You're So Sweet (5 page)

“Oh, okay,” said Kaitlyn quickly. She shoved her hairpins and hairnet into her bag and went to go upstairs.

“Don't you have a private today with Mr. Moretti?” Alexandra asked.

“Uh …” Kaitlyn stood in the door way, quickly thinking. “Yeah. But he didn't know, because Gabriel didn't tell him, so he couldn't coach me today. I have a private with him next week.”

“Oh.” Alexandra leaned over the sink, adding another layer of eyeliner.

“Who is coaching you for competition?” Kaitlyn asked.

Alexandra grinned. “Mr. Demidovski,” she said. “He's coaching me and Tristan for our
pas de deux
, and then maybe a bit for our solos. I'm going to ask Mr. Yu to coach the rest of my solos.”

“Mr. Yu?” Kaitlyn said, raising her eyebrows. “Really? Not Mr. Moretti?”

“Why would I ask Mr. Moretti to coach me?” Alexandra asked, staring at her. Kaitlyn stepped a bit backwards. Alexandra's eyes were a bit intimidating at times. “He doesn't like me, and I don't consider him a good teacher.”

Kaitlyn shrugged. “Um, I dunno … bye, see ya tomorrow.” She turned and hurried up the stairs. She paused for a second outside of the office door, straightening her shirt. She walked in. For once, only Mrs. Demidovski was in the office. She was sitting in the only leather comfy chair in the office, and she looked up as Kaitlyn walked in. “Kailey.”

“Kaitlyn,” Kaitlyn corrected automatically.

“Ah, yes,” said Mrs. Demidovski. “Sit down.”

Kaitlyn sat.

“Mrs. Demidovski had a talk with your mother,” Mrs. Demidovski said, gazing sternly at Kaitlyn, her black eyes fixed on her face.

Kaitlyn looked at her questioningly, trying to look like she had no idea what Mrs. Demidovski was talking about.

“About June performance?”

“Oh, yeah,” Kaitlyn said uncomfortably. “She said something about that.”

“Cannot have a Swanhilda that is too much fat,” Mrs. Demidovski disgustedly. “Cannot be so. Swanhilda is a beautiful girl. That is why Franz falls in love with her.”

Kaitlyn nodded quickly.

“Must lose some weight. Must be slim, slim like a strong stick. Yes?”

“Yes.”

“For competition also it must be this way.”

Kaitlyn nodded.

“Come here.” Kaitlyn followed Mrs. Demidovski to a large wooden desk and dug around. She pulled out a small black-and-white photo and handed it to Kaitlyn. It was of an extremely skinny little girl in a white ballet dress. She was balanced
en pointe
, a small smile on her face and her arms reaching upwards in open fifth position. Her eyes were shining, and intense. “That is Mrs. Demidovski when I was younger. Not have stomach.” Mrs. Demidovski laughed, patting her current rather round stomach. She took the photograph from Kaitlyn and nodded for her to sit down.

“When I was very young, eight, nine, I go to school for ballet,” Mrs. Demidovski said. “I have to go away from my family. It was very hard. I missed my mother, my father, the food. But it made me strong.” She looked at Kaitlyn, checking that she understood before she continued. “I was very young, I felt very homesick, sad. But then I told myself I must be good. More, I must be the best. Better than all the other girls. Every time I did the exercise, every time rehearse, I say, must be better! If is
adage,
I think, must be highest! Must be straightest! Must be most beautiful.”

Kaitlyn nodded. She had never really pictured Mrs. Demidovski as a girl before, but now she thought that Mrs. Demidovski must have been just as scary back then as she was now.

“You too must be like this,” Mrs. Demidovski said earnestly, grabbing her by the shoulder. “I see you dance, and I think — there is talent, yes. And the body, some problems, but can fix with diet. But where is the joy? Where is the love? Where is the passion to be best?”

Kaitlyn looked down, biting her lip.
I
do
like dancing,
she thought to herself.
I
do
want to be the best.

