The Bartlett Journals: Book 1 The Prima Ballerina

By Amy Patt

In Book 1 of The Bartlett Journals, Kiki Thompsen is a Prima Ballerina rising to the pinnacle of her career. But first, with the help of therapist Emma Bartlett, she must deal with issues from her past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amy Patt
• Release date: Jan 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9780988914902

Amy Patt

Amy Patt is a native of New England and currently resides there with her family. She has her BA from Adelphi University in Garden City, NY and an MBA from Boston University.

Book preview

The Bartlett Journals: Book 1

The Prima Ballerina

By Amy Patt

Copyright 2013 Amy Patt

Smashwords Edition

ISBN 978-0-9889149-0-2

Look for upcoming titles, including:

The Bartlett Journals: Book 2

The Cosmetician

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This ebook is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

For KJC.

Chapter One

Kiki was pacing the floor, wishing she had a cigarette. As she reached for her purse she stopped herself. She quit smoking last year, dammit. Forgot! That’s how messed up she was right now. How can you forget that you quit smoking? She whipped out her cell phone instead and checked it. Text messages: None. Of course. Who would text the Ice Queen? Emails: Junk, junk, junk. One from Nikki, wondering, ‘What hotel are you staying at, Hon, in NYC next month ‘cuz we should all bunk together, it’ll be so fun, and anyway, you are the one who actually saves your money so can you spring for the room?’ and one from Coach Wilhelmina wondering, ‘Could you please, please not be late tonight for the expert class because as much as I hate to say it, Kiki, you are going to have to help teach the class again, but please try not to send any dancers home in tears, tonight, can you do that, Kiki? - Mademoiselle Wilhelmina.’

Kiki scoffed and made a face at the phone. She stopped pacing and looked around the small waiting area. A tiny sign near the door said, No cell phone use allowed. Disgusted, she turned off the ringer. Will have to get back to them later. Kiki stuck the phone back into her oversized purse. She pulled out a lipstick and used her image in the glass door of a bookshelf to outline her lips in red. She puckered and made a pouty face. Kiki was very beautiful, and very thin. She should be. She spent eight hours a day, at least, at the dance studio, and the rest of her life in the beauty salon downstairs. She rubbed her cheeks to get some color in them and checked the perfect bun in her hair.

She started pacing the floor again, with all her nervous energy. She had a right to be nervous, she told herself. Her thin arms hugged her shivering body. Was it supposed to be this cold in the waiting room? She was in an old, white house on the second floor. There wasn’t a sound coming from anywhere in the building. The door that she assumed belonged to the therapist was ajar, no one in there. She looked out the waiting-room window. It had snowed last night and there was a light dusting still on the sidewalk below. It was early, and a lone set of prints led the way toward town and the promise of a hot cup of coffee. Across the street was an elementary school, and the big sign out front announced tryouts for the Christmas pageant.

She heard a door creak somewhere in the building. Finally, a person! It was way too quiet in here. Kiki moved over to the mass of leather bound books that filled the shelves in the antique bookshelf. This was a room that held a lot of information. Who had time to study all this information, Kiki wondered? There were a lot of philosophy books and some textbooks that looked very clinical. Suddenly, she felt a presence. She turned and jumped.

Whoa, you freakin’ scared me! she said to the figure standing in the doorway. From what she could make out, it was a tall woman with long, blond hair and a pretty smile. Kiki squinted at the shadow, trying to make out who this person was who had just entered the room.

Kiki Thompsen? the woman asked.

Yeah, that’s me. Kiki shrugged her bag higher up on her shoulder and stood straight and tall, toes pointing slightly out. She had on tight, black leggings rolled up to just under her calves, and four inch high heels. A loose cotton tank top was what she wore for a shirt. A wide, silver chain adorned her simple outfit and hung low on her neck with a bundle of charms gathered at the lowest part. She wore large, silver hoop earrings and her makeup was heavy and professionally done. Over all this hung a long, black coat that accentuated her tiny waist with a thin belt and a shiny silver buckle clasped in the front. She was bareheaded due to the tight bun on the top of her head. She was certainly the epitome of a young ballerina. The woman in the doorway noted all of this in an instant.

Emma Bartlett, said the woman, stepping out from the shadow and holding out her hand. Kiki was short compared to Ms. Bartlett, even in her heels, and looked

up into the glittering, brown, almond-shaped eyes that spread an aura of warmth around anyone in their path. Kiki felt like she had just been wrapped in a fur shawl. Ms. Bartlett’s face looked intelligent and knowing. She had a perfect complexion and it was hard to place her age. Older than 25, younger than 40?

