“Don’t worry about your bags, the doorman will take them up. Here, c’mon, let me give you the tour.”

The gold elevator doors sealed us in and the round button bearing the title “PH” for penthouse lit automatically. I leaned back against the wall.

“Now, Mimi and Papa’s home isn’t the ordinary New York apartment. It’s a little bigger.”

“Yeah, I got that” I laughed.

I knew Elliot’s grandparents were wealthy; they were well-known names in the theatre industry of New York City. They were the theatre directors of Lincoln Center’s Vivian Beaumont theatre, which had been in their family since its opening in 1965 and still was, more than 50 years later. It was a one thousand eighty seat performance hall which had been showcasing New York City’s best ballet performances since Joffrey Ballet’s debut of Gerald Arpino’s “Reflections”.

The Beaumont’s were like New York royalty. I had met them once, at Elliot’s brother’s high school graduation back in Michigan a year ago, and they liked me I assumed, as they had invited me to stay the summer. Yet their presence always made my eyes grow wide and my tongue would trip over words.

We rode up sixteen floors to the Beaumont’s home, located on Madison Avenue, or “Mad. Ave” as the locals called it, finally reaching the penthouse at the top. The doors opened into a small coatroom. The walls were covered in small mirrors each with different metal plated frames and the wallpaper was white with oriental flowers. I caught tiny reflections on myself in the mirrors around me: snapshots of my bare shoulders, the hem of my white sundress, or the supple flesh right behind my knees. Empty antique birdhouses sat on a table. A coat rack and umbrella holder sat on the opposite side. A yellow door was in the middle. Eliot lifted the corner of the doormat, inscribed, “Beaumont Residence” and took a key from underneath.

Eliot turned the delicate gold door handle and we stepped into the foyer. The spiral staircase obtrusively greeted us, like a strong jarring handshake, and sunlight from the tall windows streamed in, filling the high ceilings and brushing over my long blond hair. My gaze swept from side to side, eyes catching on the glimmers of wealth reeking from every nook. The living room to my right had sunny yellow walls with white crown molding and a stretching window seat at the far end overlooking Central Park. The study, through a doorway in the living room, was darker and sophisticated like aged wine, with bookshelves, sturdy velvet chairs and broad wooden desks. The kitchen was tucked away behind doors to my right, but I could see the dining room around the corner, centered around a rectangular oak table with high-backed chairs and lit by a crystal chandelier. The walls which curved around the spiraling staircase were adorned with photographs and shadow boxes full of expensive treasures.

“Lina, I’m going into the kitchen for some water, would you like anything? I’m parched from the flight over.” Elliot asked.

“Sure, water is perfect. Thank you.” I replied.

I felt off balance as my searching eyes sailed around the penthouse, not looking where I was going but letting my bewilderment take me there. The apartment was ancient, I knew that, and I could tell from the Victorian style of the decoration, yet there was something else lingering in the air. I felt an old nostalgic feeling, the feeling you get when you stumble upon an old photograph or sweater you haven't worn in years. I stood motionless and silent, trying to materialize the feeling, until a deep voice behind me tugged me back into real time, “Miss? Miss, where would you like you bags?”

I turned on the heel of my sandal. “Oh, I can take those. Thank you so much.” I smiled and reached for my suitcases and my dance bag.

The doorman lifted the bags and set them beside the staircase, then tipped his hat and nodded politely.

“Have a wonderful stay in the city this summer, miss. If you need anything, call the front desk and we can provide it for you. And best of luck in your classes at the Joffrey ballet.”

“Thank you so, so much. I appreciate it.” I smiled again warmly and closed the door behind him. Kicking off my sandals and placing them beside the stairs, I bounced across the plush carpets on my tip toes through the French doors to join Elliot in the kitchen.

She walked over to the window to yank up the sash and a relieving breeze from 9th and Christopher Street quickly flowed into the sticky air of the studio. They had been rehearsing the pas de deux in the second act of Gerald Arpino’s “Reflections” for over five hours. The mirrors had collected condensation on them and the surfaces were moist. Corps dancers in their white rehearsal tutus, sat strewn on the floor, collapsed in straddles and slouching against the wooden bars on the side walls. They occasionally fanned themselves and tucked sweaty fly-away hairs behind their ears. Opaline bent to massage her feet, trying to ease the throbbing inside the hard shells of her pointe shoes. Then straightening up, she closed her eyes and moved her head from side to side, stretching the tight muscles in her neck. Taking deep breaths and a short swig of water, she stayed with her eyes closed, trying to snatch a source of strength for the next run-though. But she heard footsteps and her eyes flew open.

