Nope, it didn’t change anything in an immediate sense—except for one thing. If you were eighteen, you could make your own doctor’s appointments.
“I’ve never seen this grade of sprain in a professional track dancer,” the orthopedist murmured, pressing his thick fingers into the flesh of my ankle. He was short and bald and had a diamond ear stud. The photos on the wall were all of him posing with minor celebrities. But having the nickname “Dr. Dance” didn’t make him a miracle worker, like I’d hoped. “I’m giving you ninety-nine out of a hundred odds,” he grumbled, while I gritted my teeth and focused on an autographed photo of the Knicks City Dancers. They were all performing hip-hop moves in high-heeled sneaker boots, meanwhile I couldn’t stay up balancing on my own damn toes. Ninety-nine out of 100 seemed a lot better than 1 in 1,086, but it wasn’t, not when the odds were tearing a ligament completely in half.
“My performance is next month,” I said. “After that I can stay off it.”
“Joy,” Dr. Pashkin said sternly, “if you dance on this injury you might not dance, period. I’m amazed you can even walk, let alone go en pointe. Your ankle is grossly unstable.”
“But the swelling’s going down,” I said, trying to sound positive even though I wasn’t sure. “I’ve been icing it,” I added.
“A severe sprain doesn’t always swell that much, especially when it’s a high sprain like yours,” he said. “The syndesmosis ligaments”—he drew a short line with his thumb along the top outside of my ankle—“take a long time to heal, and with a tear like this, I’d want you off of it for at least eight weeks.” He looked at me and raised his bushy white eyebrows. “Minimum.”
“I can’t,” I said. “You don’t know—this is my only chance.”
Dr. Pashkin sighed. “Look, I know you kids don’t want to wait for anything,” he said impatiently, scribbling something on a notepad. “This recital probably feels like the most important thing in the world. But I promise you, someday you’ll look back and realize life wasn’t moving as fast as you thought.”
He was wrong. It was moving faster. We didn’t have eight weeks. We barely had three. But I didn’t know that then. I tuned out his blithe condescension, said a curt thank-you, let him fit me for an air cast and then tore it off in the elevator as I left that fancy high-rise office, running on pure, stubborn pride, thinking about how I was going to prove him and everybody else wrong. As the tears sprung to my eyes with each excruciating step, I just kept picturing you and Lolly, dancing our pas de deux while I sat with everyone else in the safe, anonymous dark. It seemed so wrong on so many levels.
I wasn’t going to let it happen.
? ? ?
You must have read it all on my face, because as soon as I stepped into the dance hallway, you pulled me into Studio 2, before Mr. Dyshlenko could see me from the main stage door.
“What’s wrong?” you asked, helping me onto the piano bench. Some sheet music was open on a stand a few feet away—the finale from Swan Lake. As if I needed another bad omen.
“He wouldn’t give me an out,” I said. You were the only person who knew I had gone to see a doctor. In fact, you’d come to school the week before with a list of the five top-rated specialists in Manhattan who took my insurance.
“What do you mean?”
I took a deep breath, trying to keep my face calm. Make it look easy, Joy. Make it look . . . joyful. “He said I shouldn’t dance on it, period. He wanted to put me in an air cast and order an MRI. He said, and I quote, that I’m ‘on borrowed time.’”
“That sounds like the title of Ethan’s next play,” you said, attempting a grim smile.
“Yup.” I looked down at my feet.
“So what are you going to do?” You shook your head. “That’s a stupid question, huh?”
“If I tape it tight and warm it up enough, it doesn’t hurt right away,” I said. “It’s worse when I’m not dancing. And I don’t want to be dramatic; I mean, there are people who have broken bones in the middle of a ballet and still finished. This is just a sprain.”
“Adrenaline is a crazy drug,” you said. “But you can’t tape it for the show. And if I let you fall I’d never forgive myself.”
“So what, you want me to pull out of the Showcase?” I asked.
“I didn’t say that.”
I crossed my arms defiantly. “Well, what, then?”
“I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I don’t want to get hurt, either. But if I stop now, they won’t even put me in the corps. I’ll be sitting in the audience, watching you . . . and her.” This time my mental image was even clearer: Lolly and her smug smile and her stupid fan. Your hands on her little twig waist. I leapt up and shrugged off my coat. “I’m not about to throw away my shot. Not while I’m still standing, anyway.”
“Slow down, Hamilton,” you laughed. “You still have to be careful. They’re watching you. Well, Adair is. Dyshlenko would probably slow-clap you for snapping an Achilles in the name of passion.”