Erin Bomboy - The Piece: A Contemporary Ballet Novel

The Piece deals with difficult, sensitive subjects in potentially disturbing ways. It contains instances of profanity, sexual violence, and physical violence. It is not recommended for individuals under the age of eighteen or for those who may find the above offensive and/or objectionable.

The Pas de Deux: A Classical Ballet Romance and The Winner: A Ballroom Dance Novel are suggested for those who prefer clean reads (little to no profanity, sexual situations, and/or physical violence).

Also by Erin Bomboy

I measured time by the color of my leotards. In ballet, the days were interchangeable: class before rehearsal with only performances to liven up the monotony. To create beauty, I committed to boredom, finding pleasure in doing the same thing over and over until it matched an ideal that didnt exist.

Today, same as all the yesterdays, I shivered in the chilly air of the dressing room and tugged on a red halter-neck leotard, my hat tip to the holiday season. It made my skin look pale and interesting, and the duet of it and my bright hair might catch the attention of Alastair, the tart-tongued ballet master, in a way my dancing couldnt. Perhaps this would be the class in which he would notice my hard work, reward me with a compliment or smile, indicate that my dreams were not in vain.

My roommate Danica brushed past me as I stabbed bobby pins into my bun.

You were up early, Elinor, she said.

Same time as always. I tried to smooth my hair, which was like dragons fireprofuse, curling, and orangey-red.

But its show week. You could live a little. Sleep in for an hour. Skip your warm-up.

I frowned. Thats how people get injured.

Danica slumped against a locker. Yesterdays mascara streaked her cheeks, and a forgotten barrette clung to her knotted black hair. I never warm up, and I never get injured.

Lucky you. I strove to keep my tone light.

Danica and I were friends, and we did all the things that roommates did. We shared clothes, watched trashy reality television together, and pooled our meager paychecks from dancing and side gigs (teaching Pilates for me and babysitting for her) to splurge on a set of plush bathroom towels.

But she bothered me. Danica was loud and messy, but her unforgivable sin, the one that never left my mind, was that dancing came easily to her. Her talent, so carelessly acquired, so indifferently managed, made me bristle.

We both danced with our hometown company, sweating and commiserating and gossiping about the minor scandals that ruffled our humdrum days. This season, though, Danica was on an upswing while I was stagnating. Alastair was paying her attention in class, and it wouldnt be long before she snagged a plum part.

See you at the barre, I said over my shoulder and then closed the door on my jealousy.

At twenty-two, Id been performing with the company for four-and-a-half years, but not much had changed since my first season. Our company, middling by national standards, still had fierce competition among us dancers for lead roles.

The locals, who knew nothing about dance, took pride in the cultural patina that a professional ballet company afforded their once grand, now decaying city. We were beloved enough to put on a splashy production of The Nutcracker each December, with a live orchestra and a guest conductor. Those whod secured principal roles would find their paychecks padded with a bonus, reporters would hound them for interviews, and old-money socialites would invite them to perk up their wine-and-cheese soires.

Tonight was our first rehearsal with the orchestra, a group of amateurs who enthusiastically bleated and blared their way through Tchaikovskys confection of a score.

I sighed at the endless night ahead. Thered be a fight to find appropriate tempos, and the children, blinking under the constellation of lights, would be in tears because the live musicso big, so off-keysounded nothing like the recording they were used to. Parents would complain about the late hours, dancers would bitch at the incompetence of the children, and I just hoped to get through what would be a slog for me.

Our company was small, and each dancer performed multiple roles. I would be a mother in the opening party scene, a snowflake, a flower, and a shepherdess playing a reed flute in Marzipan, one of the Act II divertissements.

It was the same as last year, and the year before that, except this year I was one year older and one year further away from my goal of leading roles, the carrot at the end of a long, demanding stick of classes, rehearsals, and extreme dieting.

I wrinkled my nose at the foul perfume of the studio. The top note of cleaning supplies couldnt mask the bottom one of sweat and desperation.

I headed to my spot, second from the front on the left-hand side. I always stood here; I had always stood here; I would always stand here. Id stood here as a seven-year-old girl, my childish belly pushing against my cheap polyester leotard, and just as instructed by my whisper-thin teacher, I pressed my heels together in my first first position. I knew every mark on the marley that coated the floor, and the damp ambition from my palms had polished the wooden barre until it gleamed under the fluorescent lights. It was home in a way that my real home was not.

My mom had pushed me into dance. She hoped that Ia shy, intense child who seemed uninterested in everythingwould find a voice through movement. My personality hadnt budged, but I did find purpose in ballet. When I walked the ten blocks from my apartment to the studio, I felt superior to the bankers yakking on cell phones and the office workers clutching cups of caffeinated courage to brave their day. As boring as my life was, at least it was unique in its boringness.

The studio, a vanilla box empty of any beauty or personality other than what we produced ourselves, was vacant except for several other dedicated dancers. Company class was optional during tech rehearsals, but I had never missed one.

Alastair was unsympathetic to the long week ahead. He taught a punishing medley of picky, tricky combinations that favored quick tempos and exacting balances. Sweat dribbled down my face, and my hair rebelled against its jail of bobby pins and hairspray.

I pushed, challenging myself to lift my leg higher, balance longer, turn faster. But my stubborn body resisted my efforts, and I performed the same as I had for the last four-and-a-half yearsan average talent with ambitions far outstripping her capabilities.

Alastairs eyes slid past me. Danicas lavish leg extensions and airy jumps had captivated his attention.