The Joffrey company director walked back into the studio, clapped his hands and announced, “Alright everyone, from the top. I need the corps girls in the back to figure out what the hell they do in the last sequence of the finale waltz. I’ve gone over the counts one too many times. It’s taken you long enough. Men, I don’t care how tired you are; I need to see strength and vigor in each movement. And Opaline, relax.” He said,
“You push things too far. Try to make it look easy, not strenuous. Relax into the steps, please. You have the choreography, now breathe it.”

She moved to center stage and took her place. Inhaling then exhaling. The piano accompaniment began and the first notes rapped at her heart, jumping in her chest. Looking out at the mirror, she confronted her exhausted face with determined eyes, and tipped her chin up as she sharply inhaled.

From 71st on Madison Avenue all the way down into the Village at 9th and Christopher, Elliot and I sat on the floor of the third floor studio of the Joffrey building, pulling out bobby pins from our buns in our hair. Following a long day of classes full of nervous bouts of scrutiny, excessive tugging at leotards and withholding from breathing, Elliot and I were drained; we had sweated every ounce of moisture from our bodies leaving our skin salty and our limbs limp. Gazing out the window while we untied shoe ribbons from the tight wrap around our ankles, I said, “It’s been announced that the company is doing a revival of “Reflections” for the final performance. This year’s the 50th anniversary.”

“Yeah, I heard,” Elliot replied, adding, “I also heard a rumor that the director wants to include some of the summer students in the ballet. Like use them as corps members or extras or something.” Eliot zipped her bag. We pulled on sweatpants and slung our bags over our shoulders to walk down the stairs.

“Wow, so you think they’ll be scouting in classes and stuff?” I asked as we exited the studio, cutting into the thick summertime air.

“Probably.” Elliot said as she unscrewed the cap of her water bottle.

“I wanna be in it,” I whispered, biting my lip, then looked over at her, “Gimme some of that,” I said. Reaching for her water bottle I held it above our heads and swiftly turned it upside down, drenching us both. Eliot’s jaw dropped.

“Awww, you b****!” She exclaimed, wiping the water from her eyes. But then she threw her head back and laughed. “You better run, Lina!”

Elliot chased me down 9th street all the way to the station, laughing and tripping the whole way.

Glasses clinked and knives scraped against the white plates of fine China. All of these insignificant noised ricocheted inside her skull, mixed with fragments of conversation from the dinner party. She leaned against the tall backed oak chair, resting her pretty head of blond hair atop her long neck and sipped slowly from her wine glass.
The event was being held in honor of her and the other principal dancers in the Joffrey’s debut piece of “Reflections”. The directors of the new Beaumont theatre were hosting it at their Madison Avenue penthouse. Joffrey was partnering with the Beaumonts. They had formed an alliance to help one another. The debut of “Reflections” was set to perform at the newborn theater in hopes that the excitement of a new ballet would bring floods of people into the venue and produce a hefty sum of money. The general attraction of the new space and ballet, would help firmly establish the New York Joffrey company in the city. It was win-win. The plan was genius, but it troubled Opaline. The show had to be knockout in order to produce the rush of theatergoers. As the female principal lead, she had to carry the spirit of the ballet and the pressure that rested on her shoulders was bruising her and compressing her spine.

Mindlessly gripping the stem of her spoon, she gently blew cool air on the steamy liquid and visualized herself on the stage, dancing “Reflections”. She could feel the imaginary hands of her pas de deux partner pressing into her hips and the whistle of the wind past her ears as she jumped across the floor in her mind. The corps dancers circulated her on the stage and in their simple white costumes they became ghost-like, until they were reduced to waltzing orbs. She stared blankly into space, entranced by the images of her imagination, until a hand on her shoulder startled her.

