Kayla changed in the single stall of the bathroom after class. She stripped off her tights and leotard, pulled the elastic and bobby pins out of her hair, and screwed in a second pair of earrings. She wore a faded concert t-shirt, torn up jeans, and six gaudy silver rings. Home-dyed violet and magenta streaks were braided into her thin black hair, which fell to her waist.
She jogged down the stairwell and out into the street, stuffing her hands into her coat pockets. The wind nipped at her nose and ears, and blew snowflakes into wet bars of slush on the sidewalk.
She passed allies with overflowing dumpsters, three old lady boutiques, and an Indian restaurant that smelled like curry and flower blossoms. A few minutes later, she was digging in her gym bag for the house key as she shivered on the front step.
The house was empty, and the jingle of her key ring echoed through the front hall. Kayla ran up the steps to her bedroom and her blank canvas. She sat down and painted, a yellow stoplight dangling in the wind.
The next week, Kayla’s ballet class was practicing assemblés to Beethoven as Ms. Duvay counted the beats, her chin resting on her fingertips while she critiqued the girls.
Ms. Duvay had selected this step for today’s lesson because Kayla had developed incorrect habits associated with it. Her tendu was always too short in order to give her an extra lift for the jump. However, that meant that her feet never landed at the same time.
“Class,” Ms. Duvay said, “Remember that the second step must be exact. Otherwise your feet will not be synchronized for the final plie.”
Kayla lengthened her tendu, but spent an extra half count on the step. She was behind on the third and fourth components.
“That’s enough for today, ladies. I think you’ve gotten the idea.”
An hour later, Ms. Duvay returned to the studio to retrieve a forgotten cassette tape of Beethoven and found Kayla, still practicing her assemblés.
“Kayla? What are you doing?”
Kayla looked up, red-faced and sheepish. Ms. Duvay could see the grimy, red sweat on her arms and the back of her neck in the mirrors. “Trying to keep the steps with the beat.”
“Have you been here this whole time?”
“Yes.”
“Kayla! Go home. I’m sure you have schoolwork.”
Ms. Duvay could see from Kayla’s slumped spine, her dangling arms that she had stayed for more than the miscounted assemblé.
“Why are you here, Kayla?”
She returned to the fifth position and tendued, her toe in a circle of spotlight.
“If I can’t even do an assemblé, how can I get into that camp next fall?”
Ms. Duvay closed her eyes for a moment, composing herself, and took a deep breath.
“Kayla, please sit down.”
Kayla sat, her eyes round and shining, like mirrors.
“I-I think… Perhaps you ought to… Evaluate. That camp… It would change you, and not for the better. What I’m trying to say is, this isn’t an easy career. Almost nobody makes it. I think you need to realize that maybe it’s time to consider other possibilities. I know you love ballet. I don’t want you to stop. But maybe it shouldn’t come before your future.”
Ms. Duvay looked at the ceiling, as if for inspiration. She spread her arms wide and took another breath.
“I think you should start doing your homework before you come. And don’t think I don’t know that you aren’t. Eat dessert once in a while. Sleep over at a friend’s a couple times a month.”
Kayla’s face hadn’t changed since Ms. Duvay began. When she finished, Kayla took a shallow breath and looked around at the ground, at her empty palms, as if she could read her mistakes on the floorboards and correct them there. Then she got up, holding her gym bag over her stomach in crossed arms. She walked past Ms. Duvay and out the door, eyes threatening to spill over.
Kayla ran all the way home. Her breath puffed out in plumes of white steam as she jogged away from the studio and Ms. Duvay. The neon signs in shop windows, the trees along the river, and the people passing by all blurred beneath unshed tears.
Locked in her bedroom and still in her leotard and tights, Kayla tore an old canvas from her easle and replaced it with a fresh one. She picked up her paintbrush, dipped it in a glob of red oil, and sat, the brush poised a foot from the canvas. A drop of paint fell onto her leotard, ruining its smooth, perfect surface. Kayla dropped the brush in her bucket, and smeared the paint out with her finger, at first slowly, then faster.
She stripped off the leotard and painted in her underwear, obscuring the stainless dark surface with permanent, waterproof color. After ten minutes, the leotard was covered in red and blue swirls, perverse caricatures of buns and silk slippers, of Mozart CDs and camp brochures in purple and gray. She colored bobble-headed ballerinas green with bloody red splotches. She painted until she couldn’t paint anymore, and then she washed out her brushes and slept soundly, the leotard hanging over her desk chair to dry.
Months passed. Soft green leaves began to grow out of the cold, bare branches of trees. The sun grew warmer, the days longer. Crocuses sprouted under the maple trees in Kayla’s front yard. Their flowers were still closed up in tight, dark buds.
Kayla rode in her mother’s car to the ballet studio. She wore an old pair of jeans, a tie-dyed tank top, and a pair of converse with Sharpie doodles all over the canvas and rubber. Her hair was down, frizzy, and paint streaked. As she walked up the stairs to the studio, she clasped her mother’s hand in her fingers.
Ms. Duvay was in the midst of fifteen waist-high elementary schoolers tumbling through the five positions. The spotlights seemed lighter than Kayla remembered. The music was softer. One boy, in a collared shirt and tight black pants, went straight from first position to fourth. Kayla giggled in her throat. Kayla’s mother watched the children and smiled. Kayla realized that the last time her mother had come to a class, she had been about that age. Smiling, she squeezed her hand.
“I’m going to go talk to Ms. Duvay,” she said.
“Okay, honey,” her mother said, kissing her Kayla’s hair. She made a face at the oils caught between the strands, and sat down with the other mothers.
Kayla walked to Ms. Duvay as she corrected the boy.
“Your positions are great Kyle, but you have to go from first to second, not fourth.”
Ms. Duvay turned and smiled. She looked Kayla up and down.
“Long time no see,” she said.
“I’ve been pretty busy,” said Kayla, hooking her long hair behind her ears. Out of habit, her feet began to shift back and forth.
“With what?”
“Painting, friends, eating dessert,” she said, risking half a smile. Ms. Duvay laughed.
“Do you dance at all?”
“Sometimes, in my basement. It’s pretty quiet. When I need a break from things, and I’ve run out of paint.”
Ms. Duvay nodded.
“I’ve been fixing my assemblés,” Kayla said.
“How are they coming?”
Kayla demonstrated an exemplary motion. Only she and Ms. Duvay knew that the second and third steps were a few tenths of a second behind.
“It still needs work,” Kayla said, “But I’m getting there.”
“I’d say your progress is lovely,” said Ms. Duvay.
Kayla turned to look back at her mother, who smiled. Kayla’s mother blew her a kiss, and she waved back before she looked up at Ms. Duvay.
“We’re on our way to the airport, actually. Visiting my grandparents in Boston for a few weeks.”
“Sounds fun,” Ms. Duvay said, “You should probably get going.”
“Yeah. I just wanted to say bye.”
She closed her eyes, and took a deep breath, composing.
“And thank you.”
They didn’t air kiss, hug, or shake hands. They didn’t cry, or laugh, or dance. They smiled and looked around at the clumsy children.
Kayla turned to her mother and took her hand. They walked to the door, and her mother continued through it to the lobby. Kayla stopped, faced Ms. Duvay. She smiled for a moment, a nervous sort of twinge, but assured and beautiful at the same time. Ms. Duvay nodded and blinked a few times, her face turned to the floor. Kayla turned and walked away, closing the door behind her. By the time Ms. Duvay looked up, she was gone.
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