“Yes,” she snapped at me, passing me a bottle of mint-infused water she picked up on her way in every morning. We traded things, and I liked it. I liked her. I was close to inviting her out for dinner or a movie. She seemed a bit out of her depth in the city, but she was from LA. I wondered if I had it wrong. Los Angeles was nothing to scoff at. Like New York. If you could make it there, as the song went.
The morning session was brutal. Nura Karimi, our ballet mistress, worked us hard, but I was surprised, as was everyone, that we’d stopped rehearsal on the new piece that was set to debut in June to end our season. Normally it was earlier, and the off-season was May, June, and July, but it was different this year, as we’d made room in our schedule for a visiting choreographer.
But once we were changed out of our sweat-sopping clothes and were ready for barre class, I’d gone in and there was Senan Weaver, in my spot. The entire company knew where my place at the barre was. And it wasn’t like no one else could be there when I wasn’t in class or working out, but when I was, it was understood that it was mine. The spot was spoken for, had been for the past three years. I had to be able to see my side and front at the same time. It was critical to check my posture and alignment and to be able to self-correct both at a moment’s notice. I could do that in only one place in the room because of the placement of the mirrors, and God help me, Senan was there.
He knew better. Everyone did.
“Why,” Zoey whined from beside me. “Just to be an ass?”
“Clearly,” I muttered.
“How ’bout I go remind him that he’s being a dickface and needs to move?”
Zoey liked everyone, and as far as I could tell, everyone adored her. She was like a sweet, sassy little bunny who wasn’t taking any shit. But even she despised Senan.
“I’ll just ask him nicely to move,” I said softly, starting across the floor to him.
“Don’t ask nicely,” she called after me.
Senan Weaver, who’d been hired as a principal six months ago, moving from San Francisco, had been a total prick from day one. I’d been quiet and noncombative and told others to give him some slack, not because I was a pushover, but because I wanted harmony. Plus, I told myself, he was new to the company and the city and was getting his bearings. But he never let up on the derogatory comments for everyone, his default setting was arrogance, and worst of all, in my opinion, was that he stole drinks out of the communal refrigerator. When we were all suddenly writing our names on things like we were back in third grade, I had mentioned to him that maybe he could remember to bring his own water.
“Who cares?”His tone had been snide, and I’d really wanted to punch him in his stupid smug face. I was fairly certain it would be worth my job.
But now he was not only in my space, being his normal douchey self, but he was standing in my spot. Normally, he didn’t show up early. He came in toward the last hour of warm-up. Perhaps he felt he needed more work after I showed him up duringRomeo and Juliettwo weeks prior. That would have been nice to think, that I’d made a chink in his armor, but I was certain that in his deluded mind, he was perfect.
“Good morning,” I greeted him when I was close enough.
He always looked like he was scowling. He had beady little eyes that were perpetually narrowed. Eli hadn’t believed me, thought I was being mean, but then he met Senan, and afterward agreed with me that yes,beadywas the appropriate term.
“Good morning,” I tried again because he’d ignored me the first time. “While I’m sure your alien leaders didn’t explain this to you, it’s customary, here on Earth, to return a greeting when you’re given one.”
“Harrington,” he replied with that tone he had, the condescending one that went straight up my spine to the back of my neck, tightening the muscles there.
“You’re in my spot,” I said, trying for a lightness I didn’t feel.
“I don’t see your name here on the barre.”
The answer was so petty, so schoolyard, that it was hard to wrap my brain around. Why did he have to be a dick about something so insignificant? Why not be respectful of my space? I could own that it was a preference on my end as well, a want, not a need, but I had an actual reason for it being my spot for the betterment of my dancing, and I’d been practicing in it for three years. More importantly, everyone knew that. It hit me in that moment that he did too.
“You know that’s where I practice, so I would appreciate it if you moved.”
He scoffed. “Please. It’s a space on the floor. One can’t be any better than another.”
I took a breath. “Then if it’s not, and you’re agreeing that it’s not, would you please move?”
It was like being back in elementary school. I saw myself getting there earlier and earlier each day until I was camped out the night before to make certain I got first dibs each morning on my spot.
“I talked to Lincoln last night,” he said instead of answering my question, “and his thinking has changed about your part in the deconstruction piece.”
My first instinct was to yell. The second, to certainly hit him, and what was crazy about me thinking about this, again, was that normally, I was not a violent person. I was a loud person, there was no denying that, and everyone, across the board, thought it was important that I never get behind the wheel of a car, but violence was not my usual second, third, or even tenth step. The fact that every muscle in my body tensed in rage, ready for attack, made me take a purposeful step back so I could breathe.
There wasn’t enough money in the world to get me to react to him. I was certain that the visiting choreographer, Lincoln Palmer—here putting us first through the paces ofSwan Lake, making sure we knew the ballet back and forth, before he broke it down and morphed it into something new—was not above changing my part or taking me out of the production altogether. It was no secret that he and Senan were…something. And the fact of the matter was, if you slept with the man in charge, chances were you were going to get what you wanted.
“And what part am I to play now?”
Senan stopped moving, let go of the barre, and faced me. He was tall for a dancer, six feet, and then, of course, there was the hair to consider. Whereas my hair was long, hitting my shoulders, his was high. It added more inches, and I always wondered what kind of product and how much blow-drying was needed every morning to make it sit like a poofy helmet on top of his head all day. It was done to exaggerate the height difference, I knew that, but still…odd.
“He’s not certain there is a part for you,” he replied snidely.