“You work. You improve. Eat little, take some calcium. Don't listen to your mother, don't talk to her. I am your mother. Mrs. Demidovski is your mother here, yes?”

Kaitlyn looked at her, a little bit confused, and nodded.

“Okay. Go, go home, go to sleep. Must sleep.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Demidovski.” Kaitlyn left the office and stood in the hallway for a moment, confused. Taylor was talking to Keiko in the corner of the hallway as she straightened her hair in front of the mirrors, and they were both bent over giggling. Kaitlyn walked over to sit with them as she waited for her mom to come and pick her up.

Keiko was talking about Kageki. “So my mom, my stupid mom, she meets Kageki while he is visiting Tokyo in Christmastime, right?”

“Yes?” Taylor's eyes widened. “She doesn't not like Kageki, does she?”

“No, no,” Keiko assured her. “He came, and she was very polite, very nice to him. Then she says, ‘Is he your boyfriend?'”

“Omigod, what?” Taylor began to laugh. “Owww …” She had accidentally pressed too close to her scalp with her hair straightener and burned herself. “Seriously, you and Kageki?”

“Yes!” Keiko continued, pleased that Taylor understood the seriousness of the situation. “I know! So ridiculous. Why are parents so strange?”

Kaitlyn laughed, and Taylor and Keiko turned around, noticing her for the first time. “See you guys later,” Kaitlyn said awkwardly, seeing her mother walk toward the academy doors. She picked up her bag and walked to meet her.

“Ja mata nee!”
Taylor called after her in a squeaky voice. Taylor and Keiko collapsed into giggles. Kaitlyn kept walking toward her mother, hoping that meant
goodbye
in Japanese. She thought it did, but she didn't know why goodbye was funny.

As they pulled into the driveway, Kaitlyn's mother finally spoke. “I put something up in your room.”

“What is it?” Cecelia didn't answer, so Kaitlyn walked slowly up the stairs with her bag. Her legs ached. She opened the door of her room: nothing looked different — she walked over to her bed and set the bag down on the bed. And saw the other side of her bedroom door.

“Are you serious?” Kaitlyn said aloud. Her mother had pinned up a chart, ready to be filled in. One column was headed with the title
Date
, and the other had
Weight.

“It's good to visualize your progress,” Cecelia explained, opening the door and coming in. “Here.” She handed Kaitlyn a scale. “I got you a new one, it's for your room.”

“Uh, thank you?”

“You could try to be a little more grateful! I'm going to a lot of trouble for you, you know. Most mothers wouldn't bother. And you're old enough that I shouldn't have to.”

I don't want you to.

“You know this isn't my fault. You can't blame me for this.”

Kaitlyn didn't answer her, and Cecelia sighed. “Fine. Just tell me, are you actually going to try?”

Kaitlyn nodded.

“Good. That's my girl. I love you, sweetie.” Cecelia walked out the door, closing it behind her.

Great.
Kaitlyn shoved the scale angrily under her bed and thought. Well, if she lost, like, two pounds a day, she could probably get it over with soon. That would be better than dragging it out. She quickly shed her jacket and stood on the scale, holding her breath.
Oh, geez
. She tried without her clothes on — only a half pound difference. This was so, so not okay. She sat down at her computer and Googled a BMI calculator, quickly completing it. So — probably she could lose like fifteen pounds. Yes, that would look good …

As she crawled into bed that night and turned off the light, she lay there for a while, awake and thinking. She wondered if Mrs. Demidovski had ever not wanted to be a ballet dancer. If she had ever wanted to be something else. She decided probably not: she couldn't have been Mrs. Demidovski if she had ever wanted to be anything else.
I will do this,
she decided firmly.
I will lose weight, and I will work really hard in my privates, and then they will probably give me Swanhilda again.
She rolled over and fell into a dreamless sleep.

