The Art of Falling by Kathryn Craft Read Free Book Online Page B

yanked from under me? I grabbed the linens from her and whipped around fast enough that my good elbow hit Dmitri with a satisfactory snap. I was so bruised already it was like using mincemeat as a weapon, but the poster crashed to the floor.
    My mother stared down at the web of broken glass over Dmitri’s face, her mouth agape. I shook with a torrent of emotion: pain and rage mixed with an equally disturbing desire to laugh.
    “Oops,” I finally said, and let myself into my room.

CHAPTER SIX
    Dmitri DeLaval. Dmitri DeLaval.
    I used to love hearing him say his name. A quick two-syllable climb up a mountain and a three-syllable slide back down. I never would have met him if Bebe Browning had accepted me into her company, as was my hope. But years of studying with her and teaching for her never resulted in an invitation. Finally, after graduating from the University of the Arts, I worked up the nerve to broach the subject.
    “Is that what you’re hanging out here for?” Bebe, as Miss Browning now insisted I call her, had finished fitting her company members for new costumes and was rolling her measuring tape. “You wouldn’t fit in. Performers like you command the stage. You’re solo material.”
    “Then why can’t you give me solos?”
    “You wouldn’t be happy here. Not for long. You’re a creative, darling. Your name will be in lights. My girls are just dancers.”
    I couldn’t believe it. Another teacher was cutting me loose. And this time—because I was too good?
    “Come on, Bebe.”
    She reached up to grab me by the shoulders—I was taller by a head—and nailed me with her pale blue eyes. When she spoke, I caught glimpses of the discolored front tooth she tried so hard to conceal. “You need to move to New York.”
    “But I work here—”
    “You’re fired.” She picked up her clipboard, ripped off a piece of paper, and scrawled a phone number onto it. “I have a friend who juggles sublets. She should be able to hook you up with another dancer for housing.”
    “You can’t do this to me.”
    The green caftan she wore over her dance clothes swept the floor behind her as she moved to the door. “Consider this sparrow pushed from the nest. You have a brilliant career ahead of you. Go. Dance.”
    I showed up for work the next day—at least I peeked through the window, still unsure of whether or not she was joking—but someone else was preparing to teach my advanced modern class.
    Once I got settled in New York, I learned just how inconsequential my college degree in dance would be. I combed websites and trade publications for opportunities and tackled auditions. I managed to score a few special projects as a pickup dancer, but nothing with a contract. I watched my first roommate come and go as she won a position with a modern dance company in the Midwest.
    Frequent callbacks provided enough hope to try again. I was so close. But hope couldn’t pay the rent: I needed a dependable job to support my career. Even after replacing my departed roommate as sales associate at the Capezio dancewear store, I couldn’t afford to live alone.
    I again contacted Bebe’s friend. This time she sent me Suzanna Franke, who dreamed of Broadway by day and waited tables by night. She never worked as an actress the entire time we lived together, but she lived the life of an actor wannabe and that was enough for her.
    I wanted more.
    During one of our Sunday evening phone calls, I admitted to my mother that I could no longer afford to take classes. I’d been signing up for any free audition I could, just to stay in shape.
    “Are you eating?”
    “Enough.” I’d had two plums for dinner.
    The phone was quiet for a few moments. “Mom? Are you still there?”
    “I was figuring. I can do it. I’ll pay for your classes.”
    “I’m twenty-two years old. I don’t want a handout.”
    “Call it philanthropy, then. Listen, Nureyev wasn’t much older than you when he defected to Paris with all of ten bucks in his