Project Dance

Chapter 1

"Échappé, and fifth, and échappé, and fifth."

My breath is harsh and labored in my ears as I leap over and over again to Madame Ana's count. Adrenaline courses through my legs as each jump propels me higher into the air.

As the music ends, I put my arms in an elegant en bas position and tilt my head to the side.

"Brilliant, ladies! Class is over."

I catch Madame Ana's eye, and she beckons me over to her with a finger. I jog over to her, the sweat from the class cooling on the back of my neck.

"Celeste, my dear," she says, her pin-straight posture and stern expression compelling me to stand a little straighter, to pull my shoulders back. Her heather-gray eyes assess me sharply.

Frankly, I can't imagine my local ballet studio, Santa Fe Turnout, without her. Madame Ana has been a staple of my burgeoning ballet career for as long as I can remember. An immigrant from Russia, she started out with nothing but her age-old Vaganova technique and years of experience in ballet. She opened Turnout on the corner of Main and 3rd, and now it's a flourishing studio full to the brim with aspiring ballerinas like me, who have been dreaming of a career in dance since we were in diapers.

"Madame Ana," I acknowledge my instructor now, bowing my head filially.

Her heather-gray eyes soften for a second, before sharpening once more as she scans the rest of the room. Some of the girls in my class are looking over at us curiously.

"Come," she says abruptly, turning with a swish of her knee-length character skirt, heels clicking against the floor of the ballet hallway.

A frisson of nerves erupts in my stomach as I follow.. What could Madame Ana have to say to me that requires being out of earshot of the other dancers?

We pass the hallowed pictures of famous choreographers that line the halls, most notably George Balanchine and Marius Petipa.

Entering her office, my ballet mistress flips on the lights and beckons for me to sit on the loveseat at the opposite end of her office.

Shoot. This is her "special" chair, the one we all knew she uses to talk to dancers. I once saw a dancer in one of the younger levels come out of here crying. She had been sitting in The Chair.

I perch on the edge of the loveseat, squirming. "What is it you want to talk about, Madame?" I ask.

She closes the door, her manicured hand resting on it for a beat before she turns her body to me.

"Celeste, we are in trouble. The studio is in trouble."

I cock my head, not sure if I have heard her right. "I don't understand. What do you mean?"

She sighs, kneading her fingers together. "I mean financially. We may not be able to stay open for much longer. Which means that the teaching job you requested with the young ones won't be available anymore. Celeste, I am so sorry."

We may not be able to stay open for much longer.

I swallow. Hard. "But, Madame, that can't be possible. We have so many students. How is it possible Turnout can just go out of business?"

Madame Ana blinks, and with horror I realize that her eyes are bright with tears.

"When I opened Turnout, dear, I never, ever could have imagined how I'd be doing this. Ever since I was young, just a girl back in Russia, I have wanted to open a studio. So when I finally came to America and was able to open this studio... I was beyond happy. But I was also inexperienced, and I thought I knew more about dance management than I actually did. Our cash flow has decreased considerably. The people of our community simply are not sending their daughters to dance classes anymore. We are not getting as much publicity as we used to."

I fist my hands. "No. No, there must be a way to stop this. We can get a loan, we can start a GoFundMe–"

"Oh, Celeste. This is all my fault. I have– I have let you down, and I have let all those girls in the studio down as well. I feel solely responsible."

Tears are burning at the edges of my vision. "No. Of course you're not to blame. How could you say that? You have done so much for Turnout, for me and the rest of the dancers."

She nods once, then wipes her tears away with a hand. "I'm sorry. I've kept you here too long. You must be eager to get home. I don't want to burden you with my– my problems."

"We will figure out a way to get out of this," I say, bunching my mesh dance skirt in my hands anxiously.

"No," Madame Ana shakes her head. "No. It's over. Focus on finding another studio for the last few years of your training. You are extremely talented, Celeste, and full of a passion for dance that I have seen so rarely in all my years of teaching. You can't let that go to waste for a studio that is becoming obsolete."

As much as I want to contradict her, tell her that she's wrong, a small part of my gut agrees with her. And I hate it.

—

"I'm home," I say briskly, dropping my keys into the dish by the door.

The promising aroma of lasagna greets my senses, but I can't find it in myself today to look forward to it.

"What's cooking, Dad?" I yell as I walk into the kitchen. Helene's sitting at the dinner table, her light-haired head bent over an assignment for her Organic Chemistry class that I'm sure she'll finish in a matter of minutes.

She's the model child of the family. Gifted with brains, charm, and a finely tuned talent of sucking up to adults.

I know I should be jealous of her Gifted and Talented ass, but all I feel toward her is affection. We've been practically joined at the hip for years, being only a couple years apart. I would kick anyone's butt for Helene, and she knows it.

Helene started at New Mexico State in August on the pre-med track. I don't see enough of her these days, no matter how often she crashes at our house on the weekends.

Now, I set my bag on the counter, stretching out my sore limbs. I look at my dad, who's donning his signature winning smile.  He's a pharmacist, which means he works long hours. But he always has time to cook dinner for his family.

"Got lasagna in the oven," Dad proclaims, setting the table and weaving around my sister's slumped form at the table.

"Thought so," I say, trying my hardest to smile.

But as always, my dad can tell when Something's Up. "What's going on, Cel?"

I chew on my bottom lip, calculating whether or not Mom will be able to hear me from the next room. I don't need to see her smug expression right now when I say that Turnout is closing.

"You can tell me, you know," Dad says. "Your mom's been tied up in a meeting, if you're worried about her hearing. We can go up to my office, if you want."

I glance at Helene, whose interest has been piqued.

I sigh, deciding to take the safer route. "No, it's fine. I'm fine. Just hungry, I guess."

Both Dad and Helene still look concerned, but they return to their respective duties.

I don't think even the other dancers at Turnout know. Part of me glows with a strange pride that Madame Ana told me before everyone else, even despite the fact that she was obligated to tell me anyway because of my request for a job with Turnout.

Still.

I help my dad set the table, possibilities swirling in my head. I can't just let Turnout close down. There, I nailed my first pirouette, learned my first chasse. If it closes, what will happen to Madame Ana?

What will happen to all of the dancers?

I know that Madame Ana me not to get involved, but I can't just stand by and watch my home away from home become obsolete. 

I am going to do something about it.

WOOHOO! FIRST CHAPTER!! 

second chapter gets juicy...