I smiled. “Thank you, again.”
“And we are also very, veryhonored to have you as our daughter because you’re such an inspiration to all the college students who will be heading to the polls in this year’s election—students who have similar dreams and ambitions regarding careers in the arts.”
“What?”
“Did you get all that?” She turned to the reporter behind us who was shutting off his device. “Make sure you use that last part as a sound bite for the next commercial.”
“Seriously?”
“What?” She shrugged. “I meant every word of that, but it’s also good to get it on tape, don’t you think?”
I didn’t bother with a rebuttal.
My father stepped over and hugged me, posing for an unnatural photo-op, but when the photographer walked away he smiled.
“I’m happy for you, Aubrey,” he said. “I think this is where you belong.”
“You’re just saying that because you think me being here means I won’t mess up the campaign at home.”
“No, I knowyou being here means you won’t mess up the campaign at home.” He laughed. “But I’m still happy for you.”
“How reassuring…”
“It’s true,” my mother chimed in. “We’re excited for you.”
“Ladies and gentlemen we are about to begin our show in exactly one hour!” Mr. Ashcroft bellowed. “If you are not a ballerina, a danseur, or a stagehand please find your way off my stage. Now!”
My parents embraced me—holding onto me for a long time. As they pulled back, they took turns kissing my cheek before they walked away.
I adjusted my headband one last time and checked my phone. Sure enough, there was an email. Andrew.
Subject: Good luck.
I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to your first opening night, but I look forward to hearing about it tonight when you call me.
I’m sure you’ll be quite memorable to everyone in the audience.
—Andrew.
PS—I miss you.
Subject: Re: Good luck.
I am not calling you tonight. You should’ve been here. I’ll thinkabout recapping it for you next week.
—Aubrey.
PS—You “missing me” would be a lot more convincing if the subject of the email you sent two hours ago wasn’t “I miss your pussy.”
Subject: Re: Re: Good luck.
I know I should’ve been there. Hence the aforementioned apology.
And you willcall me.
—Andrew
PS—I miss you both.
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Good luck.
I really wanted you to be here…
—Aubrey
I turned off my phone so I wouldn’t have to continue messaging him. I needed to focus.
All the rehearsals and dance lessons I’d taken over the past twenty-two years had brought me to this moment. In thirty-six minutes, my every move would be on display for one of the biggest audiences in the dance world.
It would draw critiques from the staunchest critics—the most advent admirers of ballet, and the papers would run early reviews that could make or break the remaining production run. But right now, in this moment, none of that mattered.
This was my dream, I was finally living it, and I could only make sure I was the best I could possibly be.
“Are you ready, Miss Everhart?” Mr. Ashcroft placed his hands on my shoulders. “Are you ready to show this city that you belong here?”
I nodded. “Very much so, sir.”
“Good, because I’m ready for them to see that, too.” He clapped his hands above his head, signaling the rest of the dancers to circle us.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it is officially opening night,” he said. “You’ve worked hard for months, logged every necessary hour and then some, and I do believe that tonight’s execution of Swan Lakewill be the best execution this audience will ever see.” He paused. “If it isn’t, I’ll make sure you pay for it at tomorrow morning’s rehearsal.”
There were groans. We knew he wasn’t kidding.
“I’ll be sitting in the balcony at center stage, and I will not give you one clap, no inkling of applause, if the show is anything less than perfect. Are we clear?”
“Yes sir.” We collectively murmured, still intimidated by his power.
“Good. Take your places now.” He walked away from us and snapped his fingers. “Make me proud.”
I took my place at center stage and turned my back to the curtain—raising my hands above my head. I heard the orchestra giving their instruments one final tuning, heard the pianist replaying the refrain he missed at this morning’s rehearsal, and then I heard silence.
Ear deafening silence.
The lights in the gallery flickered, slow at first then faster, and everything went black.
Five…Four…Three…Two…
The pianist played the first stanza of the composition and the curtains rose, cueing the spotlight to shine against my back.
The swan corps—twenty ballerinas dressed in complementing white tutus, formed a circle around me, and as they stood on their toes, tilting their heads back, I slowly turned around to face the audience—pausing, taking all of the nameless faces in, and then I became lost in my own world.
I was Odette, The Swan Queen, and I was falling in love with a prince at first sight, dancing with him underneath a glittering orb of lights, telling him he needed to pledge his love for me if he wanted to break my lake’s spell.
The gasps from the audience could be heard over the music, but I kept my focus.
I seamlessly transitioned from the white, sweet swan who wanted nothing more than to fall in love, into the black, evil swan—Odile, who wanted nothing more than to prevent it from happening.
I illustrated love, heartbreak, and devastation over the course of two hours, never stopping to catch my breath, never missing a beat.
In the final frame, where the love of my life vows to die with me instead of honoring his mistaken promise to the black swan, I can’t help but deviate from the choreography.
Instead of taking his hand and letting him lead me into the “water,” I leapt into his arms—letting him hold me high for all the other swans to see. And then the two of us spun into oblivion—“dying” together.
The music began its decrescendo—half-somber, half-light, and the lights shut off—leaving nothing. Ending everything with blackness.
And silence.
All of a sudden, a raucous applause arose from the audience and a collection of cheers—“Bravo!” “Encore!” “Bravissimo!” echoed off the walls.
The stage lights brightened and I took a bow, looking out into a sea of well-entertained faces: Mr. Petrova was front and center, nodding as he clapped, mouthing, “Good job, good job.” My mother was wiping a tear from her eye and looking up at my father, saying, “That’s our daughter.” Even Mr. Ashcroft, still stone faced, was standing and applauding, stopping once his eyes met mine.
“Bravo.” He mouthed before turning away.
I kept a smile plastered on my face as I scanned the room, looking for the one person I wanted—the one person I neededto see, but he wasn’t there.
“Thank you ladies and gentlemen for attending our opening night,” one of the directors said as she took the stage. “Per our opening night tradition, we will now introduce the members of our corps to you…”
I tried to focus on the introductions, tried to focus on someone else other than Andrew, but as I was lifting my head up from another bow, I saw him.
He was there in the front row, in the last seat on the left. He was looking at me and smiling, mouthing, “Congratulations.”
“And last but not least, our leading lady of the night and a new principle dancer here at NYCB—Aubrey Everhart!” The director said into the mic, and the audience cheered loudly.
“Miss Everhart?” She nudged me, whispering, “Miss Everhart, you need to take your final bow and leave the stage…”