Stickdom
I’m a fixer. I fix broken things. It’s what I do.
The Morning After...
Exhausted, you enter into the dressing room and nearly collapse onto one of the small sofas that fill the corners of the room. It is barely noon, but you have been on your feet since dawn, and the hours ahead only promise more activity. It is the week of rehearsals and anticipation, your ballet company is performing Swan Lake at the prestigious Joffrey Ballet in downtown Chicago. It is quite an honour even with your level of expertise, and despite having been preparing for your entire life to showcase your grace and talent on stage, you still feel the tiniest flutterings of butterflies in your stomach. That could mostly be the diet your instructors have forced upon the corps, little-to-nothing for breakfast, a meal fit for one of the Nutcracker's mice at midday, and hardly a banquet for dinner. Granted, they are far from starving you, all of the foods provided are high in protein and nutrients. Lots of fresh fruits and eggs, the occasional chicken breast or baked salmon fillet topped with spices and oils to your taste, and no end of broccoli and spinach. You just wish there was more... well, more. And the same handful of foods day in and out really gets stale, no matter how you cook it. Some of the other ladies have running bets on who will break down first and order a whole pizza after the performance is over, and you're starting to wish you put money on yourself. The only thing you can look forward to is the abundance of coffee you are allowed to drink, and the rare treat of the rich dark chocolate bars the higher dancers seem to have stashed in every locker, corner, and ballet shoe.
Grace comes skittering across the room and practically slides onto the edge of the couch where you were peacefully resting, and you know by the gleam in her eye she is either about to unload the latest gossip or be the bearer of bad news, usually about a mutual rival you both share. "Oh Mae, you should have seen it! Karen told me that..." Definitely gossip, Karen was the all-seeing, all-saying hub of the latest dirt, scoops, and dirty secrets of the entire company, though her outrageous stories typically held at least the silver lining of a true story under all her unwanted snooping. "She said that Evan and Rheanna were backstage the other day, working on their pas de deux together, you know the one they have to do on the bridge scene? Anyway, they saw something from behind one of the curtains and went to go check it out... and they saw Ms. DuBois and Mr. Karlov dancing! Together!" This was news to you, Ms. DuBois was the head of your choreography, the one who always made your life miserable with seemingly endless combinations and impossible rotations across the floor, known for being a strict and disciplined woman. Mr. Karlov, on the other hand, was the master of the waltzes, a stickler for "time-honoured tradition" and "precision movement", a noted perfectionist and something of a grouchy old man. These two teachers had always seemed to be at each others throats, arguing over differences in style and taste at every possible opportunity, for them to be dancing together was something of an act of high treason against their nature. that is, if it was true. Coming from Grace who had heard it second- or third-hand from the studio's most notorious busybody, it was anyone's guess whether it was true or fantasy.
Grace looks at you expectantly, patting your head and caressing your cheek in a sisterly manner. "Hey kid, are you doing alright? You look a little pale. Don't tell me Juilliard's finest is worn out after our little warmup this morning." She smiles kindly, she knows that she is just as tired as you are, having run through the entire show twice now since the sun came up, with only a short break in between each piece for minute corrections and and bellowing directions. Your head does feel just a little light, you wonder if you are just dizzy from all of the turns you had to do, or maybe you stayed out too late last night, especially with the strange experience at that fortune teller's shop. That might be it, a combination of staying up late on your night off and the thick smoke of the crazy woman's room, you gave yourself a headache. All for a cheap parlor trick and a swindle of your hard-earned payment.
Still, you can feel the thin edge of the card gently scraping against your waist where you stuck it under the lining of your leotard. You don't remember when or why you put it there this morning, but it somehow feels like you should keep it close. Like it's important somehow.
Exhausted, you enter into the dressing room and nearly collapse onto one of the small sofas that fill the corners of the room. It is barely noon, but you have been on your feet since dawn, and the hours ahead only promise more activity. It is the week of rehearsals and anticipation, your ballet company is performing Swan Lake at the prestigious Joffrey Ballet in downtown Chicago. It is quite an honour even with your level of expertise, and despite having been preparing for your entire life to showcase your grace and talent on stage, you still feel the tiniest flutterings of butterflies in your stomach. That could mostly be the diet your instructors have forced upon the corps, little-to-nothing for breakfast, a meal fit for one of the Nutcracker's mice at midday, and hardly a banquet for dinner. Granted, they are far from starving you, all of the foods provided are high in protein and nutrients. Lots of fresh fruits and eggs, the occasional chicken breast or baked salmon fillet topped with spices and oils to your taste, and no end of broccoli and spinach. You just wish there was more... well, more. And the same handful of foods day in and out really gets stale, no matter how you cook it. Some of the other ladies have running bets on who will break down first and order a whole pizza after the performance is over, and you're starting to wish you put money on yourself. The only thing you can look forward to is the abundance of coffee you are allowed to drink, and the rare treat of the rich dark chocolate bars the higher dancers seem to have stashed in every locker, corner, and ballet shoe.
Grace comes skittering across the room and practically slides onto the edge of the couch where you were peacefully resting, and you know by the gleam in her eye she is either about to unload the latest gossip or be the bearer of bad news, usually about a mutual rival you both share. "Oh Mae, you should have seen it! Karen told me that..." Definitely gossip, Karen was the all-seeing, all-saying hub of the latest dirt, scoops, and dirty secrets of the entire company, though her outrageous stories typically held at least the silver lining of a true story under all her unwanted snooping. "She said that Evan and Rheanna were backstage the other day, working on their pas de deux together, you know the one they have to do on the bridge scene? Anyway, they saw something from behind one of the curtains and went to go check it out... and they saw Ms. DuBois and Mr. Karlov dancing! Together!" This was news to you, Ms. DuBois was the head of your choreography, the one who always made your life miserable with seemingly endless combinations and impossible rotations across the floor, known for being a strict and disciplined woman. Mr. Karlov, on the other hand, was the master of the waltzes, a stickler for "time-honoured tradition" and "precision movement", a noted perfectionist and something of a grouchy old man. These two teachers had always seemed to be at each others throats, arguing over differences in style and taste at every possible opportunity, for them to be dancing together was something of an act of high treason against their nature. that is, if it was true. Coming from Grace who had heard it second- or third-hand from the studio's most notorious busybody, it was anyone's guess whether it was true or fantasy.
Grace looks at you expectantly, patting your head and caressing your cheek in a sisterly manner. "Hey kid, are you doing alright? You look a little pale. Don't tell me Juilliard's finest is worn out after our little warmup this morning." She smiles kindly, she knows that she is just as tired as you are, having run through the entire show twice now since the sun came up, with only a short break in between each piece for minute corrections and and bellowing directions. Your head does feel just a little light, you wonder if you are just dizzy from all of the turns you had to do, or maybe you stayed out too late last night, especially with the strange experience at that fortune teller's shop. That might be it, a combination of staying up late on your night off and the thick smoke of the crazy woman's room, you gave yourself a headache. All for a cheap parlor trick and a swindle of your hard-earned payment.
Still, you can feel the thin edge of the card gently scraping against your waist where you stuck it under the lining of your leotard. You don't remember when or why you put it there this morning, but it somehow feels like you should keep it close. Like it's important somehow.
