I didn’t want to admit it. I thought if I dieted more, worked harder, I could still be a prima ballerina. But by the time I graduated high school, I realized I wasn’t even the best ballerina in Chicago, let alone on a national scale. I’d be lucky to secure a position as an apprentice with a major dance company, let alone move up to a core member.
Still, I took a corps de ballet spot with Lake City Ballet while attending classes at Loyola. I wanted to keep dancing while I got my degree.
The director and head choreographer is Jackson Wright. He’s a bit of an ass—what director isn’t, I guess. “Director” and “dictator” seem to be synonymous in this industry. Still, the man is brilliant.
Lake City Ballet is contemporary, experimental. They put on all sorts of insane shows, like one done entirely in black light and florescent body paint, and another with no music at all, only drums.
Our upcoming show is centered on joy—which is perfect for me, since I’m about the most cheerful person you could meet. Not much gets me down.
Maybe that’s why Jackson let me do so much of the choreography. He’s been letting me do bits and pieces ever since I realized I have a knack for it. This is the first time I’ve composed entire dances all on my own.
I can’t wait to see it all come alive, with makeup and costumes and lights. Like my own thoughts made flesh on the stage. I’m picturing my family sitting right in the front row, amazed that I could be the sculptor, and not just the clay. Actually impressed with me for once!
I’m practically skipping into the studio. There’s a conditioning class going on in Room One, and technique in Room Two. I’m hit with the familiar blend of feet thumping on hardwood floors, the live pianist keeping time, and the mingled scents of sweat, perfume, and floor wax. It smells like home.
The air is thick with the heat of all these bodies. I take off my jacket, heading straight to Jackson’s office.
His door is half-open. I knock gently on the frame, waiting for his terse, “Come in,” before I enter.
He’s sitting behind his desk, looking through a messy stack of paper. His office is a disaster—stuffed full of framed photographs, posters of past performances, disorganized folders, and even bits and pieces of costumes in the initial design phase. Jackson controls everything about the shows, down to the last tutu.
He’s a little taller than me, fit and lean from a strict vegan diet. He’s got a thick shock of black hair, with a few streaks of gray at the temples. He’s extremely vain about his hair, and always runs his hands through it while he talks. His skin is tan, his face lean, his eyes large and dark and expressive. Plenty of the dancers have a crush on him, both male and female.
“Nessa,” he says, looking up from his papers. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Isabel told me the programs were in!” I say, trying not to grin too hard. Isabel is the head costume designer. She can hand-sew at machine speeds, while simultaneously shouting directions at all her assistants. She’s got a sharp tongue and a warm heart. I like to think of her as my dance mom.
“Oh, right. Over there,” Jackson says, jerking his head toward a cardboard box stuffed full of programs, set on top of a folding chair.
I scurry over, lifting out the topmost bundle and slipping off the elastic band so I can take a program out.
The cover image is beautiful—it’s Angelique, one of our principals, dressed in a red silk gown. She’s leaping through the air, one leg at an impossible angle over her head, foot perfectly arched like a bow.
I open the program, scanning through the list of dances, then down to the credits. I’m expecting to see my name—in fact, I intended to ask Jackson if I could take this home to show my parents.
Instead I see . . . absolutely nothing. Jackson Wright is listed as head choreographer, Kelly Paul as second. There’s no mention of me at all.
“What?” Jackson says, testily, noting the stunned expression on my face.
“It’s just . . . I think they forgot to put me as one of the choreographers,” I say, tentatively. By “they,” I mean whoever designed the program. It must be an accidental omission.
“No,” Jackson says carelessly. “They didn’t forget.”
I look up at him, my mouth a little “o” of surprise.
“What . . . what do you mean?” I ask.
“They didn’t forget,” he repeats. “You’re not credited.”
My heart is fluttering against my chest, like a moth against a window. My natural inclination is to nod, say okay, and leave. I hate confrontation. But I know if I do that, I’ll hate myself even more later. I have to understand what’s happening here.
“Why am I not credited?” I ask, trying to keep my voice as calm and unaccusing as possible.
Jackson gives a sigh of annoyance, putting down the papers he was perusing so they become lost in the mess on his desk.
“You’re not a choreographer here, Nessa,” he says, as if he’s explaining that one and one makes two. “You’re a corps member. Just because you threw a few ideas in the ring—”
“I created four of the dances!” I blurt, my face burning. I know I sound like a child, but I can’t help myself.
Jackson stands up from his desk. He comes over to me and puts his arm around my shoulder. I think he’s trying to comfort me, but then I realize that he’s steering me toward the door.
“Here’s the thing, Nessa,” he says. “You put in some work. But your work is not that original. It’s simplistic. The parts of the performance that bring it alive, that make it sing, are from me. So you’d only be embarrassing yourself, trying to insist on credit that you don’t deserve.”
My throat is so swollen with embarrassment that I can’t speak. I’m desperately trying to hold back the tears burning in my eyes.
“Thanks for stopping by,” he says as we reach the doorway. “Keep the program if you like.”
I didn’t even realize it was still clutched in my hand, wrinkled from how hard I’m squeezing it.
Jackson pushes me out of his office. He closes his door with a gentle snick, leaving me alone in the hallway.
I’m standing there stunned, silent tears running down my face. God, I feel like a fool.
Not wanting anyone else to see me, I stumble back down the hallway, heading for the front doors.
Before I can reach them, I’m intercepted by Serena Breglio. She’s a corps member, like me. She just stepped out of the conditioning class to visit the water fountain in the hall.
She stops short when she sees me, blonde eyebrows drawing together in concern.
“Nessa! What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s nothing. I was just . . . just being stupid.”
I wipe my cheeks with the backs of my hands, trying to compose myself.
Serena casts a suspicious glance back at Jackson’s closed door.
“Did he do something?” she demands.
“No,” I say.
“Are you sure?”
“Very sure.”
“Well, have a hug at least,” she says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “Sorry, I’m sweaty.”
That doesn’t bother me at all. Sweat, blisters, broken toenails . . . they’re all as common as Bobby pins around here.