Part 1 (1/2)
REACHING ROSE.
by J.P. Grider.
There are five words for which I hold the greatest contempt. On endless replay, a needle stuck in the same damaged groove, these words run through my mind. Each night before I fall asleep. Every morning as I wake. And every nightmarish moment in between.
Over.
And over.
And over.
Five words that scream at me in a silent room. Five words that have become my constant companion these past two months. Five words I'd never have fathomed would be my fate.
In my dreams, I am whole.
In my dreams, I am airborne. In the midst of my grand jete.
In my dreams, no one has ripped my heart from my chest by telling me, ”You will never dance again.”
1.
ROSE.
THREE MONTHS EARLIER.
”Pinch me,” I tell Jordan. ”Because I can't believe this is real.”
”Oh. It's real. And it's happening.” Both her hands land on my forearm. ”And it's happening to us.”
I toss my head back and laugh and scream at the same time. ”Holy cow, Jordan. We're dancing on Broadway. Broadway,” I exclaim in grateful disbelief.
”Broadway,” she yells back at me, whirling around on her toes then gracefully transforming her joy into a perfect pirouette.
Opening day is still three weeks away, but that doesn't deter the adrenaline from rus.h.i.+ng through my veins every time I'm up here on stage rehearsing. No. Way.
It is a literal dream come true for me to be performing in a Broadway musical. And to be working with the greatest ch.o.r.eographer this decade is the icing on the proverbial cake. Neil Trumondi is a genius.
”Rose,” Gianna calls from behind me. ”Wanna go get dinner with us?” By us, I know she means Camille, Ryan, and herself. ”You too, Jordan.”
I look at Jordan, who shrugs and then nods.
”Okay,” I say for the both of us.
Jordan and I grab our bags from our lockers, and I swipe a makeup wipe over my face to get the sweat off. I redo my bun and wait for Jordan while she does the same.
I take out my phone to check my messages, and I see that Holly texted me four hours ago.
HOLLY: Hey, BFF. Where you been? Met this really cute guy at registration. He's in my psych cla.s.s. I get the feeling Ben's wholesome and apple-pie-like, like you. Anyway, call me. Text me. Miss you.
When I start to type back how much I miss her too, Gianna comes in singing loudly, ”Are we gonna go to dinner?” to the tune of ”Do You Wanna Build a Snowman?” from Frozen. Not wanting to be one to make anyone wait, I slip my phone into my backpack and leave with my dancing friends to go have dinner.
”I'm telling you,” Gianna says, inside the restaurant and sipping her diet soda slowly before she finishes her thought. ”This has been the best. Week. Ever.”
We all ardently agree with her. We've only been rehearsing for one solid week, but Gianna is right; this has been the most exciting week of any of our lives. Dancing in the background, along with one hundred or so other dancers, may dampen a more seasoned dancer's spirits, but to the five of us, who haven't even graduated college yet, it's a huge foot into the Broadway door. We are not off-Broadway background dancers. We are Broadway. And that is so very, very cool.
”Ready, ladies?” Sal, the waiter at Giovanni's, who is also one of our fellow dancers, asks.
”How do you do it, Sal?” Jordan asks. ”How do you work fourteen-hour days and then come here and work four nights a week?”
”Got no choice. n.o.body's paying my rent but me.”
”You don't have a roommate, Sal?” I ask. Jordan and I share a very tiny one-room apartment. We can barely call it a studio, because it's literally one room with a small refrigerator, a microwave oven, a sink, and a toilet. We sleep on a pull-out couch, and we wash ourselves using the ”kitchen” sink. Every chance we get, we shower at the dance studio. But it's all worth it to be living here in New York City for the summer and dancing on Broadway.
”I do, but it's still so G.o.dd.a.m.ned expensive.”
”It is,” I agree. ”I used up all my savings from working on my parents' farm just to stay here for the summer.”
”Thank goodness your boss treats us well,” Camille says to Sal, referring to the specially-priced menu Giovanni's has for Broadway interns and background dancers.
”Cheers to that,” Ryan says, lifting his gla.s.s of cheap red wine.
”'Kay,” Sal says, ”It's time to order.”
”Ravioli for me,” I say, sipping my lemon water while the rest of my new friends order. And this is when I remember that I started to text Holly and never got to finish. I make a mental note to call my best friend when I get home later. It's been almost two weeks since I said goodbye to her at school. The last week and a half have been such a whirlwind that every time I've thought of giving her a call or shooting her a text, something has come up and I've had to slip my phone into my bag. Holly is going to kill me. But she'll forgive me. She's cool like that.
”You know,” Gianna says. ”If the director asks me to stay on after the summer, I am so going to take it. f.u.c.k college. I can always go back. And hey, maybe I won't have to if this Broadway thing works out.”
”s.h.i.+t, me too,” says Ryan. ”My only reason for going to college is to get more dance experience. What about you, Rose?”
”Oh...no, I have to finish college. I mean, I have to have some other type of background for when I'm too old to dance, no? I mean...we can't dance forever.”
”Sure we can,” Camille says.
”Rose is right,” Jordan adds. ”What if, G.o.d forbid, we got injured and could never dance again? We'd need something to...”
”Bite your tongue,” Gianna snaps, knocking on the table to unjinx what Jordan just said.
”Rose, you're majoring in education, right?” Camille asks.
”Yeah. K through 8.”