The sudden jolt back into reality made her loose her grip on the spoon and some spilled onto her lap. The liquid ran down her bare leg, scalding her skin, before she lept up and reached for a napkin. She knocked over her chair. The other guests stared. She looked down at her leg, the pale skin marked bright red with a burn. She looked back up at all the people sitting at the long table. Her long diamond earrings bobbed against her neck. Struggling to retain her grace, she smiled politely and apologized. She smoothed her dress skirt. The wait men left to grab her ice. The Joffrey director stood from the head of the table.

“Well, seeing that you’ve brought our crowd’s attention to yourself,” he joked, and a soft chuckle from the masses echoed his attitude, “I propose a toast.”

He raised his glass and the other guests followed.

“Opaline, you exhibit a youth and beauty unprecedented. In a class, all your own, the quality you have brought to the company is truly unique. We stumbled across your talent just a year ago at company auditions, and we knew you would become an instant star. “Reflections” is a piece of choreography that is demanding both physically and mentally. We knew we needed to pick wisely for the part of our lead. You have worked so hard, nearly too hard, and I know the ballet will be extraordinary because of you. Best of luck tomorrow. I have great faith in you. To the woman who will lead “Reflections” to success. To Opaline.”

“To Opaline,” the voices surrounding her cluttered the air and white teeth flashed her direction. She nodded politely and under the table she ran a hand over the blistering skin.

The Beaumont couple stood and requested for a photograph of the evening’s festivities. It was a monumental event in the Lincoln Center history and it must be preserved. Opaline stood beside the Joffrey director and her pas de deux partner with the Beaumonts to the left. The photographer counted down from three.

Two, One. The flash blinded Opaline, the white light burned through to the back of her eyelids.

It was as Elliot and I sat at the kitchen table Monday afternoon, taking turns stealing handfuls of blueberries from the carton, when we heard the elevator doors ding open. Footsteps echoed in the foyer. The feet paused. Silence stretched across the air. Elliot called out, “Hello?”

More footsteps. She called again, “Hello, who’s there?” Unfolding herself from the chair she rose and walked through the hallway. I followed her and we pushed through the French doors into the foyer. A woman’s figure stepped from the coatroom.

“Surprise!” We came home early!” Mimi threw her hands over her head. She was a small, thin, and sharply dressed woman. You would never catch Mimi without a pressed button down shirt and high heels on her feet. Papa, a stout man with round eye glasses emerged from the elevator and walked into the foyer, setting down his weekend bag.

“The Hamptons were getting a little drab and Mimi and I wanted to see you girls. It’s not everyday we have two young beautiful dancers to entertain.” Papa chimed in, smoothing his tie. Mimi reached toward Elliot to pull her into a hug, and she was so short that Elliot had to bend over. Mimi pulled away and looked at me, cocking her head to the side.

“Well, Lina, aren’t we privileged to see you again. And have you in our home. I hope New York has been treating you well so far?” She put her hand on my back and led us into the kitchen.

Hours later, it was late in the evening, and the four of us sat in the study after diner, talking. Papa called this, “sitting soft”. We sat in our diner clothes poised, as he smoked a cigar and we drank mixed alcoholic drinks from short crystal glasses, the ice clinking against the sides. Mimi was recounting stories from her first years in New York City, reminiscing animatedly about her success as a young theatre director with Papa.

“You know, girls, we even had dinner with that Joffrey legend once, you know, Opaline. The one that passed. Bless her heart. She was in this very apartment. Years ago. It was actually quite the evening. We were hosting of course. It was the eve of the big debut, “Reflections”. You know that one?” Mimi asked.

“Actually, Joffrey is setting a revival this summer. They might even put some of the students into the ballet.” I replied, setting my glass on a coaster on the table beside me. I leaned forward, elbows on knees and chin in hands.

“Oh how exciting! That’s quite interesting.” Mimi exclaimed, clapping her hands.
Then she continued, “Well, Opaline was a guest of honor and the poor thing seemed so distracted all evening. Probably nervous. We all knew how much pressure she was under, and at such a young age.” Mimi laid a hand over her heart.

Papa exhaled a string of smoke, “She was very quiet. Detached from conversation. Very strange girl. Very beautiful and talented, but very strange.”