Taylor Smaylor Audley

Spring Semanar tommorow, yeeeeeeeeesssss

Taylor woke up gingerly, stretching out before she sat up, her head dizzy. Her stomach was completely empty, and as she stood up she could feel her legs shake a little. It was the first day of Spring Seminar. This was going to be great, she could feel it now. Last year had sucked, because she had been one of the worst, but she was sure she was going to be good this year. She had been working so hard, and even Mrs. Castillo had said she had gotten “a leetle bit better, yes? Leetle bit improve, need to be more, more quickly improve.”

“Taylor?”

Taylor ignored her sister, busy cracking her back, her neck, her hips, and the arches of her feet.
Ah, that feels better.

Alison came and sat on her bed, swinging her short, muscular gymnast legs off the side. Taylor had gotten the slim, tall body of her mother, but Alison was the spitting image of her father, down to the dark hair and high cheekbones, so different from Taylor's blond hair and small, round face. “What's that?” Alison asked, curious. She pointed at Taylor's chest where a sticker was stuck.

“Oops!” Taylor giggled. “I've still got it on my boob!” She peeled off a sticker with a picture of a marijuana leaf on it. “I was at this party last night, and all the guys were, like, giving out stickers to all the hot girls, so I stuck it on my boob, 'cause they were, like, only giving them to the ones they thought were hot.”

“Oh, cool,” said Alison, staring the sticker interestedly. “Can I have it?” she asked.

“Sure,” Taylor answered, shrugging. She giggled as she pulled it off. “Ouch! Here you go.”

“Was it fun?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, I think so. It was really cool, anyway.”

“Taylor!” Taylor and Alison both winced as they heard their mother call up the stairs.

Taylor looked at Alison.

“You'd better go,” Alison told her.

“Coming, Mom!” Taylor went out the door and down the stairs to the kitchen. “What?”

“
Don't
say, ‘what' to me like that.”

“I didn't say it like anything! What do you want?”

“What do I want? I want to know why you didn't come home until 1:00 a.m. the night before Spring Seminar?”

“I told you. I was going to Brandon's party.”

“And I told
you
, you had to call me!”

“I forgot. Can I go now?”

Charlize sighed, putting away the bottle of vitamins she was holding. “Taylor — fine, get ready, I don't want you to be late for Spring Seminar. But we need to talk.” She closed the cupboard door firmly. Taylor ran back up the stairs and started to get dressed, singing to herself as she picked out a bodysuit from the pile of dance clothes piled in the middle of her room.

“You shouldn't sing, you've got a horrible voice,” Alison commented.

“Go away, your face is horrible.” Taylor selected a pale blue bodysuit with black lace detailing on the front as Alison left.

“Taylor,” Charlize said as she drove her downtown, “I want to talk to you, and I want you to listen to me.”

“What if I don't want to listen?”

“Taylor … you're only fifteen. You have so much time to do other things, but if you want dance, this is the time you have to work for it. If you don't give it your all now, it's going to be too late.”

“I know that.”

“Well, then why don't I see that you know that in your actions?”

“You do! Mom, it was just a stupid party. Drop it, okay?”

“If this is what you really want, then you are going to have to push yourself.”

“Mom! Can you
please
just drop it?” Taylor stared out the window, looking out at the ocean as they drove across Granville Street Bridge. She got out her phone and began to play Sudoku on it. “It's just — these people kind of like me. And everyone at dance still is sort of mean.”

“Taylor … sweetie, is it still not really better?”

“No.
They
still say the only reason I ever get anything is because of my body type.”

“You've improved so much this year. Your teachers see that, I promise. It's just a couple more years, sweetie, and then you can start auditioning. Besides, this year you are doing a
pas de deux
with Julian! Isn't that going to be fun?”

“I know. It's just — it's not fair. I've been at the academy waaaaay longer than Kaitlyn.”

Charlize stared at the road, thinking. “I know. But I feel like this year is going to be better for you. You just need to stay on track with dance and keep up with your school work. How is that going?”

“Good,” Taylor said too quickly.

