Strip Read Free

were the first positive words I’d heard him say. “And don’t be arrogant. They always need males, especially in the Company. The prairies are a wasteland. Males don’t last there.”
    â€œThey’re born there.”
    â€œThe prairies are too limiting, too Russian. Maybe Vaganova will make you strong, but your muscles will bulge and your joints will turn to putty.”
    I bit my lip, while he sneered. “You’ll be bulky with t’ighs like the Winnipeg football team. What do you call them?”
    â€œThe Blue Bombers.”
    â€œThe Blue Bombers—there’ll be no difference, in their white tights and dance belts.”
    â€œJockstraps.”
    The right corner of his mouth reached the far corner of his eye, as he stifled a laugh. “You must know tu es adorable .” He flicked at a bag of sugar, “But your knees, mon ami , won’t last.”
    â€œYou’re telling me to give up on second soloist?”
    â€œThe Company repertoire is tired and boring. Romeo and Juliet is their newest ballet in what, thirty years?
    â€œThe Company’s expanding.”
    â€œNot if they want to tour.”
    He was right; Romeo and Juliet had been a gamble that paid off. And as far as my knees were concerned, he was right; they burned every time I stepped up onto the street curb, although they were fine in the studio. The hours I had spent dancing now rivalled all of my schooling, ever. As a child I badly wanted to get up on that stage with Nureyev and Fonteyn, even if I was going to be stuck beside the scenery or in the shadows, holding Rudi’s cloak. No matter if it was The Nutcracker , Rodeo or Swan Lake that my mother took me to, sitting in the audience while the action was onstage was pointless.
    Seven years ago I stopped twirling around the basement, slipping on the carpet, wearing holes in my socks. I stopped dreaming. In fact, it was a Thursday in early December that I took the leap and lied about a trip to the doctor for a flu shot. Yes, I climbed that same narrow staircase that led to our family doctor, but kept right on going. Up. Up to the place that made the high ceiling in the doctor’s office throb and sent fine plaster dust snowing down during checkups. Six months earlier, on the staircase where I had previously seen only armies of young girls with tight buns on their heads, I saw two male dancers ascend. If there were other men dancing in Edmonton, I would, too, but it took six more months of dreaming, yearning, gathering my gumption.
    Soon I lied about other things—swim practice, movies, getting together with friends. All traded for a dream. (Look at me now, lying about everything, to everyone, myself included—sitting in this stairwell, now, has nothing to do with the dream.) Up I went, like Alice following the rabbit down the hole, but in the other direction, to a wonderland of Chopin played on out-of-tune pianos, the thick scent of old lady perfume, sweat, talcum powder. Bodies wafted corner to corner across creaky floors, mirrors for walls, boxes of resin in room corners, people dashing from dressing rooms to studios, draped on the barre, sitting splayed in hallways, stretching, waiting for their class to begin. In the musty windowed office Lisa, my first teacher, looked over the class list. “Are you a football player?”
    â€œI swim.”
    â€œWe get football players. Their coach sends them. A few times and then they’re gone. It can’t be the tights, can it?” She smiled at me. I relaxed. “God, football. Football is some kind of abomination to human movement. It frightens me to see these guys with clunky feet and mitts for hands—banging their knees sideways. Funny, in the long run, ballet is probably going to do as much damage.” She winked at me.
    â€œI want to dance.”
    â€œShow up regularly and I won’t charge you.”
    After the class, she stopped me at the door. “Will we