After Swan Lae

If you haven't read the prologue, you probably should.

Wednesday, May 8

I made good progress on the history assignment, and we were well into tech rehearsals. I packed up slowly at the end of history, so I was one of the last students left in the classroom.

As I walked up to his desk, Mr. Delacourt gave me a warm, but totally professional smile.

"Hi Mr. Delacourt, I wanted to let you know I'm making good progress on the research project, and rehearsals have been going really well too."

"I'm glad to hear it. How far along are you with the assignment?"

"I think I managed to finish the introduction, and I have the first two sections outlined."

"That's good to hear. Just make sure you get it done, because I can't extend the deadline any farther."

I nodded vigorously, "Of course, Mr. Delacourt."

"By the way, you never told me your topic."

"Oh, r-right," I stammered a little. I wasn't expecting a detailed conversation about the project. "It's about the rise of industrial manufacturing--and the world wars. How industrial-scale violence became inevitable once they started mass-producing the tools of war."

He looked at me thoughtfully, with maybe a hint of skepticism. "That's pretty complex."

"I know, but I have all of the main beats figured out," I replied. "I never could've finished it by Friday though. At least not well."

"Well, I'm looking forward to it," he said, starting to gather up his things.

"Actually, Mr. Delacourt, that wasn't why I wanted to talk to you."

He paused, looking at me with his eyebrows raised ever so slightly.

Until that moment, I hadn't taken notice of his eyes. Not really.

They're this deep, dark blue. Inky, you might call them. They were mysterious, beguiling. They held my focus.

Later, I would learn every detail of those eyes, but in that moment his look sent my stomach fluttering. I struggled to maintain my composure.

I started stammering again. It couldn't have been more than a second or two, but it felt like an hour. I think he found it endearing, but I was fighting to spit out a coherent thought.

"I was thinking... I really appreciate the extra time--to work on the assignment? And it would be really cool if you came to the show Saturday. Since that's the whole reason for the extension. I mean--if you're into that sort of thing. I can never get my friends to come, especially guys."

I kept my breathing under control, and my heart couldn't have been going more than 180 beats per minute.

"I can leave a tickets at the box office for you," I continued, then interrupted myself. "A pair of tickets, I mean--for you... and your wife?"

He gave me an inscrutable look in response. It wasn't quite a smile, but it wasn't anything else either. I knew he was married, but nothing beyond that basic fact. A lot of the other teachers would mention personal details in class and conversation, but he didn't. He would answer personal questions if anyone asked, but only answered the specific question and never elaborated.

"One ticket would be fine Shelly," he replied. "She won't be able make it."

My mind was still trying to process the look, so I didn't respond immediately. Once my ears passed the message along, my face lit up. "One ticket! Great, you got it. It'll be waiting for you at the will call window, just tell them you're my guest."

"Great," he said brightly. "I'll see you there."

"Thanks Mr. Delacourt, I'm really glad you're coming. I'll make sure it's a good show."

I hastily left the classroom and tried not to hyperventilate.

###

Saturday, May 11

Opening night and the Saturday matinee went well. We worked out a couple little kinks and hiccups, but nothing anyone in the audience would really notice. By Saturday evening, it felt like we were all dialed in.

A disembodied voice from outside the dressing rooms called "Dancers, 15 minutes to places!"

I joined the chorus of voices, "Thank you 15!"

As I was putting the finishing touches on my hair and makeup, a girl passed through the dressing room with a basket. The younger dancers who weren't performing in the show helped out with production, concessions, and merchandise, including selling and delivering cast notes from the audience.

"Note for you Miss Shelly," she said, handing me a white flower with card attached.

"Thank you Violet," I said, unfolding the card.

It read, "MERDE (I Googled it.)" and was signed "P.R. DLC" in a familiar hand.

I laughed to myself as I put the flower and card on top of my bag, wondering what the R stood for.

"Dancers, five minutes to places!"

"Thank you five!" I called back, heading toward the stage.

The show was nearly sold out, and it went phenomenally well. The cast was all locked in. The crew nailed every set cue. The spotlight operators brought their A game. I felt completely outside time and space.

After the final scene, I stood waiting just off stage in the eerie blue light. Sweating. My chest still heaving. It was surreal.

