Blades

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

The strange thing about my relationship with ballet is that I only hate it when I'm not doing it. I spend the day before our weekly class dreading it and wishing I had skating instead and the five minutes in the changing room feeling grumpy and while I'm stretching I'm also fretting about how revealing the damned clothes are. Then the music starts, we prepare for Barre work and I'm in love with it again. There's something about the absolute precision and controlled strength required for it that calms me completely, something about the focus of all your energy. Back before I knew what the word 'homework' actually meant I had two ballet classes a week, along with a contemporary class and artistic gymnastics. This two hour class on a Tuesday is my only remaining dance off of the ice and yet my stupid brain doesn't treasure that. When will I learn what's good for me?

      Sandy is here for the first time this week. Nearly all of the skaters come to this dance studio because it's just around the corner from the rink and Sherrie's friends with the owner - Sherrie is somehow always friends with everyone that it's useful to be friends with. This, I assume, is why I was automatically partnered with Sandy in the Pas de Deux so that we spent what felt like several hours with his hands skimming my hips as I pirouetted. His touch is bringing the electric shocks no less frequently as time goes by, but now that I'm expecting them I can carry on without having to stop breathing for a short time. Is it weird that I'm proud of that?

      Now, though, we've finally reached my favourite part of a ballet lesson: the Grande Allegro. All of us rush to the corner of the studio and line up in preparation as fast as we can because our teacher never leaves long for these big jumps at the end of the lesson. They always go on about not overworking the Grande section in young students to protect our knees and ankles but everyone here loves it. We all share a fierce joy in springing high above the floor.

      We go into a simple combination sequence that incorporates one petit jeté and two grand jetés – in other words, split leaps. To my surprise, Katy grabs my hand and drags me to her side as her partner. I wonder when the last time someone positively chose you as their partner was... Pressing into the sprung floor, the two of us leap into the air. You're not really flying for more than a couple of seconds but in that time every muscle is working. My legs are taut as I pull my feet in line with my hips, my core a solid block to lock my frame, my arms outstretched and deceptively soft in that classic ballet way. I never can get as high or flex my legs up as much as is ideal, but I know that the amount I enjoy doing these jumps makes me better at them by itself.

      "Good, you two!" calls Madame as we land the second grand jeté and I catch Katy's wicked grin out of the corner of my eye. She high fives me before jogging to the opposite corner to repeat the exercise on the other leg. I turn in time to see Sandy and Max mid-leap, my partner soaring through the air about a foot higher than Katy's. When did I get so lucky?

      Then I have to mentally slap myself when I realise I've been checking Sandy out in his black leotard for at least five seconds too long. Bad, Freddie, BAD. Skating partner, not boyfriend. Thankfully I don't think he noticed, but I'm blushing all the same.

      Although Katy chats to me on the way to the changing rooms, I slip off once we get there to change in a corner. Katy, of course, strips in the middle of the room while loudly continuing her conversation to whoever will listen. I've never understood that sort of self-confidence.

      I change as quickly as possible, trying to kid myself that it's not on the off-chance I bump into You Know Who before he leaves. Bursting with an unprecedented, bubbling sort of happiness, I sling my bag over my shoulder, call a goodbye to everyone (it's as much of a surprise to me as them) and swing the door open – then nearly walk straight into the chest of a someone waiting outside. The smell of the aftershave tells me it is not Sandy.