Taylor stretched in the studio assigned for warm-up at Scotiabank Dance Centre, a smile on her face. She couldn't wait to start; Spring Seminar was always so much fun. Scotiabank Dance Centre was a huge building with dance studios on multiple floors and even its own theatre. This meant that Spring Seminar was not the only thing going on in the building that day; and Taylor giggled from an upside-down bridge position as she watched a procession of middle-aged women in belly-dancing outfits pass by the doorway. She stood up and spotted Julian entering the studio. “Julian! What's up?”

“Hey, Tay.” Julian set his bag down at the side and began to stretch, not looking his usual happy self.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I'm fine, Tay,” Julian assured her unconvincingly.

“You sure?”

Julian took a small breath before replying. “I'm fine. Want to stretch each other's feet?”

Taylor nodded, and stood up, standing one foot on each of Julian's arches as he held her hands to balance her.

Julian cracked a smile. “Gain some weight would you, Taylor? It'd probably improve my feet.”

“Ha-ha, suuuuuuuuuure, I'll just go eat some doughnuts and have them go straight to my fat ass.”

“Right, your immensely large ass,” Julian said, laughing as he looked in the mirror at Taylor's reflected delicate frame. Taylor fell off his feet, caught off balance by his laughter. “Ouch.” Julian rubbed his arches.

“Sorry,” said Taylor guiltily.

“Not your fault.”

Taylor slid into the splits beside him as he put on his soft shoes. “Have you thought about what you want our
pas de deux
to be?”

“Yeah,” Julian said. “I like black swan …”

Taylor stared at him, horrified.

“I was joking!” Julian said, laughing. “I know we aren't good enough for it. It's cool. I don't really know … I like
Le Corsaire
, but maybe Mr. Demidovski will pick.”

“Yeah, probably,” Taylor agreed. “But it's cool to think about it.”

Kaitlyn had come in behind them. “Mr. Demidovski?” she said, looking confused. “You guys are both having privates with Mr. Demidovski?”

I don't like her bun
, Taylor thought critically, looking at it. It was combed straight back without a part, and the perfectly round circle lay in the exact centre of the back of her head. She'd tied a red-and-white polka-dot ribbon to it that stood out on her thick, pale brown hair, not looking particularly attractive against her very white skin.

“Yeah,” Julian answered Kaitlyn. “Mr. Demidovski's coaching us, so we thought he might be deciding which
pas de deux
we do.”

“I didn't know that you guys were even doing a
pas de deux
together.”

“Yeah, we decided before Christmas,” Julian explained. “Who's coaching you?”

“Oh …” Kaitlyn took her time sitting down and setting her bag beside her. “I haven't really decided.”

“Cool.”

“By the way, guess what I just found out?” Kaitlyn asked, brightening up.

“Mother Mother is playing an underage show on Saturday?” Julian guessed.

“No,” Kaitlyn said, confused. “We have Theresa Bachman for ballet class.”

“Cool!” Julian paused for a moment, thinking, then asked sheepishly, “Who's Theresa Bachman?”

Taylor and Kaitlyn both turned to him, shocked. “You don't know who Theresa Bachman is?” Taylor said loudly, her eyes huge.

“Julian!” Kaitlyn said, as if he had just said something deeply sacrilegious.

“What?” Julian protested. “Just tell me, who is she?”

“Only one of Canada's most famous ballerinas in, like, history,” Taylor said. “I can't believe you haven't heard of her!”

“She used to dance for Vancouver Ballet until she retired last year,” Kaitlyn continued. “I'm sure you've heard of her. You can't not have heard of her.”

Julian shrugged. “I don't know, dude. I guess I just don't pay attention to that stuff.”

The long white bony knobs of Theresa's feet made Taylor want to puke. Her toes had been shoved to an acute angle by a humongous bunion on her big toe, and it was as if her toes were going in a different direction than her feet. Theresa smiled toothily up at the circle of students surrounding her as they stared at her feet. She stretched them out, showing them off proudly.

“What do you have to do to your
pointe
shoes to make it so you can stand in them?” Taylor asked her curiously.

