High Pointe

High Pointe - Episode 3

Victor

Many claimed that I created perfection, but those people were fools too blinded by beauty to ever identify the flaws. So long as the diamond sparkled beneath the naked eye then who were they to question the microscopic inclusions that clouded its perfection?

I stood in the doorway to studio 7 as I considered the differences between presumed flawlessness and true perfection. The dark haired young woman who had stopped to watch us the night before - Sophia Hawkins, I'd learned her name was - was completely absorbed in her own world, focused on the flow of music as it shifted around her.

I watched silently, assessing her skill and technique as she performed the choreography that I knew belonged to Madam Olliphant.

Olliphant had a reputation as a difficult instructor for those at an amatuer level. Many of her weaker willed students requested to change to more amenable teachers. However, those who stayed the course often ended up in the ballet corps much sooner than those who shied away from the challenge.

This young woman, her shorthairs tangled in sweat and her chest heaving as she darted across the room in perfect tempo with the music, didn't seem the type to give up easily. I liked that about her. It fell in line with what little else I knew about her.

I'd seen her watching us the night before, her eyes glued to my hands as I balanced the Cartwright girl as she allowed her en pointe to falter once again.

It had taken me a moment to remember where I'd seen our dark haired observer before. I had stared her down, taking in the soft black curls and porcelain skin made flush along the apple of her cheeks. She had stood in fifth position and seemed completely unaware of it despite how unnatural the criss cross of her feet would be to anyone unfamiliar with the rigors of dance.

Her eyes were wide, her mouth open in a small O of surprise, like she hadn't expected to be caught watching. Then, between one heartbeat and the next, she'd turned to leave. Watching her as she walked away, I'd recalled the lithe form of the young woman playing Odile in the amateur performance last spring.

The Odette of the night had paid me to come to the show and critique her performance. A waste of money, considering the way she stumbled around the stage like a newborn calf.

Yet, it was the dancer playing Odile - an understudy called in at the last minute no less - who had caught my attention. The dark haired woman moved with a kind of grace that few dancers could lay claim to.

Not that her performance had been flawless by any means, but there was clear effort there. Devotion to the role, and to the art.

A quick review of the studio reservation logs this morning had told me all I needed to know about her. Her name was Sophia Hawkins, and she ate, drank, and breathed ballet. She arrived to the studio at four o'clock every morning, and finding her here alone after 8pm was not out of the ordinary.

That kind of devotion was admirable.

Desirable.

In a student, that was.

The music came to a stop, and so did she. Breathing hard, she stared critically in the mirror, examining her stance and maintaining it long past when the curtains would have fallen if this were a true performance. She didn't falter for a second, but she did push her toes into a sharper point, flexing her calves and gaining another half inch of height in the process.

Perfection was so rare, but the young woman in front of me had something much better.

She had potential.

I clapped, three sharp smacks echoing off the walls. She jumped, whirling around to find me standing there. Her expression, which had been filled with fury at being interrupted and startled, quickly morphed into a look of shock and awe once more. Like she'd come face to face with royalty rather than a foul tempered man with unattainable expectations.