Page 124 of His Turn

She’s spinning in the middle of the studio. The kind of spin that involves the opening and closing of arms and traveling diagonally across the room. When she runs out of space, she just switches direction and comes back the other way. No pause at all. And then she’s leaping, her legs scissoring into the splits as she checks her form in the long wall of mirrors. It’s a routine, I guess. Because she never stops. I watch her for a few minutes, thinking she’ll rest. She’ll mess up or get tired.

But she doesn’t. And pretty soon she’s doing those spins diagonally across the floor again.

“Nadia,” I say. She sees me. I know she sees me. It’s just an instant as she’s traveling in her turn, her head spinning with her body. She focuses on me. Spins. Focuses. Spins.

But she never stops. Her cheeks are flushed bright red and sweat is pouring down her face. Her body looks thinner than I remember. Fragile. Her pointe shoes have dangling threads and little shredded bits of satin barely clinging to the toes. Like she’s been in this room spinning and spinning all day and she’s worn them out.

“Nadia,” I say again. But she ignores me. She comes out of her last turn, changes direction, and leaps again. She’s starting over, I realize. “Nadia!” I yell louder. I know she hears me over the music. But she doesn’t break her routine.

I walk over to the stereo, search for the right button, and switch the music off.

She doesn’t stop. She’s manic with dance. And all I hear is the quick thumping of my own heart and the hard thud of her feet as she continues.

“Nadia, stop.”

She glares at me as she spins. Her eyes focus on me, then lose me in the turn, and focus again.

“Stop,” I say, walking across the room and stand right in front her. She comes out of her spin, dances around me in some elaborate swirl of her hands and arms and then just… spins in place.

I grab her arm, make her falter, but she yanks out of my grip and runs. Leaps. Arches her back until she’s bent over at the waist, staring at the ceiling in midair. Arms outstretched. She’s beautifully tragic in that moment.

All the things I learned about her today come rushing back.

You broke her. This is Jordan’s voice in my head.

She lands, and spins again.

I walk across the room, grab her arm tight, and make her stop.

“Let go,” she says, barely able to talk over her heavy breathing. She tries to yank her arm away, but I hold her tighter.

“No,” I say. “Enough. Stop dancing.”

She grits her teeth and hisses, “Let me go.”

I shake my head. “Not until you agree to stop.” I get a better look at her now that she’s still. Her face is too flushed. Her breathing too hard. Her muscles quake even though she’s just still.

She struggles, slips out of my grip, and returns to her manic dancing.

I broke her. Jordan was right. I did this to her.

She doesn’t need music. She doesn’t need anything but that mirror and those shoes. She’s not going to stop unless I make her.

So I make her. I cross the room, find the switch on the wall, and turn out the lights.

One final thump of ballet shoes echoes in the studio, and then, finally, she goes still.

“Get the fuck out,” she says. She can barely talk, that’s how hard she’s breathing.

“I can’t,” I say.

“Why not?” She’s so angry. And she has every right to be.

“Because the rules say—”

“Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!” She’s right in front of me now, her fists pounding on my chest. “Just fuck you and your—”

I hold my hand over her mouth. Just enough to make it hard for her to breathe and yell at the same time. She has to make a choice. One or the other.