a principal. I mean, why would he spend this money? What is this guy's game?
“On Wednesdays, before you come to me, I want you to take a bath. Use this oil, rose petals, and candles, and just relax until the heat leaves the water. I’ll know if you use the oil by scent and the way your skin feels, but I can't know if you'll do the rest. It will be up to you whether you decide it's worth trying to lie to me, or just obey my orders even when I'm not there.”
Another long breath escapes me. It feels like a million years ago that I was crying, worrying about poisoned lasagna. “Why are you doing this?”
“Does it matter at this point? You are dismissed until Wednesday. When you go out into the lobby, you'll find a key on the counter of the concession stand. Use it to unlock the side door and lock it behind you when you come in each week. We don't want to be disturbed, do we?”
I sit, stunned. I still don't know what he wants from me. Specifically what he wants, I mean. I have some ideas, and I'm scared but maybe not as scared as I should be.
Padded wall. Nice calm view of a tree.
“H-how long?” I ask.
“As long as I want. Until I'm done with you.”
“And then what?”
“Then nothing.”
“You won't report me?”
“If you obey me? No.”
“What will you...”
Before I can figure out how to phrase my question, he says, “No more questions. Go home, Ms. Lane. I'll see you Wednesday night at nine.”
The spotlight shuts off, and I'm left in darkness. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust, but when they do, I see the darkness isn't total. There are red glowing exit signs, and the floor guide lights, and a few other small out-of-the-way lights I didn't notice before under the overpowering glare of the spotlight. It's just enough for me to see the outline of my things on the stage floor. I gather them up, stuff them in my bag, and leave as quickly as I can, afraid every second that he will grab me, that he will touch me now that his identity is shielded by so much darkness.
But nothing happens. I barely have the presence of mind to grab the gleaming gold-colored key on the concession stand counter on my way through the lobby. The metal side door clangs and a gust of cool air hits me when I step outside. I run full-out to my car, lock myself inside, and get the fuck out of there.
3
It's Tuesday night, and I'm exhausted. Part of it is rehearsals. Part of it is the emotional drain of what I did the other night, accompanied by last night's introduction to my blackmailer and jailer. It's putting a lot of extra strain on me, and I'm pretty sure I didn't get more than four hours’ sleep last night.
I spent all day today at rehearsal trying to figure out who this guy is. The principal dancers cluster together and keep to themselves, but I need to know if one of the male principals is my blackmailer. Or is it one of the instructors or choreographers? It's not Mr. V. Obviously. I know his voice. And this guy is younger.
All day I wondered if my blackmailer was right in front of me, quietly mocking me.
Henry pops in a DVD, pulling me from my thoughts. The movie starts. We're sitting in my living room: Me, Henry, and Melinda.
“Oh God, no, not this one again. I hate this one!” I whine.
“Nope, you have to. It's the start of the season, and we have to watch this movie. It's the ballet movie we all love to hate. It is our forever frenemy,” he says.
“It's like a hate fuck,” I say.
“YES!” Henry exclaims, shoving a bowl of popcorn onto my lap. “You hate it, but at the same time, it's so good.”
I know he brought the DVD to make us watch the bonus features. We're about halfway through the movie when Melinda says “I fucking hate her mother. What is wrong with this woman?”
“Oh, I know!” Henry says.
“Cue fragile emotional meltdown and stereotype of the uptight repressed ballerina,” Melinda says, sounding dramatic and distressed.
“Drink!” I say. Because we all drink every time this girl has some meltdown. “Where does that myth even come from? Like bitch, please, try living one day in my life and tell me ballerinas are these delicate fragile flowers about to fall