I’d been in The Nutcracker every year since I started dancing, working my way from Candy Cane to Mouse to Party Scene Girl and finally Clara, the lead, which I’d danced for two years in a row. I knew this music like I knew nothing else. And what’s more, I could hear my steps in them, hear Miss Felicity, the head of my dance school, counting them out—and one and two and give your hand and five and six and then we turn.… I hadn’t realized I’d still know them, that they’d been there this whole time. That note meant a pas de bourrée. That one meant a relevé, two jumps and a pirouette.…
“This is impressive.”
I turned to look at Cary—I hadn’t realized I’d started to move. I was just half doing the steps, mostly marking them. “It’s The Nutcracker,” I explained, nodding to where the music was coming from. “I did it every year. I guess I still know my steps.”
“I guess so,” said Cary, sounding awed. “I know you said something about being a dancer, but I didn’t think…”
“No,” I said, even though as I said it I stepped back into a wide, Balanchine fifth and did a pirouette. It was rusty, but I landed it. I turned to face Cary. “I used to be. But…”
“But what?”
“I wasn’t good enough,” I said bluntly, wondering why this still hurt after four years. “I wasn’t going to be able to do it professionally. So I… quit.” Hearing this out loud, I remembered what Stevie had said to me on the subway platform. That it was always all or nothing with me. And in this case, it had been true—when I couldn’t dance at the highest level, I had thrown myself into the next thing. Into theater.
“You still seem really good,” Cary said. “Do you miss it?”
Even two hours ago I would have laughed this off, said absolutely not, and meant it. But now I was suddenly thinking about what Cary had said about grape soda and kickball, back in the bodega. About pushing away things we loved when we were younger, for no reason. And the idea that maybe you didn’t have to.
“Yeah,” I said, hearing the surprise in my voice. “I do.”
There was a crescendo in the music—the moment that signaled my solo, and without even knowing I was going to, I was bending backward, sweeping my arm overhead, and starting to dance it full-out.
The room spun all around me as I moved across it, taking up space, and as I danced—as I jumped and turned and balanced on one leg, as I gave myself over to it, I felt the freedom I’d only ever really felt while dancing, the moment when you’re not even thinking about the steps—you’re just moving. I did a double pirouette and a quick jump. I could hear the steps in my head—extend your hand and yes I will…
I came to a stop in B plus, one leg tucked behind the other, my arm extended.
“What?” Cary asked, after a moment, taking a step over to me. “Why did you stop? That was great.”
“It’s—” I was catching my breath and coming back to myself, back to the moment. I knew I should probably be embarrassed, to be dancing in my socks in a yoga studio, but I wasn’t, somehow. “That was when the pas de deux started—when my partner came in.” I lowered my arm.
“What did he do?” Cary asked. He walked slowly across the studio to me, his eyes on mine.
“Not that much,” I said, not looking away. My heart was pounding, and I knew it wasn’t just from the jumps. “A turn and then a lift.”
“Want me to try?” He closed the distance between us and held out his hand to me, one eyebrow raised slightly.
I placed my hand in his, our fingers fitting together, his thumb rubbing a slow circle on my palm, sending a shower of sparks exploding through me. “So it’s just a turn,” I said as Cary raised his arm and I spun under it, then extended my leg into an arabesque, feeling his hand gripping mine, steady, supporting me. “And then—a lift that turns…”
He put his hands on either side of my waist and lifted me up, and began to walk slowly in a circle, like he had done this a thousand times before, a natural Nutcracker prince. And I caught a glimpse of us in the mirror, Cary in his