I can't adequately describe that moment for someone who's never experienced it. The performance is over, but you haven't taken your bow yet. The curtain is still closed, so all the noise from the house reaches you distantly, as if you're underwater.

Backstage everyone was silent. Tense. It was such a charged, energetic moment that when I looked down at my hands, I half-expected phosphorescence.

The stage lights came up and I heard a faint "Standby curtain," over a nearby headset, followed shortly by "Go curtain."

The rasping sound of the curtain opening was immediately drowned out by a wall of applause. From where I was standing, it looked like most of the audience were already on their feet. My group was the last on stage, just before the principals took their respective bows.

After the curtain closed, someone called "Hold!" Then the curtain opened again, and we all took another two bows. It wasn't something that had ever happened to me before.

Once the curtain closed again, we all stared at each other, mildly stunned. One person from the crew started slowly clapping, joined by a few more people. Then, like some kind of cliche movie ending, everyone--cast and crew--let out a huge, joyous cheer.

I felt tears rolling down my face as I went around hugging and congratulating everyone before eventually making my way back to the dressing room.

I put in my headphones before removing as much makeup as I could. Then I changed into my sweats and started gathering my stuff.

Navigating the come-down off a performance high is really difficult for me. It doesn't matter how well (or poorly) a show goes. If I don't manage it right, I'll be on the floor, in a puddle of my own tears by midnight. Or I'll be awake til dawn; invincible, breathing fire. Tonight was a fire-breathing night. I could feel it in my bones.

I typically use ambient music to ease the transition, and my parents had gotten me new wireless earbuds for Christmas. Despite their diminutive size, they have kick-ass noise canceling and sound quality.

Aphex Twin melted into Brian Eno as I left the dressing room. I was trying to concentrate on my breathing while texting my parents about the show when I hit the stage door.

Outside, my forehead met the finest, softest blue suit jacket I had ever encountered. It was midnight blue, a lovely shade. Lighter than navy, short of mid blue. The fabric had a loose, almost rough weave, but the thread itself was downy soft. I wondered if it was linen.

"Shit. Sorry," I stammered out as I bounced off the other body, dropping my phone. "Fuck."

At this point, I was looking up into the other party's face from about six inches away. His lips (slightly chapped, it seemed) were moving, but my ears were full of Brian Eno.

In short, I was a hot mess. Obviously it was Mr. Delacourt. Before that particular detail made it to my prefrontal cortex, the other, more basic parts of my brain started firing off neurons.

I pulled out one earbud, cutting out the music and noise cancellation. His voice started to make its way through.

"... seen anything like that. It didn't seem possib-" His sentence stopped abruptly with a sharp burst of air.

The aforementioned basic neuronal signals had reached my body, and I wrapped him in a violent hug. I held him tighter, like my life depended on it.

He didn't react right away, but eventually he put an arm around my back. Up high, near my shoulder blades. Totally platonic.

I realized I had been hugging him slightly longer than would be appropriate. (Was hugging appropriate at all?) When I pulled away from him, I realized I had more tears running down my face and started laughing.

"Shelly, are you alright?"

"What? Yeah, no. I mean yes. Fantastic. Elated. I don't think we could've had a better night."

He bent down to pick up my phone and hand it back to me. We were standing really close. He smelled really good, intoxicating, but I couldn't accurately describe the scent.

"I'm glad. You were amazing."

"Thanks for coming tonight Mr. Delacourt. It means so much to me. Nobody ever comes to these--I mean, my parents do, but they've been coming to everything since I was little. They have to."

"Well I never knew what I was missing. I signed up for the email list and everything."

"Did you really enjoy it? Be honest, you won't hurt my feelings. I know a lot of guys get bored."

"No, the whole show was spectacular, and

you

were enthralling."

I felt the color rising in my face, and was grateful for the dim light outside the theatre. (Did he really just call me "enthralling?" Me, specifically?)

"Thanks, Mr. Delacourt."

"You're welcome, Shelly," he said, looking at his watch. It looked vintage, but I couldn't make out any details. "I can't believe it's so late."

"What time is it? I never wear a watch--it can't be

that

late. I feel like I could swim with a tiger shark... or climb a volcano. I'm fucking invincible tonight."

"This is a really different side of you," he said, chuckling a little. "It's almost 11."

