Page 11 of Count Down

Finally, they come to the part we haven’t heard yet: company promotions. Alvaro takes the mic from the emcee. I set my fork down on my plate and fold my hands in my lap. I take a deep breath. I’ve tried not to think about it. But it’s here.

First, he announces the new principal dancers, then the new male soloists. After what seems like forever, they get to what I’m waiting to hear.

“We have three females moving from corps to soloist this year,” Alvaro announces. “Please congratulate the following newest Philadelphia Ballet Theater soloists; Aaliyah Johnson, Madelyn Singh, and Cara Weber.”

The audience applauds. I hear Cara squeal two tables over. Fuck. I didn’t get it.

Archie turns to look at me. Not out of concern, though. He looks like he’s bursting to say ‘I told you so.’ He’s actually happy about it. Like it’s what I deserve because he found me with Luca. He doesn’t give a shit who I am or what this means to me. He thinks I’m a spoiled little princess who cries when she doesn’t get her way. I’m not. But I am about to cry.

I put my napkin on my plate and slide out from my chair. I head to the exit hoping nobody will notice. I go out through the hallway into the lobby and then break into a jog. I make it just outside the front door before the tears come pouring down.

11

LUCA

It’s almost tooconvenient having the lobby completely open to myself. I head right to the stairs to find out what’s underneath them, how they’re constructed, and see what I’ve got to work with.

The Academy of Music opened in 1857. You never know what you can find with a building this old. I inspect the stairs that I followed Nicoletti down. They’re enclosed underneath. I circle my way around to see if there’s a small room or any opening into the area under the stairs.

In the hall that leads to the restrooms and the stairway to the lower level, I find a small door. It’s about where the back of the stairs would be, so it’s safe to assume this is some kind of storage space under the stairs. The door is shorter than one that would lead to a normal-sized room.

I try the handle and it doesn’t turn. I pull out my wallet and retrieve my lock pick set. It doesn’t take much effort. I simply catch the latch between the door and its jamb and pull it open. I didn’t even need to pick the lock itself.

I peek inside. It’s dark and there’s no light switch. I put the set and my wallet away and take out my phone and turn on its flashlight. It’s a small, cramped storeroom. I see extra chairs, sign stands, velvet rope stanchions. Nothing valuable, making sense of the weak lock on the door. I step inside and pull the door mostly closed.

The ceiling of the room slopes at the same angle as the stairs. I can see the skeleton of the framework that supports the stairs above and the bare wood of each step. I take a few pictures for reference. This could work. It wouldn’t be hard to alter a step from within here to make someone trip. The trick would be making sure that it makes the right person trip in the right way.

After I’ve got enough pictures, I turn my phone’s light off and squeeze back out of the closet. I close the door behind me, re-locking it.

I’m making my way back out to the lobby when I hear hurried footsteps echo across the lobby floor. I pause and peek through the glass doors back into the lobby.

It’s Gina. She’s running out the front entrance. She looks upset. I wait, but nobody follows her.

I walk out into the lobby, expecting one of the other dancers or maybe Archie to chase after her. Still nobody.

With a mixture of concern and curiosity, I follow her outside. I don’t see Gina anywhere immediately, so I walk toward an alley down the side of the theater and look around the corner. There I see her leaning against the brick wall of the theater about halfway down. She’s crying.

I walk quietly toward her. As I get closer, I can hear her sobs. She senses me and looks up, startled. “Oh!” Then she recognizes me, sniffs, and wipes the tears from her eyes. “Sorry… I…”

“Are you okay?” I ask her.

“Yeah. I just…” She wipes the last tears from her face. “It’s just stupid.”

I remember the pain I saw in her performance. The pain that looked very real. I realize I didn’t see it when she was giving me the tour earlier tonight. I doubt I can make her feel better. I’m not someone people come to for comfort. But I suddenly wish I was.

“What happened?” I ask.

She takes a breath and then sighs. “I didn’t make soloist.”

“Was that really important to you?”

“It… I… It wasn’t so much that I wanted to be a soloist. I’m fine with being in the corps another year. But,” she presses her palms to her eyes as she takes a deep breath. “I really think my father will make me quit the company. He wants me to go to college and get arealjob. If I had made soloist, I think I’d have some proof that I should stay in the company another year.”

“Why does it matter what he thinks?” I try not to sound like I’m judging her.

“I still live with my parents. I know if I don’t do what they want, they’ll stop supporting me. I’m not sure if I could afford to live on my own and stay in the company.”

I hear how trapped she feels in her voice. She doesn’t view her parents’ support as a benefit. She sees it as a leash. A gilded cage. A deal she had no say in accepting. I’ve always looked at people in her situation as spoiled or entitled. But I actually feel a little sympathy for her. I know I wouldn’t let someone else make my decisions in exchange for room and board, no matter how glamorous it was.