FALL SEASON
Prologue
My name is Hannah Ward. Don't call me a ballerina.
Ballerina's are the stars of the company. They dance center stage under the spotlight, and they get their own curtain calls. Their head shots are printed in the program, with their names in large print. Me, I'm a dancer in the corps de ballet, just one of the dozen's of girls who dance in graceful union each night. My mother thinks I'm a star, but she's biased.
Besides, the word ballerina sounds too pink, too frou frou. Yes, we wear tutus and tiaras, but only when we perform each night. We spend most of our time hidden away from the audience, working as hard as we possibly can to strengthen and control our bodies so that when we step out onstage, everything we do looks perfect and effortless.
We rehearse in old leotards, threadbare tights, and torn leg warmers. We rarely by new dance clothes because we know that most ballet careers are short-lived. Today, for example, I'm wearing a faded navy cotton leotard and black, slightly less faded leggings. There's nothing pink or frou frou about that.
"Throw yourself into your dancing now," one of my teachers once said, "because the lifespan of a dancer can be as short as a fruit fly's."