I laughed a little, but wasn't sure what else to say. We stood awkwardly for a moment. I didn't want to be anywhere else.

"Did you have any big plans to celebrate the show?"

"Um, no, not really. I think some of the other girls are going to a diner with their boyfriends, but... that's not really my scene."

"Really? No cast party? Your parents aren't doing anything?"

"We always have a cast party with friends and family opening night. Saturday is kind of everyone-for-themselves. My parents came to the show last night, but they had some other things to take care of tonight."

"That's too bad. I wish I could do something for you."

My eyes lit up as soon as he said it. "Really? I mean... as long as you're not busy or anything. I'm sure you have to get home to your wife."

He gave me the same look he had given me in his office, and it conveyed just as much information the second time. "I don't need to get home right away. I'm happy to celebrate with you, if you'll have me. Did you have anything in mind?"

"I didn't bring any other clothes, so nothing fancy," I paused, thinking for a moment. "But there's an all-night coffee shop around the corner, or..."

"Or...? It's your special night, you name it."

I bit my lower lip a little. "Nothing. The coffee shop is great."

"If you're sure," he said. "Did you need a ride home tonight?"

"I just walked, we don't live far. And the coffee shop is right here." I pulled on his arm lightly, "Let's go."

I kept my hand on his arm as we walked the half block to the coffee shop. He let it happen.

"Is this it? It looks dark."

"There's a sign," I said "Oh. Damn. Closed for emergency water line repairs. Reopening Tuesday."

"I'm sorry, Shelly. Did you have any other ideas? To be honest, this sounded like your second choice."

"I mean... I dunno," I said as I looked across the street where the shops gave way to town homes and apartments.

"Go ahead and say what you're thinking," he said, laughing softly.

I tried to turn my face so he wouldn't see me blushing. "Let's just take a walk."

"No really, I insist. What would you like?"

I slipped my arm back into his and looked up at him before stepping off the curb toward the residential street. "Just a walk. It's a beautiful night."

After a block or two, I broke our comfortable silence. "Tell me about yourself?"

"Oh, uh... what would you like to know?"

"Well, I mean, I know you. Sort of. You don't really talk much about yourself though. Where are you from? What do you do when you aren't writing notes with your green pen? Stuff like that."

"Oh. Well, umm, I guess I like music. I grew up in Tennessee. Sometimes I work out."

"You guess you like music? What kind of music?"

"Alternative, classical, rock. I like variety."

I nodded a little.

"Here," I said, pulling my earbuds out of my bag and handing him one. I put the other one in my ear, and picked a track from my post-show playlist.

He looked a little surprised when the music started, "I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it sure wasn't this."

"Julianna Barwick, 'Envelop.' It... " I paused. I suddenly felt self-conscious. Small. Vulnerable. "It helps me find myself again."

This time, his expression was fully scrutable. It conveyed both a question and an understanding; as if he knew I was exposing something deeply personal, but didn't fully understand what it meant.

His lips were also still chapped, and it bugged me. A convenient stall. I reached into the side pocket of my dance bag, fishing around for the small yellow plastic cylinder.

"Use this," I said, pulling off the cap and handing him the cylinder.

He ran it across his lips. "Why is your chap stick spicy?"

"Burt's Bees," I replied. "Never leave home without it."

He read the label before handing it back to me. "Huh, never tried it before."

"When I dance a role," I continued, haltingly. "I don't really know how to do it myself. I have to inhabit the character. Transform myself. Someone like Odile...."

"Isn't someone you want to bring home."

"Exactly. So I put this in my ears and I breathe. Until I find Shelly again."

"Isn't breathing sort of... standard?"

"Not like that. There are techniques. Like if you need to control your heart rate? It's really a yoga thing, but the Navy SEALs stole it and call it 'box breathing.' Let me show you."

I stopped walking and turned to face him. "Breathe from down here, your diaphragm," I said, putting my hand just below his sternum.

"First, breathe out through your nose. Slow and steady. Push all the air out of your lungs and hold for a slow four count. Then inhale slowly and deeply for another four count. Hold for four, exhale for four, hold, repeat."

"You can control your heart rate?"

"Sort of. That's one I'll use before a show. when I'm getting amped up? But I need to keep everything smooth and steady. But my favorite one--can you feel your heart rate change?"