“Yes, she was, wasn’t she? Well, right in the middle of the first course, she spilled her soup on her lap, probably burned herself. The accident caused quite the scene.” Mimi’s eyes grew wide, as she got into the story.

“She even knocked over her chair.” Papa said.

“Yes well, there was a nice toast and everyone soon forgot about it. Wait, do we still have that photo, dear?”

“The one of Opaline and us? Why, I think we do.”

“I want to show the girls, dear. Will you go look for it, please? You girls would like to see, wouldn't you?” We nodded and smiled nicely.

“Darling, I think it’s on the wall near the staircase. Check there!” Mimi called.

Papa returned moments later with an old silver Tiffany’s picture frame, about the size of a small novel. He dusted off the top and sides by blowing on the frame and held it out to take a look. He looked at the image as if he had never seen it before. His eyes became lost in the photograph and his eyes glazed over. Seconds passed, and he was still standing, staring, until Elliot stood.

“Papa, can we see it?” She extended an out reached hand and he passed it to her. Her lips parted and a gasp slipped through. She turned and looked at me, then back at the photo, whispering something under her breath.

“What is it? May I see?” I asked, getting up to sit on the arm of her chair. I peered over her shoulder to look down at the photo.

A young woman with long blond hair stood at the center with her long arms dangling at her sides. She barely smiled, her full dark lips curling at the sides. She looked directly into the camera lenses, seemingly unaware of the other people surrounding her. Her eyes seemed to shoot through to the back of the lenses, like lasers piercing through iron. She was wearing a simple short white shift dress. Looking closely, I could see a faint mark on the inside of her right thigh. A burn?

Mimi walked over and sat on the other arm of Elliot’s chair. She pointed down at the frame, at the young woman in the middle.

“There’s Opaline. She stands right out, doesn't she? You could pick her out from anywhere, even though there aren't many photos of her. I absolutely loved watching her on stage. She was a favorite of mine. She just draws your eyes to her.”

We nodded, unable to peel our eyes from the picture. Mimi was right.

Suddenly Mimi looked up at me. Her jerky movement startled me and I looked back at her, confused. Her eyes brows pulled together, like closing stage curtains and she brought a hand to her face, covering her mouth. Her index finger rested under her nose.

“What, Mimi?”

“It’s just that, you... I’m finding that with your hair and your eyes, and you're both so pale. You look just like her. Like Opaline.” Elliot and Papa slowly turned their faces to study mine. Their stares raised goose bumps on my skin. I felt a sort of breeze running through my pores. And as I looked back down into Opaline’s eyes, my hand fell to my right thigh. I ran my fingers over the inside of my leg, feeling the slightly raised skin of a birth mark.

The Joffrey director finished giving his critiques of the previous dress rehearsal and the dancers cleared the stage. Lifting tired bodies from their sprawling positions on the floor, lounging in the splits, or stretching calves, they rose and left to disappear in their dressing rooms to prepare for the night’s performance. Although, exhausted, an electric current ran through each dancer’s bones. Charged by the anticipation of the ballet’s debut, each was connected to their fellow company member by a bond of equal anxiety, but a joyous anxiety, which made the air of the theatre they paced vibrate and the floor they stepped upon tremble.

Opaline walked in silence back towards her dressing room. She winced with each step, the stiffness of her new pointe shoes scraping against the skin of her toes. Reaching the door of her private dressing room, she leaned against the door and fell through.
Catching herself on the edge of the counter, she sat on the surface, avoiding eye contact in the mirror behind her. Lifting one foot up, gingerly, apprehensive of the destruction beneath the spotless silk, she slowly untied the ribbons and peel the shoe off. The pale pink fabric of her tights was stained with blotchy streaks of red. Her sores had opened and bled through. Removing the tights, she reached for the water nozzle of the sink to her left and ran the water. After taking off her other shoe to reveal more torn skin, she then lifted both feet and placed them beneath the faucet. Icy water ran over her feet, the coldness sent shocks up the backs of her legs, through the flesh, through the muscle to the bone, sending an acute string of pain down her spine. She shivered and bowed her head, resting her skull between her knees.

