Page 3 of Vicious Impulses (The Capo and Ballerina)
Darren’s attempts to cheer me up fail. We fall into another moment of silence as I turn my attention to the rest of the beat-up subway car.
The other passengers look as weathered and exhausted as I’m sure I do, with their shabby winter coats and bags under their eyes.
No one in Dresden isreallycomfortable. Ninety-nine percent of the population lives hand to mouth.
The other one percent remains an illusion to most of us—unseen and unreachable, behind gates that divide their part of the city and ours.
I would’ve never fallen into the trap that I have with the Dresden Dance Company had I any other choice; I certainly wouldn’t have signed my life away like I did when I was only just a child.
Friday wouldn’t be amandatoryengagement.
But it can always be worse. I’ve realized that after years locked into my contract with Ignazio and the company.
My body shudders at the thought. Some of the other dancers are better actors than I am. As it turns out, I’m only good at performing on stage. In real life, during face-to-face situations with our “fans,” I’m Ignazio’s worst nightmare.
Darren walks me up the five flights of stairs to my dormitory. The building itself belongs to the Dresden Dance Company and serves as the mandatory housing for its dancers. Another means for us to be under the company’s thumb at all times.
I glance up at the security camera for every flight that we climb, and then again once we reach the fifth-floor landing. The blinking red light seemingly follows us all the way to my door.
I thank Darren for the help before limping inside my dorm and tossing my keys into the empty bowl by the door.
It’s been years since any real repairs have been made. The heat doesn’t work when it should during winter months and it’s not uncommon for water to leak through the ceiling. Any complaints made to Ignazio and the company have gone ignored.
The five-hundred square foot space isn’t much… but it’s mine.
I flop face down onto my bed and let out a groan thinking more about today.
If I were stronger, I would’ve fought through the pain and kept practicing.
Iusedto be better. Faster. More fluid.
I used to dance circles around every person in that studio.
That was before my ankle injury duringLupi Nella Notte. Before Dad fell into trouble and nothing was the same.
I sigh as my eyes close, and I shut out the noise. I focus on my dreams and leave the worrisome thoughts behind.
Before all the bad…
* * *
It seems the next time I’m leaving my bed, it’s Friday evening, and I’m flitting from my closet to the bathroom to get dressed. I’ve done as Ignazio instructed and spent the last two and a half days resting in bed, streaming TV shows and movies, and eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (all I have in my kitchenette). My ankle’s nowhere near its usual strength, but it’s better—I’m able to walk like a semi-normal person.
The special cocktail dress Ignazio had delivered slips over my head, and I take my first glance at myself wearing it in the mirror.
It hugs my body. Tight but not obscene. Short enough to ride my thighs but not short enough to be shocking. The deep wine shade pairs well with my brown skin. I leave my silky, straightened dark hair out like our fans prefer, and then apply a touch of makeup.
Dressing up has never been my thing—definitely not for these kinds of events—but looking in the mirror, I’m aware Ignazio will be pleased.
He lets me know the moment he sees me. His normally scowling face eases up, and he cuts through the mingling crowd to reach me.
“Perfect, you’re here,” he says amid the loud din of conversation. His hand touches the small of my back as he guides me toward a silver-haired man in a suit and shirt that’s halfway unbuttoned. “Mr. Andressi has been waiting to meet thePrincipessaDanzanteof the show herself. He’s very impressed with you.”
I turn what’s an involuntary cringe into a fake smile as Ignazio brings me up to the silver-haired man known as Mr. Andressi. He sports a Rolex and a goatee that’s as silver as his hair up top. His eyes flash with delight at the sight of me.
“Nevaeh Graham. You are even more stunning in person than on stage,” he says, taking my hand for a kiss hello to the back of it.
I blink at him, thrown by the forward greeting. “Err, thank you. I appreciate you supporting our company.”