First Position - Softcover

Hamrick, Melanie

Softcover

ISBN 10: 059363814X ISBN 13: 9780593638149

Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group, 2023

Inhaltsangabe

A dancer’s fall from grace ignites a dark ambition in this propulsive novel about the seductive, cutthroat world of professional ballet by debut author Melanie Hamrick.

Five years into her career at the North American Ballet, Sylvie Carter has come a long way from the girl she once was—the young, driven ballerina who dutifully kept a list of rules for how to succeed. But as her star in the company rises, every rule gets broken and she becomes a version of herself she no longer recognizes.  When a tumultuous, troubling relationship erupts into a devastating scandal for which she alone is blamed, she loses everything. Her reputation is destroyed, her best friend is now her fiercest rival, and the dream she’s worked for her entire life—becoming a prima ballerina—will never be realized. She vows not to ever make the same mistake again.

But when renowned dancer Alessandro Russo joins NAB as a guest artist for the season, Sylvie is magnetically drawn to him. Torn between fear and attraction, she finds herself mentally unraveling but also artistically blossoming as she taps into emotions she’d buried long ago. Caught in a bewildering spiral, she can either let the wounds of the past destroy her or find a way to be reborn.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Melanie Hamrick is a mother, ballerina, producer, choreographer, and writer. Born and raised in Virginia, Melanie began dancing at a young age. Her career as a ballerina spanned over sixteen years with American Ballet Theatre. From traveling the world with her family and work, Melanie has always carried novels and notebooks with her. Her passion for reading and dance inspired her to write her first novel First Positon.

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Chapter One

Washington, D.C.

Now

Sylvie

I used to love the word encore. It meant everything. It meant I want more. It meant they wanted more, more of what only I was able to give. It meant I was good. Too good to stop.

Encore meant, I don't want you to say goodbye-not just yet.

Once upon a time I yearned to hear it. Now the word fills me with dread. I'm a weary traveler under the hot sun, exhausted, desperately thirsty, and achingly hungry; and I'm being told that the end is only a mirage-there are more miles yet to go.

"Encore!" Diana's voice screams the word. "Again!"

I take my position and repeat the phrase for the hundredth time. Sweat is running down my forehead from the exertion under the hot stage lights. I can feel a blister beginning to swell and bloom on my heel. I know that's going to mean pain, and that the more I ignore it-and I will ignore it-the longer it will take to heal.

I smile. Not because it's all worth it or anything like that. I smile because I must, and if I don't-and if I don't convince Diana that the smile is effortless-I'll just have to do it again.

Again.

Again.

Encore.

Diana is the ballet mistress, which means she is basically like the coach, and we're her players to prep for the big game. She begs more of every position, straightening every line in our physique, making us bend until we nearly break-all while managing to look as peaceful and easy and effortless as a weeping willow.

Diana is who yells encore until the word starts to feel like a whip through flesh.

Last rehearsal, Diana's command of encore meant doing a piqué arabesque fifty-seven times in a row. My feet bled at the end. No one cares when your feet bleed here. Honestly, to see a track of bloody footprints down the glossy floors of the halls is no more suspicious than grass and dirt in the locker room after a football game.

The week before that, encore meant doing échappés until the entire bottom half of my body went numb.

If beauty is pain, then becoming art is torture.

Never-ending torture too. It has taken me twenty years and counting to hold my hands correctly, and every single day I am still told that a finger is out of place. Usually it's my thumb, jutting out just a bit too much. I catch a glimpse of it on a rare moment when I am not thinking about the stage and my body, and the relationship between them. I hate my thumb. I hate it like it's out to get me. And in a way, it is. I'm supposed to have control of it and yet . . . I don't.

My fucking thumb.

And, of course, it doesn't stop there. I privately sneer or glare at every inch of my body. It's not just me who does this. It's every dancer. We glare and find fault in the mirror and in one another-like predators looking for weaknesses in prey.