“Ow, Ow. Hey! Slow down, Elliot! I’m dying back here!” I called out to the back of Elliot’s head as I hobbled, dragging my feet across the white lines on the cement. With each step I imagined the blisters on my toes growing more and more agitated, the skin tearing further. We had auditioned for parts in “Reflections” today. Although we expected the Joffrey company members to get the lead roles, we still busted our butts. I had never jumped higher, turned faster, or kicked my legs as high. Elliot turned around.

“Sorry, I just want to get home. I’m exhausted.” She waited for me to catch up.

“I know me too. It’s been a long day. I just wanna get these shoes off. You know what? At this point, I’d even consider cutting my feet off.” I joked, but I was really in a lot of pain. I had been dancing my whole life and had endured plenty of blisters and episodes of bloodied feet, but I had never felt this much pain in my feet before.

We had reached the Christopher street station, and went down the stairs descending into the sticky hot underground world. We pulled out our little yellow Metro cards from our wallets and swiped them to push through the turnstiles. The metal bar pressed into my hip bones. I turned left and walked against the wall to sit on a bench, across from the darkened trenches where the subway cars ran. I was sitting about three yards away from the edge of the platform, with my feet planted firmly on the ground, yet the trembles in the ground before an approaching train, like a racing pulse, made the soft place behind my knees wrinkle and give out from under me. I liked to sit far from the edge.

Elliot turned around and waved for me to come stand with her. The station was getting crowded. People were catching their train home after work. It was about that time.

“Hey, Lina, our train is about here and it looks like its gonna be a tight squeeze. Come over here and wait. You’ll never be able to get on, waiting back there.”

I knew she was right, but I hesitated to stand. Making sure the buckles on my sandals were surely clasped around my aching feet. I walked cautiously to join her. A yellow strip about a foot thick painted at the very fringe of the platform marked the danger zone- the line that if crossed meant you were putting yourself in harm’s way. Elliot’s left foot had crossed the yellow stripe.

I grabbed her wrist and said, “Hey, be careful there,” pointing at the yellow line. She smiled at me, like I was a child, and giggled.

“Lina, relax. I’m not going to fall into the pit of death if my foot crosses a yellow line.” I must have still looked unsure though, because she added, “I promise,” and a pat on my shoulder.

We stood waiting for another minute as more and more people came poured into the station. I stood still and kept my focus up. I hated when people bumped into my shoulder, or knocked my bag. I felt like I was going to tumble over. They kept coming though. I felt overwhelmed and claustrophobic. Each bump and each knock pushed me further and further to paranoia. My feet were just a few inches from the yellow line. I hated myself for doing it, but I peered down into the tunnel, wishing the train would get here sooner.

My breathing had quickened and I began to wince and cast sideways looks, irritated that people kept knocking me over and pushing me further and further towards the edge of the platform. I was getting closer to the black trench, closer to falling.

Opaline sat crossed legged on her chair staring at herself in the mirror of her dressing room. She had completed her makeup and her blond hair was slicked back tightly in a bun. She wore her simple white costume, just a leotard and a skirt and had tied her shoes on tightly, even taking a needle and thread to sew the ribbons in place.
There was no noise in her dressing room and she just sat, staring into her own eyes. A light rap on the door made her snap her head around. It was the sound someone makes with knocking their knuckles on the wood surface.

“Come in,” said Opaline.

The handled turned and a small woman wearing a headset, slid her face through the crack, her pointy nose announcing, “Five minutes until curtain, Miss Opaline.” Opaline nodded and unfolded herself from her perch in the chair then followed the woman down the hall to the stage wings. The backstage area was dimly lit, and the woman made sure Opaline found her place before she left her.

Alone, Opaline stood in the curtain wings, listening to the intermixing of voices belonging to each of the one thousand eighty audience members awaiting the start of the performance. In the dark, her senses seemed to be exponentially acute: the volume of each singular voice was heightened, each raised hair on her arm she felt, more closely, and every muscle in her body flexed harder. The curtain would open in about thirty seconds. Opaline took deep breaths. She had learned throughout her years as a dancer that from either side of the curtain, the emotions were apprehensiveness and anticipation. The audience members soaked in the general atmosphere of a lighthearted curiosity, unsure, but excited about what they were about to see. The performer behind the curtain was anxious, knowing every move perfectly but fearing the nakedness of sharing something so vulnerable, their artwork. Yet when the curtain moves, Opaline knew well, that the audience and the dancers alike, always take in a quick breath, inhaling a small jolt of life.