"I guess," he replied. "I've never really thought about it."

"Yeah, no, I get that. Most people haven't. This one really works best with a monitor the first few times. So you know how your resting heart rate fluctuates in a natural cycle?"

"Shelly, I don't know if you know this, but I'm a history teacher, not a cardiologist."

"No--yeah--that's fair. Well, just... trust me. Your heart rate goes up and down from beat to beat. So like, I have really high variability. I average about 70 milliseconds. What you need to do is you inhale as your heart rate speeds up, and exhale as it slows down. So for me, as it decreases, it feels a little bit like dropping down a hill on a roller coaster. I don't think it's normal, but whatever. You breathe out on the downhill, and you breathe in on the uphill."

Pauline Oliveros started playing in our ears as I grabbed his wrist and tried to focus on his pulse. I closed my eyes and did my best to ignore his scent. He seemed to be running a little fast. After ten or fifteen seconds, I felt like I had it.

"Right there, that's it. Now you're dropping... and there's the turn. You're coming back up."

I started breathing in sync with his rhythm, and felt my own pattern drift closer to his. When I opened my eyes and looked up at him again, he looked mildly amused. I belatedly recognized how much intensity I was bringing to the conversation.

"Anyway, yeah... that's... breathing."

I let go of his wrist and started walking again.

"So what's the R stand for?"

"R?"

"You signed the note P.R. DLC. I know what the P and the DLC are for."

He puffed out his cheeks, then exhaled in a burst. "Oh, you noticed that?"

I looked up at him again, maintaining eye contact without speaking. To his credit, he held out pretty long before answering.

"So, what you have to understand... my mother--she's a teacher, too. Vanderbilt professor, actually. Ancient Western philosophy. She was even the chair of the philosophy department by the time she retired-"

"You're stalling," I interrupted.

He brushed the back of his hand against his mouth and replied in an unintelligible murmur.

"What was that?" I asked with a smirk. "I didn't quite catch it."

"Are you trying to tell me

your

parents didn't give you an embarrassing middle name?"

"Ariadne. Mom's family is Greek. Ariadne was her grandmother."

"Michelle Ariadne Cameron." As he said it, waves of tranquility washed over me. In three words, he accomplished something that usually takes me two hours: he found me. I was stunned.

I felt my face soften as I reached up and lightly ran my fingertip along the edge of his ear before removing the earbud he still had in. It was plausibly innocent.

"What, you don't trust me with your earbud?"

"No, I... don't need them now," I said. "Odile, you... sent her away. Just like that. How did you do that?"

He looked mystified. "That's good though, right? I don't think we have any volcanoes in Connecticut, and I wouldn't know where to get a tiger shark this time of night."

"That's OK, neither do I."

We continued walking in relaxed silence. It was too early in the year for lightning bugs, but the crickets were out in force. I listened carefully, trying to pick out individuals amidst the crowd.

Half a block later, he said: "Rutilius."

"Rutilius?"

"Publius Rutilius Rufus. He was a man with a painful amount of integrity. He lived his whole life beyond reproach, or so they say. My parents... like to set the bar high."

"Have you lived up to it?"

He shrugged with a pained look on his face. "We'll see."

"What was that look?"

"Nothing, I--" he was looking past me, across the street, then to the left and right. "I didn't realize how far we'd gone."

I looked around, but all I saw were houses. Most of them dark. "What?"

He pointed across the street. "I didn't realize how far we'd walked. That's my house."

I looked to where he was pointing, the house was dark. "I guess your wife went to bed."

"She isn't there."

I waited, it sounded like the sentence wasn't over. I kept waiting, trying to emanate an aura of loving kindness. (I don't know, I drop into yoga classes once in a while.) I'll never know if it was the waiting or the aura, but eventually he continued.

"Actually, she isn't even my wife any more. We finalized the divorce right after Thanksgiving." He pointed at me. "Don't give me that look, it wasn't that kind of divorce. You wouldn't understand. We loved each other, and it turned out we didn't know ourselves like we thought we did."

"There were... surprises," he continued. "Even a great marriage is hard work. I've seen it both ways. So eventually we decided to keep growing in our different directions. She's mostly moved to D.C. now. She'll stay in the guest room once or twice a month, while she's winding down business here. We talk every week or two. She even started seeing someone.