EXCERPT ONE:
“You.” The single word from Yuri yanks me out of my reverie. “Indigo, is it?” I nod numbly. “Come here, please.” Yuri points at the center of the floor then folds his arms and waits. I take my position there standing still.

“We begin like this,” he says, posing as I remember from the video of Irina. He shows me the first counts of eight for my solo and I mark the steps as I watch. I’ve memorized them after the second time he walks them through; thankfully I’ve always been quick to pick up choreography.

“You have it?” he demands gruffly. I nod. “Show me.” he steps back and leans on the barre at the front of the room, watching me intently, like a cat tracking a careless bird.

I spread my feet wide and bend forward at the waist, imagining the pose as I remember Irina did it. Aside from Yuri’s counting, the room is silent and still; I

feel the others watching. But I can’t think about that. I must only think about the counts and where my body is going, one second ahead so I am there when I am supposed to be–

“No!” he claps loudly. “Let me see position again.” I recreate the pose I was in before he interrupted. “No.” he shakes his head vigorously. “It is like this.”

He strikes the pose. “You see?”

I don’t understand the difference but I don’t dare say anything. I nod. “More energy in fingertips,” he suggests. I try again, this time I imagine sparks shooting out of my fingertips. This seems to work, since he lets me continue. I rise en pointe, bringing one leg into passé retiré, the toes touching the side of my standing leg near the knee.

“Stop.” More clapping. He marches over to me again. “Make me passé,” he says. I rise back into the position, more forcefully this time, but still he shakes his head. “It is impossible,” he states. “This is not passé. It must be in front of knee, like this,” he says, demonstrating.

Miss Roberta would frown on this placement, I think. Another example of how different ballet technique is from one company to the next, from one country to the next.

Still, I comply. Maybe it’s not such a bad thing to learn slight variations, to have more translations in my pocket. You never know when they might come in handy in the future. Another passé, then close in fifth position, and pirouette from fifth–

“No again.” He clenches his hands into fists this time and stomps over to Skinny Snow White. I catch the first word, “Olgachkova” and then get lost in the flurry of words that follow, none of which I understand. When he falls silent,

Skinny Snow White nods in assent and replies, “Da.”

Skinny Snow White removes the plastic warmup pants she was wearing and makes her way over to me. Yuri flaps a hand at me impatiently, indicating I should step aside. “Olga will show,” he says, turning to her with an enormous smile of beatitude.

I edge out of her way, trying not to feel crushed. I know that having Olga dance in my place is meant to be a teaching tool, something to help me ultimately, but it still stings.

That feeling intensifies as she moves gracefully through the choreography, flowing smoothly through the passés and turns as effortlessly as a fish swirls through water. I try to focus on what she’s doing so I can learn. I’d like to figure out exactly what it is that Yuri’s looking for, that I haven’t got. Yet. But it’s almost impossible to ignore that this woman is one of the most exquisite dancers I’ve ever watched.

I’ve told myself oodles of time I must never ever, under any circumstances, make comparisons–because comparison is always a losing game. But how not to when the glaring differences are practically smacking me in the face?

Yuri claps again. “Enough. Khorosho, blagodaryu vas, Olga. We will break. Return in twenty minutes.”

I stand paralyzed, mute with a flurry of thoughts pirouetting in my mind. After watching Olga dance I don’t know how I will ever measure up. I want to, but it seems like an impossible task. Where to even begin? Who can help? Can anyone? What do I need to do to reach that same level of precision and perfection?

All I can think is that even if I were to sneak from my bed and dance all night long, wearing out pair after pair of pointe shoes every night up until our performances, like the Twelve Dancing Princesses fairytale, I’m not sure even that would be enough.

EXCERPT TWO:
I try one last time to talk some sense into her. Into all of them. If Olga gets caught, who knows what might happen? “Just for the record, I don’t think this is a good–”

“–You’ve already told us what you think,” Monique interjects. “So be a good friend and help us.”

“But what if you get caught?”

“I already told you I’ve taken care of it.” She digs around in her bag and pulls out a red mask with cat ears. She places it over her face to demonstrate. ”See?

Perfect anonymity. No one will ever know.”

I have to admit the cat masks are kind of genius. They’re elegant, like something you’d see at a masked ball, designed to cover just the upper half of the face. Embossed curlicues wrap around the eyes. Monique blinks at me, waiting for me to say something. “Okay,” I say at last. “But make it quick.”

“It’s a three-minute ballet,” Monique replies. “We’ll be done before you know it.”

Moments later they’re scrambling out the door, giggling and shushing each other, before erupting into laughter. Subtle, I think to myself. The door shuts behind them with a click.

I stand close to the door, but not too close. I don’t want to be obvious. A trio of young dancers passes by, but other than that the hall is quiet. I glance at my phone. They’ve been out there five minutes and already it feels like an eternity.

A moment later I spot Irina Skylanskaya coming down the hall toward me, sans dog. It’s strange to see her without the dog and I wonder where her dog is.

Act casual, Indigo. She nods at me as she passes, and I nod back nervously. When she disappears into the studio at the end of the hall I breathe a sigh of relief.

Another glance at my phone. It’s been eight minutes. They should be done by now.

That’s when I spot Dimitri heading my way. Oh, no. I don’t think I can handle lying to him. I look down at my phone again, pretending to be engrossed.

“Did you find something interesting?” he says. I sense a hint of laughter in his tone.

“I did,” I say, moving a bit further away from the door. “It’s about–” I think quickly about the last thing I opened on my phone. “–turtles.” “Turtles?” He looks confused.

I’d been helping Charlie write up his Christmas list, and he said he wanted a pet turtle. But then he wanted to know what turtles eat and whether he’d be able to manage the care and feeding of the hypothetical turtle. I’d looked up the answer for him.

“My brother thinks he wants a pet turtle,” I explain. “He wanted to know what they eat.”

“What do they eat?”

“Lots of stuff, actually. Cooked chicken, crickets, worms, and leafy vegetables. Also, they’re incredibly fond of fairy moss.”

“Fairy moss?”

“It’s a kind of floating fern. Very delicate, like fairy wings.”

“That is interesting,” he says, suppressing a laugh. “I am going outside for a break. Come with me. You can tell me more about this fairy moss.”

“No!” This comes out more forcefully than I’d intended. I’m not sure which of us is more startled. Get ahold of yourself, Indigo. That’s when I realize I’ve grabbed his hand. He looks down at our hands, then back up at me. I release my grip. “What I meant to say was… um… maybe another time? I have to get back to rehearsal.”

“Okay,” he says. “Tomorrow?”

I nod before I can stop myself. This is what happens when you’ve been taught to always be polite, I think wildly. You agree to things even when you instinctively know you shouldn’t. Then it hits me: I can always make up an excuse later. Even though part of me wants the chance to be alone with him, the other part knows it’s probably not a good idea.

The door swings open and Monique and the others burst in. Dimitri steps back, wordlessly letting them through.

“Oh my God, Indy, you are not going to believe what we got!” Monique says, breathlessly. “It is sooooo good!” Dimitri looks confused again.

Olga looks at me, then him, and narrows her eyes. She says something to him in Russian. He answers in a single syllable, then throws up his hands, and exits into the courtyard, shaking his head as he goes.

“What was that about?” Monique asks.

Olga’s lips tighten. “Nothing,” she says. “It was nothing.” But the way she looks at me tells me it was more than nothing.