Instead of losing my shit right there, I took another breath. There it was again, that urge to resort to violence, but not, I was certain, for the reasons he thought. He was under the impression that I was afraid of him pushing me out, making my presence obsolete at the company. But for starters, I had offers every day, flooding my inbox. I should begin my freelance career, people said, or simply travel and accept the myriad invitations to dance in Paris and London, New York and Madrid, Buenos Aires and Los Angeles. It would be so much more fun than being a principal in one place. And besides, what kept me in Chicago?
But the fact was I loved the city. I always had a million things to do and see, eat and enjoy. Most of all, though, without question, was the tether of Eli and his mother. Coupled with that was the fact that Delon Mitchener, Artistic Director of the CBC, loved me. He didn’t want me going anywhere. So while I could admit to being annoyed that Senan Weaver was there and being made much of, I wasn’t afraid of either him or his presence.
“In fact,” Senan said, raising his voice so everyone in the practice studio could hear, “Lincoln isn’t sure that any of you are ready to dance in his piece.”
Glancing around the room, the death glares directed at Senan were obvious. Maven gave me the blowjob motion just to emphasize that Lincoln and Senan were fuckbuddies.
I knew. Everyone knew.
We hadfour male principals at the CBC already, so the decision to bring in Senan Weaver as a principal—he was a soloist in San Francisco but was immediately promoted when he arrived in Chicago—had struck me, and the other members of the company, as odd. The CBC was big, but between me and Brian Fujimoto, Marc Sanchez, and Akim Gorev, we were full. We had all the male principals we could carry. I had thought, if we got another, it would be Katan Touzie from Vancouver, someone I had worked with on several occasions while dancing overseas. Delon had hinted that he would have Katan come dance with us this coming fall, but then, out of the blue, there was Senan Weaver, who wasn’t on anybody’s radar.
“Who?”Maven had asked me over drinks when I told her the name.
I shrugged.“He’s from San Francisco.”
“Yes, but who is he?”
I thought, just like all of us had, that he had to be great. He had to be the second coming of Baryshnikov for a soloist to be made principal without putting in the work. It hadn’t happened for any of the rest of us, so the only answer could be that he was brilliant.
“He’s fucking somebody,”Brian had stated the day Senan arrived.
We’d both tried to be welcoming, but Senan didn’t even want to shake our hands, and he declined being introduced around the company or to be taken out to dinner.
“Who doesn’t shake hands?”Maven had asked me.
“We live in the time of Covid,”I replied, making excuses for him.“He doesn’t have to shake.”And it was true. Lots of people didn’t shake anymore, but they did bump elbows or something to make connection.“You can’t blame him.”
She’d shrugged and let it go, not caring enough to pursue the matter.
“Maybe it’s a gay thing,”I’d suggested to Brian when we were taking a water break.
Brian had looked at me like I was nuts.“He’s gay too, just like us. That’s not the problem.”
Unsure, I waited until Marc and Akim gave it a go, both of them straight, to test my theory. But Senan was icy to them as well.
“He’s a dick,”Marc was quick to point out.
“Who is he fuckin’ that he made principal as soon as he showed up here?”Akim had wanted to know, glaring after Senan.
We found out when Lincoln Palmer appeared at practice two months later, a choreographer whom Delon Mitchener had been trying to get to come to Chicago for years. Lincoln Palmer was a known talent who drew crowds for his work, and Senan was his favorite dancer—and, we found out quickly, his lover. It all made sense then. Of course the CBC took a soloist from San Francisco and made him the new face of the company to secure a show by Lincoln Palmer. The new billboards and print ads went up all over the city. Everywhere I looked, all I saw was Senan Weaver.
I’d been anxious, we all were, and not that we would lose our places, but that we wouldn’t get spots in the show, in the Lincoln Palmer show, that we would normally have. And while it wouldn’t be the end of the world, the rest of us would need to explain to fans, reporters, peers, without sounding like we were making excuses—he’s sleeping with the boss—why we hadn’t been cast. All that disappeared, however, when we’d seen him dance. Live. Performing. Up close.
During practice, and in the videos we’d all watched and studied, his technique was flawless, and we’d been focused on what he could do and nothing more. Watching him with just the audience of those of us in the company, I’d thought, who cares if he’s wooden? He’s concentrating on getting the choreography down. And while Nura and other teachers said things to him like,Smile, you’re supposed to be enchanted, orWhere is the anger, none of us thought anything about it. Surely he would take their notes and fix it for the performance.
But the night of the first show, in front of a packed house, me and everyone else were in for a revelation. Yes, again, he had perfect form. Yes, he could jump to the ceiling. And goodness yes, as I’d heard from the girls and boys in the corps, he was big and strong and tall and could sweep everyone right up off their feet and hold them high in the air like he was ready to top a Christmas tree with any one of them. But what he didn’t have, and glaringly so, was a face.
People not in the ballet wouldn’t understand. Anyone who was would understand immediately what I meant.
“Wow,”Brian whispered as he stood beside me in the wings of the Auditorium Theatre and watched Senan move across the stage duringLa Sylphide.“Do you think it’s Botox or something? Is that why his face is frozen?”
It wasn’t that, and I knew better, and I tried so hard in that moment not to gloat.
“Maybe somebody should tell him that all those things he was told during practice, he should be doing them now.”
Leaning in close, my lips next to Brian’s ear, being respectful of those onstage, I almost purred.“We’ve all been looking at his form, Bri, his feet, being impressed with the height of his leaps, and we all forgot to look at his fuckin’ face.”
“What?”he asked under his breath, not turning to me, instead staring at Senan with a mix of confusion and horror no one could miss. He was so obvious that Maven, on the other side, in the wings as well, was holding up her hands and mouthing the words:What’s wrong?