“Such a surprise sometimes,” Lawrence said. “What they have inside them.”
Jackson nodded. Tell me about it. “You know what they say, Lawrence. It’s always the quiet ones.”
“Just so,” he agreed. “And how is she doing with Blake? Good partnership?”
“Yes. They’re finally starting to get comfortable.”
Lawrence paused. “Kristen is making noises about going to another company. Do you think Prosper will expect to move to principal permanently?”
“Don’t you want her to?”
“I don’t know. I hate to lose Kristen, but if you think Prosper is principal material…”
“She’s definitely principal material.” He looked hard at Lawrence. “Is it only her small size that you don’t like?”
“She’s just so serious in her focus.” Lawrence shook his head so his white-gray hair fell into his eyes. “Almost joyless in a way.”
“A small price to pay for perfect dancing,” Jackson said. “When you watch her Firebird, you’ll see.”
Tuesday after class Prosper dawdled, stretching and rubbing her legs.
“Tired from all your prima ballerina dancing?” Glenna teased.
“No,” she said. “Just basically tired.”
And she was tired. Prosper hadn’t been able to sleep last night again, this time not from sexual frustration but from ire. Yes, they’d said no strings, but how dare he just totally ignore her? As if nothing had taken place between them at all? And now she was off to suffer the same indignity again. She was waiting outside the rehearsal room as the other dancers filed in, not quite ready to face Jackson yet, when Blake loped up to her side.
“Prosper. Hey.”
The southern lilt to his voice always surprised her, at odds with his ethnic face. “Hi, Blake.”
She wondered what was going on. Even after weeks of rehearsals, he hadn’t deigned to speak to her outside of short exchanges required by their Firebird parts.
“Company rehearsals today. Excited?”
She shrugged. “I guess.”
“It’s good. When they see what you’re doing, what Jackson’s been doing—”
“They’ve already seen it.” What did he think would change? They’d been watching through the windows for weeks, had already seen Jackson berating her, seen her trying to capture the choreography with debatable success.
“Listen, Prosper, maybe you don’t want to hear this. Maybe you hate me, maybe you don’t want my advice, but I’m going to say it anyway. You’re a talented dancer. You know what you’re doing, and you could very well be a principal soon. You should lighten up a little.”
She moved to leave, but he blocked her and backed her against the wall. She was about to shove him away when she looked to the side and saw Jackson turn and disappear into the rehearsal space. Had he seen Blake cornering her there, leaning in for what could have been a kiss but was only a lecture?
“I mean, you need to learn to network, Prosper. The world of dance is social. Why don’t you try cracking a smile every once in a while?”
“I smile all the time. I’m perfectly happy. But I’m not going to act fake and schmooze and pretend to like your nasty friends.”
“Those friends can get you places—places you can’t get by yourself. Or are you depending on your other friend?” They both knew exactly who he meant. “Do you think he’s going to do anything for you once this is all done? I’m sure this is what he does, over and over. Picks a ballerina he likes. Uses her and loses her. Moves on when the inspiration is gone. You’re not sleeping with him, are you? Jesus, tell me you’re not.”
She looked up at her partner, then pushed him away. “Thanks for your concern and advice, but I don’t really need it. I know what you and your friends think of me. I know what people are saying. I don’t care. All I care about is getting this ballet perfect. So just partner me, Blake, and shut the fuck up.”
Jackson ground his teeth as the dancers began to file in for practice. He was still trying to erase the image of Blake leaning over his Prosper in the hallway. His Prosper. Was she his? Blake was no fool. He too probably sensed that a passionate creature lurked beneath Prosper’s demure exterior. It had been a punch in the gut, seeing them together. For all he knew, they’d been hooking up for weeks. It wasn’t unheard-of. It was quite common, actually, for romance to flower between ballet partners.
He groaned inwardly. No. He could bear not having her, but he couldn’t bear watching Blake paw at her in the halls. No.
They entered separately. He watched them. They didn’t interact like people in a relationship. Of course he and Prosper didn’t interact like people in a relationship either. If Blake and Prosper were together, they’d hide it. The very idea of it filled him with rage, the idea of Blake’s hands all over her perfectly sculpted body, her sensitive flesh.
Focus.
It was the first day of rehearsals with the corps, so they were in the big practice room. Even so it felt crowded. He missed practicing alone with her, although it was easy enough to keep track of her among the other dancers. He just had to look for her hair. They worked on the second act, the frenetic dance when the Firebird drove Kostchei’s minions to dance until they died. In Fokine’s version, they didn’t die but only fell asleep. Jackson decided he wanted Prosper to leave behind a stage full of corpses. By the end of the ninety-minute rehearsal, the corps, who had never worked with Jackson before, feared his awful wrath. Any poor corps dancer who found himself out of step or not paying attention was the victim of a vicious harangue. But he was hardest on Prosper.
“Faster, faster!” He drove her, even when he knew she was doing her best. “Move your feet! You’re supposed to be flying!”
“Okay!”
“No. Like this…” He marked the beats with sharp claps, but she couldn’t match his tempo. He grew more frustrated, pounded the rhythm with his fist in his palm.
“I’m trying!” She fell off pointe and spun on him. “What else do you want from me? I’m giving you my best, everything I have! If it’s not good enough for you—” She threw her arms up and stalked away to lean against the barre.
He blew out his breath and looked around at the corps. All of them watching.
“Okay. Enough for today. Thank you. We’ll pick up here tomorrow.”
The dancers left quickly, not waiting around to socialize or deconstruct the rehearsal with their friends. They scattered like roaches under a spotlight.
All of them but her.
He grabbed his dance book and his bag and headed to the door to find her standing alone there in the corner, glaring at him. It was a private place to stand, a place the other dancers couldn’t see even looking in windows. He closed the door and turned to her.
“Very professional.”
“Right back at you, fucker.”
“Are you seeing him?” he blurted out before he could stop himself.
“Who?” The confusion on her face made the knot inside him relax. She wasn’t capable of subterfuge.
“Blake,” he said anyway. “Tell me the truth.”
“No, of course I’m not seeing him.” She shook her head and turned away, shouldering her dance bag. His hand closed around her arm. “Let go of me,” she said tightly.
He released her and bowed his head to hers. “Okay. For now. But I will touch you eventually. And you won’t be the one giving orders then.” He held himself a body’s width apart from her. “They’re watching, Prosper. Always. You wanted discretion.”
“I know. And I don’t care. I don’t. I don’t have time for this anyway. For you. To see you. So I don’t care—I’m busy, and I’m concentrating on this ballet, so—” She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I mean, whatever. If you’re over it, I don’t care—”