Page 66 of A Shade of Myself
15
Screamingat the top of my lungs, I broke into a flurry of kicks and punches, wishing I’d gotten a little further along in my training, because I was hitting empty air.
A brilliant white glow filled my vision.
“No! I won’t go into the light!” I lashed out to break the Grim Reaper’s hold and heard a grunt and a “sorry” said in a Russian accent.
The regular path light sputtered on and off before settling into its usual dim glow.
Pyotr peered at me with wide, concerned eyes. He wore a headlamp, now switched off, while an old tape player on the ground at his feet played Bach.
The neon sign winked on, displaying a montage of my horrified expressions like it was one of those cameras on a roller coaster capturing the rider at the pinnacle of their terror.
“Laugh it up,” I snarled.
It morphed into its face, silently chuckling.
I clutched my chest. “Were you trying to kill me?”
“Vampires get in. Worse than mice. Caused trouble. Kefitzat Haderech short-circuited.” Pyotr kicked the pile of ash at his feet, then patted my head. “All fixed now.”
I flashed him a thumbs-up and gratefully stepped through the door that appeared into the late afternoon sun in Manhattan.
The Ishikawa Ballet Company had its studio in Tribeca, just off Church Street. Ambulance sirens wailed accompanied by the steady pound of jackhammering. The air was thick with exhaust and the heat radiated off the concrete. I was glad to arrive at my air-conditioned destination.
I headed up the narrow flight of stairs to a reception area, texting Giselle that I’d arrived and checking in with the woman behind the desk as the sign above her head requested. She said I was expected and sent me up another flight.
Muted piano music came out of the first studio. I peered through the glass at a male and female duo practicing a series of turns accompanied by a live pianist. Giselle popped her head out from the next door, her hair in a bun. She wore a pink leotard with pink tights, her feet bare.
“Danika will be here in a sec,” she said.
Inside the room, I was assaulted by a hot steaminess, a generation of sweat baked into the walls and sprung floor. It reeked as bad as a men’s hockey changing room, which I was familiar with thanks to Eli.
I returned her necklace. “There isn’t any magic on it.”
“Thank you.” She put it on, then moved a dog-eared notebook off her chair so I could sit down.
I caught a glimpse of the cramped notes and scribbles in the book before she’d closed it.
“Ballet dancers are chronic note takers,” she said. “We’re expected to write down all the corrections we’ve been given after every class from about age eleven.” Her fingers tightened on the notebook. “Did you learn anything else?”
“I may have, but if it’s all right, I’d like to speak with your friend first.” My very vague understanding of repressed memories was that they were delicate and tricky. I didn’t want to confuse the issue by possibly implanting a false remembrance.
Giselle was hesitant, but finally nodded, just as an upbeat Black woman rushed into the studio, her black leotard and blue leopard-print tights soaked with sweat.
“Oh my God, today has been nuts.” Dropping her toe shoes on the ground, the woman sat next to them, her legs outstretched. “I’ve got five minutes so talk.”
Giselle made the introductions. “Miriam, Danika. Danika, Miriam.”
The other dancer nodded at me, slipping what looked like padded cups over her toes.
“Is Hans in a mood?” Giselle said, fingering her necklace.
Danika laughed. “Be prepared to nail your barre work or suffer.”
Giselle winced. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Once she was gone and the studio door was closed, I jumped right in. “Has Giselle had any bad relationships?”
