Free Corpse de Ballet by Ellen Pall Page B

with the rest of the company. But a tall, willowy woman immediately defended him, saying he lived in Brooklyn and that the class he went to was just quicker to get to. This bit of special pleading was met with a round of grins that caused the willowy girl to flush bright red, and Juliet knew then that probably half the women in the place were smitten with the German.
    After injuries, complaints about colds dominated the conversation, along with jokes about blunders committed by company members during various rehearsals. One dancer, a compact man with a heavy Spanish accent, remarked that he’d heard Lily Bediant really “got it” from Ruth Renswick yesterday. But no one took him up on this opening gambit and the discussion moved on. Whether this fizzle was the result of a simple lack of interest on the part of the other dancers, or respect for Lily—or fear of her—Juliet could not tell. Meanwhile, without linking it to Anton’s slip, the dancers began to discuss the “malicious incident” flyer they all had received; but as no one claimed any knowledge of what it could possibly refer to, this topic also was abandoned, in favor of last night’s Letterman show.
    Juliet stood and ambled away. In the women’s locker room, she found a cardboard box with a sign soliciting worn-out pointe shoes to be donated to indigent aspiring ballerinas. Everywhere she went, people eyed her mistrustfully. Strangers were rare inside the Jansch, and stalkers (she later learned) not unheard of. Innocuous as Juliet thought she must look—a soft, somewhat shabby, no longer very youthful little person wearing a fixed, meaningless half-smile—her appearance seemed to waken all manner of suspicions here. Yet she did not, as yesterday, experience her dubious reception as the result of arrogance or snobbery but now saw in it the defensive clannishness of circus performers, even of freaks.
    She had strolled restlessly up the stairs again and was absently coming down, musing on this epiphany, when she literally bumped into Hart Hayden.
    â€œExcuse me!” she exclaimed fervently. The thought that she might bruise a dancer by knocking into him or stepping on his toe horrified her, like the idea of giving a singer strep throat. “I wasn’t looking—”
    â€œTakes two to collide.” Hayden smiled. “I’m just going up to get a Dr Pepper. Come with me.”
    He swept his small, slim hand through the air, a gesture immensely, innately, involuntarily balletic, to invite her to turn and precede him. “Unless you’re in a hurry.”
    â€œOh, no.” Juliet turned and trotted up ahead of him as gracefully as she could. She was surprised—and pleased—to find this great star of the company chose to be so friendly to her. He could so easily have scorned her, as most of his colleagues seemed to do.
    â€œWhat were you daydreaming about?” he asked. “Got a hot date tonight?”
    â€œGood God, no.” She laughed. Hart led the way to the lounge and over to a sleek, automat-style, refrigerated machine that dispensed fresh fruit, juice, sodas, and other snacks. “Do you?”
    â€œMe? I’m married to the dance. No kidding,” he added, after Juliet laughed again. “If I sleep with anyone, I don’t dance as well. So I don’t sleep with anyone.”
    â€œWow.”
    â€œI love dance,” Hart Hayden said simply. He put some coins into the machine, pushed a button, waited while the selections revolved, then opened the door and plucked out his bottle in one neat motion. “It’s hard, but there’s nothing like it.”
    â€œI admire your dedication.”
    Dr Pepper in hand, he returned to the staircase and headed back down. “I’m sure you feel the same way about writing,” he went on, over his shoulder.
    â€œI don’t know. I’m not sure I like it enough to stay celibate.”
    â€œOh, you