It was nine o’clock on a Friday evening, Elliot had gone upstairs to change for bed, and I was helping Mimi put away the drinks. We had been talking about the auditions for “Reflections”. Mimi wanted to know all that had gone on in our first week at Joffrey, but Elliot had left, seemingly bored of the conversation or just tired, and I ceased talking. I wanted to talk about something else.

Just the noise of dishes clanking against one another in the sink echoed off the walls of the kitchen. A few more moments of this fractured silence passed, until I opened my mouth.

“Mimi,” I inquired, “I have been meaning to ask you something. I have been a little curious after Monday’s diner. I just want to know, I mean, only if you know and can share, because it sort of seemed like a tender subject. But I thought I might ask. How did Opaline die?” I set down a glass and looked at her face. My eyes widened. She raised her eyes and met mine. Mimi looked down briefly breaking from my level gaze while she sighed, but then looked back up.

“Opaline was killed by a subway train. It was just minutes after the finish of the debut performance at our theatre.” Mimi finished her sentence, then turned around and washed her hands, dried them, and left the kitchen.

That night as I was walking up the spiral staircase to head off to bed, I passed the photograph of Opaline at the diner Mimi and Papa hosted. I stopped and studied the image. She had long blond hair. I had long blond hair. She was pale. I was pale. She had long dancer limbs. I had long dancer limbs. She burned the inside of her right thigh. I had a birthmark on the inside of my right thigh. She had died by getting hit by a subway train. I was afraid of subway trains. She had walked along the floors of this very home, about fifty years ago and now I am sleeping in the bedroom upstairs.

I realized how long I had been standing in front of the photograph when a sharp pain from my feet began to ignite under the tissue and spread through my ankle bones. I reached down to massage the tops of my feet, but abruptly crumbled on the carpeted stairs, falling to a sitting position. Holding my feet, I drew in a jagged breath and my jaw trembled. Resting my head on my knees, I could see Opaline hanging on the wall out of the corner of my eye.

The last note of the ballet rang out from the orchestra pit, reverberating on the walls of the theatre. Opaline stood posed, her gaze directed upward into the filled theatre, the only movement on stage was the rise and fall of her chest as she struggled to catch her breath. Thick velvet curtains descended, closing the space between the roaring audience and Opaline. The last inch of curtain came together, sealing Opaline into reality. She deflated from her pose. The uproar from the audience grew louder, she knew they were standing on their feet now, creating thunder and building the storm. The overwhelm from within the theater mounted higher. Walls, from the sides and back, seemed to be closing in on the rectangular space of the stage. The architecture shrunk, the structure distorting and closing inward, Opaline felt panicked and exited the stage. She picked up her pace, from a swift walk on her long legs to a jog. She moved faster down the hallway, her feet one after the other, now running. She pushed through her dressing room door and undressed. Leaving her costume and stained pointe shoes on the counter top, she dressed in her street clothes. Pulling on her jeans, her tank top, her shoes, putting her bag over her shoulders and fastening her watch on her wrist, she wanted to leave. She didn’t want to run into anyone on her way out and she didn’t want to see the other company members on their way home at the Lincoln Center station. She left through the back entrance and stepped into the city night air. She took off running downtown.

I awoke the next morning, groggy, with memories of the night before reduced to crusty bits in the corner of my eyes. I had fallen asleep on the stairs, where Elliot found me hours later when she had gone downstairs in the middle of the night to get water. I don’t remember falling asleep there, or Elliot helping me up to our room. I do remember though, the terrible dreams I kept having. The sort of dream in which something really awful is happening, but you are fully aware of the horror and find yourself instructing your dreaming self to beware of the terrible thing. You hear yourself. You‘ve received the commands to avoid this thing, yet for some reason you keep going and disobey yourself. I couldn't remember the plot of my dream, only that it was awful.

I wasn’t hungry for breakfast that morning, and I left Mimi and Papa’s without eating anything. I felt sick on the subway. I sat with by eyes blurring over and my stomach churning. Elliot, looked over at me and asked if I was alright. I nodded.

