air hitched in my throat, and I eventually breathed easy again.
When I was finally able to lift my head and look at him, he lightly daubed a tear from my cheek. “I had no idea,” he whispered. “It makes sense now. But you don’t have to let this define you anymore. Leave it here—” he indicated the stage “—where it can fuel rather than fell you.”
I nodded, inhaled deeply, and palmed another tear.
“That was hard for you. Telling me about your grandmother. Thanks for trusting me." He adjusted the angle of the mask and said, "I have something I’d like to show you. Maybe it will make you feel better.”
“Oh?” I snorted and dragged my sleeve across my nose.
“Will you come with me?”
“You mean it’s not here?” I pointed a finger at nothing in particular.
“No. It’s in my room.”
Chapter Fifty Nine
At first, I was reluctant to go with him. Marisol’s warning suddenly popped to the fore, and I wondered if I shouldn’t find a way to politely decline. But it was absurd. After what had just passed between us, and all he’d done—the food, the flowers—how could I say no?
“Sure. What is it you want to show me?”
He blew out the candles then got to his feet, hauling me with him. “Follow me.”
Still holding my hand, he led me purposefully down the stage stairs, out of the Griffith Theater, and into the main hall of the Wakefield Building. It was strange. We’d never been anywhere together outside of the stage.
“I can’t tell you how happy I am that you came back to me,” he said, as we navigated the grand foyer separating the Griffith and Werner theaters. “I live for our time together.”
This seemed an odd thing for him to say, but something else bothered me more. My feet felt heavy and slow, as if I wore ankle weights. It must be the wine, I thought, since I’ve never had it before. Still, I didn’t think a single glass could make me tipsy.
We took the service stairs down to the main floor, missing the security guard at the front entrance, all the way to the passage leading to the parking garage.
When we stepped through the glass doors into the underground facility, stale exhaust fumes, damp mildew, and the smell of urine blasted us, and I thought how horrible it must be to live in such conditions.