“Quite a bit,” Theresa answered. “Do you want to see?”

The students nodded enthusiastically, so Theresa brought her duffle bag into the centre of the room, and reached in to pull out a large canvas bag. She spilled the contents on the floor, and the students automatically drew closer. Taylor reached over Julian's leg and tentatively held her hand over one pair. “Can I look at it?” she asked Theresa.

Theresa visibly winced, but then handed Taylor a different pair. “Here. You can touch
these
ones!” Theresa smiled brightly at her, and Taylor unfolded the shoes. They were neatly tucked inside each other with the ribbons wrapped around. Taylor unwrapped the ribbon carefully, checking the size — a pair of 4 Xs. The Freed Classics were completely bent and the portion of the box where Theresa's bunion lay had been completely worn down to the point where there was no box left, just canvas and satin. “So cool,” Taylor said.

“All right, let's get back to class,” Theresa said. Taylor handed her back the shoes and went back to the
barre
.

“Not many people have good posture,” Theresa said, looking around, frowning. “Come back to the centre. Lie down on your back.”

They obeyed.

“Now, try to stretch out your back and let every part of it touch the ground. Each vertebrae.”

“My butt is getting in the way,” Taylor whispered, wiggling as she tried to accomplish what Theresa asked.

“Well, then chop it off,” someone whispered back. Taylor started to giggle and couldn't stop, so she sat up to watch Theresa do it.

“Like this,” she explained, lying with her legs bent and turned out, every part of her back on the ground.

“Yes, but she doesn't have a butt,” Julian complained beside Taylor.

“Yes,” Taylor agreed. “I don't think this is going to work for us.”

One by one the other students sat up, looking sheepish. “I did it,” Jessica informed them.

Great
, Taylor thought, rolling her eyes.
Three points to the anorexic.
She looked over at Julian, and realized that he was thinking the same thing. They both started giggling.

“Now, let's go do some centre work,” Theresa said hesitantly. She didn't seem at all sure of her class syllabus.

Alexandra put up her hand. “Ms. Bachman —”

“Call me Theresa,” Theresa assured her. “No one ever calls me Ms. Bachman. It makes me feel old.”

The class giggled nervously: Theresa was almost fifty years old. “Theresa,” Alexandra began again. “How come you decided to leave the Vancouver Ballet?”

Theresa looked sad, and Taylor wished Alexandra hadn't asked that question.

“It wasn't really my decision,” Theresa informed them, smiling unhappily. “I was given a choice, retire, or — be let go.”

“But why?” Alexandra persisted. Taylor winced.

“Because,” said Theresa. “They wanted to move in a different direction with the company, and I wasn't a part of their vision.”

“Why? Was it a different style or something?”

“Yes. Younger.” Theresa laughed. “New generation in the company, they couldn't find roles for me. Well, they could have if they'd tried, but they decided to just move on instead.”

There was a widespread sigh.

“I'm fine with it,” Theresa assured them unconvincingly. “It's time for a new path. And I've started teaching — you are my first class, as a matter of fact!”

“You've never taught before?” Kaitlyn exclaimed.

“No,” Theresa admitted, hugging her legs into her chest as she looked at the circle of students surrounding her. She had dressed in dance clothes to teach them, a pale yellow bodysuit, black tights, and a flowered wrap skirt, and before she had taken them off she had been wearing canvas shoes. If it weren't for the wrinkles and lines on her body, she could have passed for one of her students in size and attire.

Taylor bit her lip. She was worried for Theresa, she was telling them too much; teachers needed to keep their distance, otherwise the class wouldn't run properly. And this was only the first day.

“I like that we are getting to know each other,” Theresa said. “I think this is a good idea. I think I could teach you a lot just by answering your questions — your regular teachers already teach you technique, but I can answer any other questions you have.”

Alexandra put her hand up again. “How do you do your hair?”

Theresa patted the French roll that her hair was firmly bound in. “I can teach you and whoever else wants to learn on your lunch break if you want.”