“You know they post the casting list for “Reflections” today,” Elliot attempted to involve me in conversation. I nodded again. My focus lost its adherence and my eyes sloppily followed the dark shadows passing in the subway windows.

Opaline ran faster. She passed storefronts and turned her head to notice her body blurring into streaks of white in their glass surfaces. Her legs hurled her forward, wildly, frantically, undertaking strides of great lengths. She dodged taxis, impatiently surging ahead. She weaved through people on the street, not looking to avoid them, but pass through the absent spaces they left. She crossed 59th past Columbus Circle, she moved through masses at 42nd Street times Square, she passed through Chelsea and the Madison Square Garden, she even ran through Union Square, but still, her legs moved her further.

Elliot and I climbed the stairs to reach the Joffrey studios. My ankle bones were still shaking as if I was still on the subway. On the way over, I was falling in and out of sleep on the train, catching glimpses of my dream. As we walked over, I felt like my heat was floating atop of my body. So much was swirling around within my skull, making me preoccupied and removed from reality. The usual humid air of the New York city summer did not cling to my bare skin but wafted over, like dry ice. I reached the top of the stairs, my breath heavy.

A group of dancers stood gathered around a bulletin board which displayed a single sheet of white paper. Black text was typed across in small neat letters. It was the cast list for “Reflections”. I couldn't see from so far away. I dropped my dance bag on the floor and strode over. I still couldn’t see.

The girls gasped and some groaned. Others jaws dropped and some walked away with their arms crossed over their chests. It was all like some choreographed tragedy, played out to feature grotesque characterizations of humans ugliest emotions. As I walked closer, the girls who had turned around eyed me, rammed my shoulders as they brushed past me, raised their eyebrows, scoffed, and bit their lips. I looked down, confused, then over my left shoulder, over my right shoulder, but the looks kept coming.

Leaning forward to see the list, the small words finally came into focus. From the top, it listed corps members then as it went down the roles became increasingly more prominent. I searched through the corps list, looking for my name, but not finding it. I searched again. Then once more. I was going to turn around and walk away when I saw at the very bottom, printed in small black letters under the title “Reflections Female Principle lead” : L-i-n-a.

Opaline had run all the way down into the Village. She had traveled more than fifty blocks on her blistered feet. She walked across 9th and Christopher, feeling the ache in her muscles settling in. She turned on the street corner and headed towards the Christopher Street station, tired. She melted down the steps, sweaty, and reached the bottom of the flight. The station was empty; the train had just begun moving away. Opaline saw faces of strangers pressed against windows and palms spread against the doors to hold themselves up in the crowded subway car. She had just missed it. Opaline stood as the train pulled away, gaining speed and making the ground quiver.

Horrified, I couldn’t lift my feet from their place in front of the casting list.

“Lina! Oh my god, Lina! You’ve been cast as the principal.” Elliot ran from behind me and threw her arms around me. I didn’t move. Coldly, I didn’t return any compassion by placing my arms over hers.

“What’s wrong with you? Why aren’t you excited? Lina, you’ve got Opaline’s role.” Elliot was confused, hurt. I hated myself for doing this, but it happened too fast and I didn’t have time to take it back, to change it.

I threw my arms up, ripping hers from her embrace. I whipped around and began to scream.

“No. No. This isn’t for me. I’m her. Don’t you get it. Don’t you see it. The casting is wrong. Everything is wrong.” My voice became larger than my body. It shook the walls and bounced off every surface, causing destruction.

“I was cast because I’m her. I have her hair. I have her skin. Her legs. I was burned too. My leg has a birthmark, but its really her scar. And I’m afraid. The train. I’m her. I am Opaline.” I was shrieking and I saw Elliot shaking her head. I grabbed her shoulders and shook her. She didn’t see. She needed to see. I looked at her hard. Shook her again.

“Elliot, the photograph! Elliot, you know. You saw it didn’t you?” I screamed again, breath exiting my lungs. I hyperventilated and couldn’t replace the oxygen fast enough.






~~~

Opaline stood in the barren Christopher street station. Impatiently, she stepped towards the yellow line at the edge of the platform. I fainted.






~~~

They say people who die of tragic deaths are most often reincarnated.