Dark Turns Read Free Page B

unattractive part of the leg, just below the knee. A loose cardigan covered her tank. Battle had urged against the typical leotard in order to avoid “distracting the young men in the room.”
    Only two male students stretched in front of her. Both sported navy spandex pants with fitted white tanks, hemmed at the navel. Their dress emphasized large-limbed bodies, pulled like taffy by teenage hormones. One boysmacked his heel against his butt and grabbed it, stretching out his hamstrings. The move belonged on a soccer field, not in a studio.
    The girls possessed better proportions. Nia examined the young women, determined not to think about what lay beyond the wall of windows behind her. The idea of the lake made her nauseous. She couldn’t risk a glance outside.
    She stacked each student’s body against the ideal type, the way so many teachers had unfavorably compared her own frame. Dance companies required a certain “look.” Ballerinas that didn’t fit the willowy Balanchine aesthetic had a hard time getting into major companies, no matter how talented. She knew all too well how the wrong silhouette could sink a career.
    The girl seated on the floor, clasping her toes, was the antithesis of the Balanchine body. She looked more rower than dancer, with broad shoulders and bulky arms that boasted strength but not grace. If the kid wanted to go pro, she would have to trade weight lifting for Pilates. A pear-shaped student at the barre needed to shave fat from her thighs to achieve the sought-after appearance. Additional leg lifts would do the trick.
    One girl needed to lose significant weight—as much as twenty pounds. The young woman’s leotard fought against her belly as she bent in an off-balance plié and stared out the picture windows. As she rose, she put her hand on her lower back, perhaps aware that her spine had curved to hide the weight of her stomach.
    An Asian student lowered into a split. She possessed the preferred petite body but lacked sufficient muscle. Matchstick legs jutted from her leotard. How would she jump? Nia would encourage strength-building exercises and protein shakes. Two more girls joined the waif, falling into splitsthat seemed to stretch from wall to wall. Each topped five foot nine at least, too tall for most—if not all—companies.
    Shame forced Nia to look away. She knew her criticism was unfair. There were some things you just couldn’t change.
    A blue glimmer outside the window sneaked into her vision. Stringy dark hair came back to her. She shuddered and rubbed her eyes, erasing the mirage with the pressure of her fingertips, forcing herself to focus on the tall girls.
    So what if the girls would tower over any partner once on their toes? Skill could trump body type, occasionally. Nia’s nonwaif appearance had pluses. When her Achilles wasn’t inflamed, she could jump higher, spin longer, and leap farther than most dancers. She also looked pretty good when the leotard came off—not that anyone had noticed lately.
    Only one young woman fit the Balanchine mold: delicate frame, sloping shoulders, small torso and head, long limbs, flat chest, and little body fat. The ideal type tipped onto her toes, rising four inches to about five foot eight, the perfect partner for the average male dancer. She placed a curved leg onto the barre. Her arms rose above her and bowed outward, as though she held a glass ball above her head. Her hands fell to her hair. She twirled her long mane into a dark cyclone, which she gathered at the nape of her slender neck. She slipped a black rubber band over the bun. The smoothness of her movements made the simple act seem choreographed.
    A shiver shook Nia’s shoulders. She could feel a presence behind her, intense and focused. She turned to see a latecomer standing in the doorframe. The young woman resembled a life-sized doll with a pixyish face and porcelain complexion. A blond bun coiled atop her head like a golden rope. The teen’s eyes reinforced the