l'amour en pointe

plié

plié- a bending of the knees outward by a ballet dancer with the back held straight.

—

I am incredibly nervous.

Admittedly, staring at myself in the studio all alone isn't the best to do anyways, but I can't help myself.

Who decided to make leotards anyways? Hugging all of the unflattering parts of me, making me stare at my body from all the different angles.

A ballet instructor from The Royal Ballet School, which I hope to attend, is coming today to give me a private lesson. I guess living in London isn't completely horrible, I get opportunities like this; America would never provide this for me.

He seems to be running late, because I've been not so patiently waiting with pretty posture for what feels like about 15 minutes.

The door creaks open and my heart jumps with anxiety.

"Hello Ms. Bailey." I look over at him to see a shorter man with graying hair and pale white skin. His eyes are honey brown, and he wears a loose brown sweater and dress slacks. "My apologies for being slightly behind schedule. Your lesson will still be 2 hours long, so we will go overtime." He says in a very posh accent. Basically what everyone thinks all British people sound like. I'll bet he goes on about tea and crumpets as well.

"Oh, no worries sir, I'm glad to make your acquaintance. I'm pleased to have the opportunity of being your student." I say softly, trying to impress him, but he doesn't seem phased, just jotting something down on his notepad before setting up his phone to connect to the speaker while I secretly hope that putting "glad" and "pleased" in the same sentence wasn't a bad idea.

"We will begin with pliés. I expect perfect posture from a ballerina of 16 years. You will be attempting to apply for The Royal Ballet School this summer, correct?" He asks, staring straight into my eyes.

"Yes sir. I hope to spend a few years training there before I go professional." I respond without breaking eye contact.

He simply nods, saying the plié combination out loud, before repeating it with the music playing.

"I will now watch, and correct, do your best Ms. Bailey." He states without any sort of emotion.

My studio chose me out of all of the dancers to have a private with him, because from this, there's a chance to be in a professional show. In the show, the lead gets to dance with his son, who also does ballet, of course. He's a year older than me, but I've been told he's very talented. I've partnered with boys before, but never in front of such a big crowd.

I take a big breath in before prepping for the music. I close my eyes, feelings the sun rays come in through the window only to land softly on the tops of my cheekbones encouragingly. I put on my soft ballerina smile and begin preforming the pliés. I feel his eyes burning holes into every part of my body as I squeeze through my thighs, down to my calves and through my ankles to show off a beautiful plié.

I continue, trying and failing to pretend he isn't watching, moving through every detail, making sure not to forget a single correction I've ever been given. I feel as graceful as ever, like I'm walking on clouds, on the boxes that cover my toes.

As I end the combo, I hold myself in sous-sus before landing again in a demi-plié, stretch, and finish.

I raise my head to see the same emotionless eyes that stared at me before. It is quite strange to see such intimidating eyes looking up at me, not down at me though. I am 5 feet 10 inches tall, and he seems to be about 5 foot 6 or so. I'm starting to wonder if his son would even be tall or strong enough to lift me.

"I'm impressed Ms. Bailey." He states with no expression on his face.

I smile and nod my head in appreciation of his compliment, and go on to complete the rest of the combinations he assigns to me.

By the end of the private, I'm sweating lots and I've just run out of water from my jug I brought along with me. We've done jumps, leaps, turns, and just about every technical move he could think of, seemingly challenging me beyond what he thought my limits were. His eyebrows would stitch together every time I executed a move perfectly, his eyes widening slightly after.

As he began to pack his things up, he waved me over to where he was standing.

"I am impressed with you Ms. Bailey. I have seen great talent from this studio, but never someone quite like you." He states. I don't know how to read his emotionless expressions, so I just smile widely.

"Thank you sir. It has been a pleasure. I hope to work under your instruction." I say, doing a small curtsy to be as polite as possible.

As I look up I see a small, slightly wrinkled hand holding out a white card in it.

I put a hand on my chest and look at him, as if I was asking if it was for me, and he nodded.

"It's my phone number and email. Let me know what days you're free next week. I want you to meet someone." He explains himself.

"Yes sir. I will send you my schedule. Thank you again." I repeat.

He smiles.

The first time I've seen his face actually move, and I feel great about it.

I hear the door shut behind him, and I jump up and down like a little girl on Christmas Day because he likes me! One of the most prestigious dance coaches of all time likes me! I was told his name is Tom Taylor, a seemingly bland name for such an important person, but I was told only to refer to him as "sir".

The sun was beginning to set, so the sun coming through the glass ceilings was becoming a warmer orange color. I graze my fingers over the smooth wooden bars around the room, and suddenly, the nerves from before had completely subsided. It was all replaced with excitement and hopes for the next week I'd have with this interesting man, and whoever he's wanting me to meet.

I can only imagine the excitement I'll feel when I really get to be one stage one day.