I snuck out of sixth a few minutes early, racing to my car, exhaling only once I was out of the parking lot and no towering shadow appeared in my rearview mirror. An impossible mountain of things needed to be sorted out, requiring my attention so I could wake up tomorrow with a plan, but I couldn’t sort through that yet.
Only one thing was capable of drowning everything from my mind and, lucky for me, the dance studio was empty when I arrived. It was the same place I’d learned to dance. I’d gone from a tutu twirling toddler to a competent dancer with her sights set on Juilliard all thanks to the work ethic I’d picked up from my father, the grace my mom swore I got from her side of the family, and the saint-like patience of Madame Fontaine.
She opened the studio thirty years ago, turning a condemned building in the historic district into the most celebrated studio in the area. It wasn’t anything fancy, nor did she take on a lot of students, but Madame Fontaine had turned out more prima donnas than all of eastern Europe. She was a legend in the dance world, well known for her chew ‘em up and spit ‘em out attitude, but to me, she was a saint.
She was the only person I could talk to during a time in my life when no one else was capable of talking. She helped me find the light in any dark and threatened me with life and limb when I told her I was contemplating quitting dance. Only because I feared she was serious, I stuck with it, working through the pain, and soon found dance was not only masking the pain, but healing it. Dance saved me in ways my parents, doctors, and even I couldn’t.
Since dance became my heaven, Madame Fontaine became my angel.
Sticking my head in the office, I found it, like the rest of the studio, dark and empty. A tray of oatmeal cookies was Saran wrapped on her desk, topped off by a pale pink note teepee’ed over it that read Lucy.
Sliding a cookie under the wrap, I grabbed the note. Since I know you forget to eat, here’s an attempt at nutrition. Don’t tell anyone I’ve gone soft in my old age. Work hard and dance harder.
And there was the Matilda Fontaine who was the legend. Cookies topped by a work your toes ‘til they’re raw threat.
Working my toes, feet, legs, and mind until they were raw was exactly what I needed. I didn’t bother to change out of my leggings and cashmere tunic; I just bobbypinned my hair back and tied on my pointes. Sliding Tchaikovsky into the stereo, I cranked up the volume and was mid grand jete before the first note vibrated the mirrors in the studio.
As a rule you didn’t screw with, dancers always warm up pre setting-the-dance-floor-on-fire, but my heart had been doing double time since nine o’clock this morning. I wasn’t only warmed up, I was warmed out.
I danced until the sun set and the sky grew dark. I danced until I tore through the same CD three times. I danced until I’d chugged down two liters of water. But no matter how hard I danced, or how intensely I concentrated on perfecting each and every movement, I never stopped thinking about Jude.
The room went silent for the fourth time as Tchaikovsky’s finale to Swan Lake drew to a close. I was drenched, out of breath, and sore from my neck to my toes. It was a good day of dancing.
Reaching for another liter of water, a low whistle echoed across the room. Even in a whistle, I knew his voice.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he said as I turned to face him. “A man could live a full life watching you dance like that.”
“I was wondering how long it would take you to find me,” I said as Jude came out of the shadows of the office. He’d aged a decade in six hours. The hollows under his eyes were a shade shy of black, his olive skin had gone sallow, but it was his eyes that had aged the most.
“Only about as long as it took me to walk from school to here,” he answered, straddling the doorway.
“I’ve been here for a good six hours.” I took a long drink, then let myself collapse on the floor, settling my back against the mirror wall.
“I’ve been here almost as long,” he said, motioning behind him where Madame Fontaine’s office looked out into the parking lot. “But I didn’t want to interrupt you, so I just made like a good peeping tom and checked you out through the window.” He grinned, scuffing his boot into the door jam. “Plus I was a little frightened of what you might say or do if I did interrupt you.”
“Ah,” I said, folding my upper half across my legs to stretch muscles that were about to snap. “There’s the truth. Finally,” I muttered just loud enough that he could hear me.
“I need to tell you a lot more truth, Luce,” he said, looking the most lost I’d seen him. That look appealed to my already Jude friendly heartstrings, and before I knew what I was doing, I patted the patch of wood beside me.
“I need to stretch, and it sounds like you need to talk,” I said, forcing myself to stretch so far it felt like I was about to break. “Let’s get this over with.”
He crossed the room, his body looking relieved, but his face looked wary. “I meant what I said. That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said, sliding down beside me. “I didn’t know you were so damn talented. You’re going to be the star of some big-wig ballet production where millionaires pay like a thousand bucks for a front row seat,” he said, while I tried not to smile at his obvious ignorance for ballet lingo, “or some crazy shit like that.”
I laughed as I straightened and crossed my left arm in front of me. “I think you’re right. I’m quite certain my life is destined for plenty of crazy shit,” I quoted, elbowing him with my other arm.