I was hovering over you in a frozen arabesque, trembling a little, for more reasons than one. Your left hand was on the underside of my left thigh, and your right hand was wedged just over my right hip bone. It was the first time we were practicing our press lift, the culmination to a week of firsts: the first time we rehearsed our choreography on the main stage, with its state-of-the-art lights and dizzying, panoramic view of eight hundred tiered seats. The first time I got off the subway with my heart in my throat at the thought of seeing you. The first time we greeted each other without a “Hey,” or a “What’s up,” but instead with a series of shy yet irrepressible smiles. The first time our dancing felt like flirting, or like practice for something else, some more intimate choreography that I hadn’t learned yet. And, of course, the first time your face was anywhere near my crotch. I tried in vain to stare stoically into the middle distance.
“The leg should be right in front of your face,” Mr. Dyshlenko continued, motioning with his arms while I held my position suspended in midair. The lift reminded me of the séances Liv used to spearhead at our childhood sleepovers—one of us would lie down and the others would kneel around her, two fingers wedged between body and carpet, whispering, light as a feather, stiff as a board. The incantation had never made any of us levitate, but it was, as it turned out, a pretty good mantra for ballet. The only difference was that this was a hell of lot more uncomfortable.
“Yeah, get behind the leg. No one wants to see you,” I joked. Even though it wasn’t easy holding an arabesque for that long, I was downright giddy to be off my feet. My ankle was a fireball of pain every time I put my weight on it. In particular, there was a manège of piqué pirouettes that was brutal. Luckily, most of the rest of my solo choreography was on the backburner until after break, when Ms. Adair would coach me one-on-one.
“Everyone will want to see him,” Mr. Dyshlenko said, giving me some strong Russian side-eye. “But, yes, for now, Diego, your job is to showcase her.” He motioned for you to put me down, and I could feel your muscles shake as you lowered me inch by inch, taking care to rest me gently on the box of my right shoe while still supporting me more than you needed to.
“For you, Joy, the important thing to remember is that while he is holding you, you don’t just relax,” Mr. D continued while we shook out our limbs. “You are being displayed like a fine jewel, so you’ve got to give him something to work with. The dance hinges on your strength and ability. So while he technically carries your weight, he is only as strong as you are.”
I gave you a look like, Sucks for you.
You shook your head and winked. You got this.
We practiced the lift a few more times, which meant more manèges of piqué pirouettes. They were supposed to be quick and light—I was basically running away from you as you followed me across the stage, playing the charming suitor—but it was hard to relax my face when every second en pointe felt like torture.
“Watch your form, Joy, your ankle is sickling!” Mr. Dyshlenko called as I stepped woodenly out of my last turn. “Are you seeing Sylvia?” Sylvia was our department physical therapist, and I knew she’d helped plenty of Janus students through sprains and other injuries. But Sylvia also had the ear of Ms. Adair, and if Dr. Pashkin was right, there was no way I was letting her examine me.
“I’ll make an appointment,” I lied.
When he asked us to start from the beginning I almost wept, but at least that was a partnered section, and you stayed right behind me, keeping my weight off my bad ankle so discreetly that Mr. Dyshlenko couldn’t tell you were helping me. It left me shaking, and I still can’t tell you if it was fear, gratitude, or something else entirely.
“This dance, it is lust, it is love, it is passion!” Mr. Dyshlenko cried. “And Joy, while your line needs work, the fire in your expression is perfect, don’t change it, OK?” I nodded, despite the fact that I hadn’t even been thinking about my face.
“Are you free tomorrow?” you whispered, setting me down again as Mr. Dyshlenko went backstage to make a phone call.
“Maybe.” I lowered myself down to the floor, grateful for the chance to rest. “Why?”
You sat next to me, dangling your legs over the stage. “’Cause I thought of the perfect outing,” you grinned. “It has all the elements you need: rest, ice, compression, and elevation.”
“Please tell me we’re watching Step Up and eating Klondike Bars?”
“That can be the next date,” you laughed. “Trust me, this is better.”
“The next date?” I raised my eyebrows. “We haven’t even been on one.”
“Yeah, well, I’m making up for lost time.” You leaned toward me, and for a split second I couldn’t feel my ankle at all, or any part of my body, because all of a sudden we were right there in the spotlight, alone onstage, and we were close enough to—
“You want to try it one-handed?” Mr. Dyshlenko boomed. You leapt up while I tried to catch my breath. The whole week had me in a tailspin. You were different, we were different, the game had been changed, and no amount of cold water on my face was ever going to make things go back to normal.
Mr. D showed us how to approach the more advanced, dangerous lift, which began like the two-handed version but then had you quickly letting go of my arabesque leg, and me leaning forward so that my leg dipped into a penché above my head. The first time we tried, we lost our balance and I toppled into Mr. D’s outstretched arms.