Typical Day
This is going to be a total horror show, Angelina Pirouette thinks as she watches her troupe stumble through the routine. It really is a mess. Angelina can't imagine how they could've been so good yesterday, but today, on the day of the performance, they're all about as graceful as sleepwalking, Frankensteinian monsters.
I've got one shot, and I'm going to fail. Fail miserably. Think. Think. What would Ivo do?
For years, Angelina had danced for Ivo Vandebaaken's internationally famous company. When an old injury in her leg began to make it increasingly painful for Angelina to dance, Ivo encouraged her to become a choreographer. She'd assisted him for a year now, and he'd even sweet-talked the curators of tonight's festival into giving Angelina a performance slot. Though he was eccentric, Angelina had been really lucky to find a mentor like that.
And now I'm going to fail him. Fail him miserably, thinks Angelina. Think. What would he do? Hmm, he would probably talk to his pet crystal for a while in a corner while wearing his mushroom hat...no, that would be weird. Oh...oh, yeah, he'd throw a total fit.
Angelina leaps from her plush velvet auditorium chair and marches down the aisle.
"Stop! Please, just stop!" she calls out, and the group skitters to a halt. Angelina feels a slight pang of guilt as they stare at her like a herd of wounded deer, but she's too fired up to spare them now.
"Marguerite, you call that a body roll?"
"Sorry, Angelina," mumbles Marguerite, looking at her feet.
Angelina limberly whips her body onto the stage. "Reggie, what did we say about jazz hands?"
"Uh...don't do jazz hands?" mutters Reggie.
"Yes, Reggie. Never. Ever. Under any circumstances. Do jazz hands. If your sickly grandmother begs you on her death bed to do jazz hands in tonight's performance, you tell her she's just going to have to go to her grave without the pleasure of having ruined a piece that we've all worked on for weeks."
"Aren't you being a little harsh?" says Marguerite.
"Harsh? You know who will be harsh? The critics will be harsh. The thousands of judgy, backbiting representatives of the international dance community who'll be attending the festival will be harsh. All in all, guys, there's just no spirit. It's like watching paper be paper. Take ten. No, take thirty, and come back when you're ready to work."
Angelina feels a sinking pit in her stomach as she watches her dancers file glumly offstage. Tongue-lashings had always worked well for Ivo, who was equally famous for his temper tantrums as he was for his innovative choreography.
Something feels wrong. Is this me?
Frustrated, Angelina slumps in a chair and whips out her laptop. There are a million emails that have piled up this past week while she's been putting the finishing touches on the show. She can't bear to open them, though. It's just too daunting. Instead, she clicks over to YouTube and starts watching clips from her own reel. Ivo had encouraged her to put it together and it had helped her get this gig.
What kind of narcissist am I to be sitting here watching this?
Still, she smiles a bit despite herself as she watches highlights from her work flicker by.
I'm good. I am actually good. It wasn't just Ivo that got me where I am. I've been training since I was three. I've been honing my craft professionally for years. I've never stopped studying new forms as I toured the world. I'm good. I know what to do.
A few minutes later, Angelina's dancers file back on stage. The air is tense. She can see that her company looks anything but inspired.
"Look, guys," she begins.
Later that night, Angelina waits backstage with her dancers. She can't bear to sit in the audience. The thought of being surrounded by that many people judging her work is terrifying.
I'd rather dip myself in chum and dive in to a tank of sharks.
Still, as the music rises and her dancers glide on stage, Angelina feels a certain confidence. She can barely remember what she said to them that afternoon. It all came tumbling out of her so fast.
It must've been seriously inspirational, she thinks as she watches her company perform flawlessly, though she's a little embarrassed because she's pretty sure she cribbed a couple lines from the Mel Gibson's big speech in Braveheart.
Next time maybe I'll paint myself blue and wear a kilt.
That night, at the after party, her dancers happily surround her. She can't stop telling them how proud she is of them, and she seriously means it. Not everybody had loved the piece, but she can tell that overall, people had been impressed. Most importantly, she had been impressed.
Suddenly, she sees a mushroom hat bobbing her way through the crowd. Before she knows it, Ivo is giving her champagne scented kisses on both cheeks.
"Beautiful! Challenging! Dangerous! What a wonder!" he bellows over the noise of the crowd. "How did you do it?"
I did it like you...and then I did it like me.