I loathe the extra millimeter around my hip bones that forms when I'm retaining water before my period. The greyish-blue discoloration beneath my eyes from practicing too late into the night and waking again too early. And later I will glower at my heel for daring to grow a blister when what I need is calloused, tough skin that looks as smooth yet still as hard as a porcelain doll.

We wait for our entrance music. Diana is already poised to dislike the performance and ask for another before we have even begun.

I join hands with the three other swans. None of us groaning or letting on to the others that we are worn too thin to go again. They smile just as placidly as I do and stand as upright and solidly as ice sculptures.

The combination we are being told to do again is, I must admit, absolutely essential to get right. It is the Dance of the Cygnets, also known as the Little Swans. The beauty of it lies entirely in its hypnotizing synchronicity. The four of us dance in complete unison for a little more than ninety seconds, our feet moving so effortlessly that we almost seem to float. Our gazes moving at the same rate, the effort and concentration never appearing on our smooth, placid, pleasant faces. And it ends with a final arabesque to the knee.

An arabesque that must be hit by all four swans at the exact same moment, nothing short of mirror images. The height, the balance, the momentary suspension between the leg and the floor must be exactly the same.

The music has still not begun, so we wait.

I think of the half-empty box of Sobranie cigarettes in my bag. I want one so badly I could almost run off the stage and go to them like a comforting lover.

Dance of the Cygnets is a crucial lesson for a ballerina, not that all of us get the chance to dance it, much less dance it until we are filled with rage. It's a lesson in humility. The goal is not to stand out, or even to be seen as an individual beside other individuals. The aim is to become part of a moving machine. A four-part monster with many limbs moving together. A machine with pistons, not four girls with minds of their own and even tensions and feelings between them that should prevent them from something as intimate as touching, or as cooperative as being synchronized.

I used to yearn to be singled out. The old me would be craving individual celebration for being the best of the four. And so I recognize it in my fellow dancers, I can see that that's what they want.

It's such a difficult balance of trust and faith in the others-if one of us indulges our need to be seen, then the dance is ruined and we all look bad. But logic is not involved when they fantasize about Diana's bark turning to cooing praise, acknowledging and celebrating the dedication, talent, the fine lines, and the beauty. It's the craving not just to be lauded but to be elevated above the others.

"Stop," Tess bites at Alicia. "You're squeezing my hand too hard."

"I wouldn't have to if you could keep up," Alicia snaps back.

"We could all be done with this shit if Tess would stop holding her arabesque longer than everyone," I say.

"Seriously, it's so obviously on purpose," says Alicia.

"I have no idea what you're talking about; I'm simply doing it right."

Tess has the nerve to sound truly dismissive and patient with us.

It's obscene. We all know what she's doing, including her.

"Shh!" Inga hisses.

The music begins, and our cue approaches.

Inga begins to quietly count under her breath to help us move as one.

The music and her counting fade into my periphery as I count along in my head.

I must be perfect. But not because I want to be praised. Only because I want to get off the stage. And perfection is the only way to be free.

We do seven piqué passés across the floor.

1 and 2 and 3 and 4 and 5 and 6 and 7, fifth hold.

Then right into sixteen fast emboîtés. Inga's count quickens as my own does.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, and . . . piqué arabesque to the knee.

Hold . . . release.

Then Tess releases. A little late. Again.

"Encore! As one! Allez!" says Diana.

We all breathe and release for the few seconds we have.

"Tess, I swear to god-" I begin, not even sure how to end my threat.

Tess blinks a few times and looks down.

Alicia looks shocked. "Are you going to cry?"

There is an invisible shadow of anger in Alicia's question-if someone is going to have an emotion besides silent seething or whispered sniping, then we will be set back even further.

"No!" A tinge of rose appears in Tess's cheeks. It is so sheer that I might be the only one among us all who can see it. I know what she's feeling because I know the feeling. She, like I would be, is offended at the very idea that she might cry in front of the company.

I roll my eyes at this. How do they have time to give such a shit?

And we go again, the...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2023
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 059363814X
• ISBN 13: 9780593638149
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 336
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: preigu; mail@preigu.de; ; Lengericher Landstr. 19; Osnabrück; 49078; Deutschland