Strip Read Free Page B

would pull my thigh from its joint, while leaning against me to keep my hip back, in a tug-of-war with my torso. Then she’d shake my arms. “You’ve got to press the weight of the world down . They aren’t just there to hang off the side of your trunk. Now presssssssss!”
    To get what she wanted, she slapped me and screamed until her pale powdered face turned pink. From time to time she would throw me out of the class and then ask me what the hell I was doing sitting in the waiting area and “Get the bloody hell back in here you bloody son of a bitch, if you want to dance then bloody dance for the love of God. Show some spine.” I suppose I was a whipping post for all the princes who had never courted her. Once and only once did she waver. We were facing the barre in arabesque and I tightened the hell out of my lower back while squeezing my butt to get my leg up, the muscles fighting each other to maintain the form, while stretching my leg through to the end of my foot. “Now John, that’s good,” she said. Did I hear that correctly? The pianist stopped playing, the other students fell silent.
    â€œYou others would do well to follow this young man’s example. He’s working bloody hard to make up for lost time and though he may not make it, I have a feeling he’ll die trying.” Her compliments were calculated and short-lived. “Swimming isn’t enough. Do weights,” she shouted. “Cans of soup if you must, lots of repetitions, until it burns. And push-ups. Drop and do forty. Now! You wait until you have a men’s class, then tell me you want to dance. Swimmer ha! Have you thought of joining the army? It would be a hell of a lot easier.” In spite of her reputation—she had garnered a Governor General’s award bringing ballet to the prairies—she was slowly forgetting and being forgotten. It was obvious she would never get the perfection she demanded from anyone. In the end, I heard, she died alone.
    Maybe I can blame this all on Lisa: she said I could do it.
    Â 
    But Daniel didn’t have time for these trivialities. “Everyone wants a kick at the can,” he said. “You won’t be pretty forever, you know. In the meantime… you can kiss me.”
    â€œHere?”
    â€œYou’re in Montreal now.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œYou have a look .”
    â€œI scraped my nose on the bottom of the pool. I was fifteen.”
    He didn’t care. “No. You are more than second soloist material. Any male can become a second soloist, if he has a pulse. You have line, proportion, height. You’re already halfway there. But you could be a prince. You’ll reach your prime a little later than normal but you were born to be a prince.”
    â€œThat’s my plan.”
    â€œThen you are going about it the wrong way. You’ll be a shabby has-been—on the prairies—and that’s all. You’ll be bored to tears. How many times can you dance Fall River Legend , or Rita Joe ? It’s a small dusty repertoire of museum pieces.”
    I realized he was encouraging me to leave the Company; dancers never berated Agnes de Mille, or Vaganova or Russian technique for that matter. My head spun, this time without my body attached.
    â€œMontreal can be your threshold to the bigger world of dance: the States, Europe.” But I only wanted to go where he would be. “It’s a nice nose, by the way,” he said.
    â€œYours is nice, too.” Actually, his was magnificent.
    â€œIt’s one of my Mohawk parts. I’ll show you the rest later.” My heart swelled, my chest expanded, but it was my legs I had to squeeze tight. This was a head-to-toe solid dance master, a real man that, for some reason, I had all to myself.
    I followed his steps closely. He took me back to his home, the kind of place where you’re never sure if you’re inside or out—loft, terrace, rooftops,