Perfection - Kitty Thomas Page 0,44

that my mysterious lover, benefactor, and tormentor sits at every performance. But he's not out there. He's not here.

Maybe he's running late. Or maybe he's never here until right before the curtain rises. I don't know; I've never stolen a peek before the show like this before.

Panic surges through me. I need him here. He doesn't make me nervous or distract me. He makes me feel grounded, anchored to this plane of reality. And he's not here. The theater is packed. Whispers of the new and exciting Firebird choreography and the new principal dancer have swept through the city, and probably the larger ballet world as well.

I'm going to die. I cannot do this. Then a hand is in mine. Frederick spins me around to face him. “Hey. You've got this. You'll do great. And I'll be out there with you. Old pro here, remember?” He winks at me, charming as ever.

I nod, managing a weak smile. The orchestra starts warming up. Oh god, I'm going to die.

“Breathe,” Frederick says. “Do you want to run the first part again?”

I shake my head. “It's too late. We don't have time.”

“You know this. It's all in your muscles. Don't think. Just let it happen. You do this every week.”

I do not do this every week. This is very much a different thing from what I've been doing every week. It's a special sort of tragedy that I’m only realizing this now, moments before going onstage.

A few minutes later, the music starts, and I go on. Once I'm out there, the nerves do diminish. I feel the energy of the audience feeding me, supporting each leap and each turn. I relax into the role. I'm no longer Cassia. I am the firebird, and somehow I know everyone in the audience and in the company knows it. If there was a single doubt about me, it's erased in my opening solo. As I move, I feel a heat rise off me as if I'm made of actual flame. It's a living energy, and I’m sure right now that the audience can see this, too.

At the end of my solo, I glance up at the box, and my heart sinks to find it empty. He's not coming, I realize. I fight back the tears that he isn't here to see this. Did I do something wrong? Did something happen? Is he hurt somewhere?

I can't stop the endless chattering in my mind, even as Frederick's promise that my muscles will remember proves true. They don't let me down. Frederick has an introductory solo, and then there’s a piece from the corps.

Then I'm on stage again in my favorite scene in this re-imagined Firebird, the capture. The audience gasps at my blindfold. It wouldn't occur to them that of course I can see through this material. Not well, but I can see enough.

I move easily through my part. I'm nervous again about the leaps. I remember being pushed in the old opera house through grand jetés across the floor, and I'm worried it won't be spectacular enough. It won't be dramatic enough. I won't do this choreography justice. But he isn't in the audience anyway. This performance doesn't have to please him. He won't punish me for any missteps. And I've already won the hearts and minds of everyone who is watching.

But I'm still so hurt. He isn't here to watch me perform his choreography. Why wouldn't he be here?

The music changes, and I feel Frederick behind me. Then his hands are on my waist and the pas de deux begins.

But it isn't Frederick. It's him. I would know his hands on me anywhere. This is not how Frederick dances. The difference in dance partners is absolute and distinct. He guides me through the dance, the blindfold still in place.

The orchestra reaches a crescendo, and he rips the blindfold off and turns me to face him. It's all in the choreography, but it’s also so much more. I see him, and I flinch. I know him. I know who this man is. His dark intense gaze ensnares mine.

I have to fight the gasp, though I don't know why I should. The audience will eat this up, thinking this is some amazing acting ability on my part. He pulls me in toward him and says, “Don't disappoint me, Firebird.” He propels me away from him, launching me in a series of spins and turns.

Then I run. Not off the stage. In the choreography, I run from him. Run