Yeah, well, I’m only here ‘cuz my doctor recommended you. I’m not into shrinks and stuff like that. It’s just that, you know, I thought, maybe I should, like, listen to the ‘Doc. Kiki would have started pacing again and her finger itched for a cigarette, but Ms. Bartlett interrupted the thought and swept the young lady into her office.

Please, choose a seat that feels comfortable for you. Ms. Bartlett herself went to the large desk to the right of the door and stood picking through papers and soft-covered books that waited neatly in stacks.

Kiki looked over the rest of the room and the available chairs. There was an eclectic mix of chairs and sofas. The room was not overly large, just expertly designed for intimate conversation. Kiki chose a small, ornate, upright chair and plunked her bag down next to it. She didn’t sit immediately, but turned and continued to survey the chamber. She unclasped the belt that held her coat closed and swung it off of her tiny frame. She threw the trusted Burberry on the corner of a couch.

Kiki sized up the woman standing at the desk. She could figure people out pretty quickly. There had been enough situations that she had had to learn at an early age who was friend and who was foe. There were a lot of foes in the dance world. It wasn’t all pretty pink tutu’s and fairyland. Her first impression of Emma Bartlett remained. She was pretty cool. Kiki quickly surmised that here was one of those people who had grown up with money, but somehow stayed grounded. She knew the type. They were always showing up at the Ballet. They wore expensive, non-descript clothing, plain jewelry that came in a bright blue box tied up in a white ribbon. They dressed in the same worn tuxedos, stately gowns and second generation furs every show at The Center. They drove around in old, beat-up Volvo’s and Saab’s and, if they stayed in the city, they chose a modest hotel and took a taxi to the theatre. Their huge mansions were packed with three generations of stuff. They had money because they rarely spent money, and if they did, it was cash, never credit. They lived off the interest of their trust funds. No more, no less. And what they didn’t spend they hoarded the green stuff in their mattresses and safes hidden in the carriage house. They supported things like the Ballet, and art, and music, with big endowments in order to get the tax breaks.

And Bartlett definitely had that aura of private schools and Ivy League colleges that makes people…serene. Kiki continued to survey the office. Sure enough, on the wall, the certificate clearly said Harvard School of Public Health. She didn’t have the heart to read the other scrolls that decorated the walls. She knew they were there. She pushed aside a flash of memory of a former lover with a similar office to this, a shrine to his successful life.

Kiki clasped her fingers around the charms on her necklace and ran them back and forth across the chain nervously. She stood with one leg out as if ready to do a pirouette. If she were in the studio she would have done a rigorous workout this morning, that’s how much energy she could feel coursing through her veins. She shifted her body weight to the other leg and waited for Ms. Bartlett to turn around. Soft music drifted from a wooden console designed to look like one of those old-fashioned record players. It was playing classical music. Kiki recognized the composer.

Brahms, she said.

Emma smiled over her shoulder at the dancer, and noted the chair that Kiki would choose. Ever the therapist, she was right again. After hundreds of patients, she had gotten pretty good at guessing where each of her guests chose to sit. She tended to refer to her clients as guests in her private thoughts. And they were. Most of her patients only came for a short time and then returned sporadically, if at all. It was a worthy testimony to everyone except her accountant that Emma was a very good therapist.

Kiki looked like a bundle of energy. Emma decided not to urge her to sit, but let the dancer find her chair in her own time. Instead, Emma sat down in her favorite armchair that was upholstered in a gold color satin fabric with stripes. It was oversized, and made Emma's tall frame feel not-so tall. She crossed her legs, and worked on preparing the office paperwork for Kiki to fill out. She smiled, thinking of her very proper grandmother warning of varicose veins from crossing your legs. Grand-mama never had them, and so far, Emma saw no signs of them showing on her own legs. But Grand-mama had spoken of them incessantly. She, herself, knew that the real cause of unsightly veins would be more from a hereditary trait and an inactive lifestyle. Neither of which she had. Next to her Harvard degree hung a series of awards and certificates showing championships in horse back riding, cross country, and field hockey. Perhaps Grand-mama was simply trying to find something to talk about.

So I have some initial paperwork to take care of with you, and the co-pay, Emma explained as she handed Kiki pen and paper. Did you bring your insurance card?

Man, those insurance companies are such a pain, yeah? Kiki said for small talk as she pulled out a fat wallet full of money, tickets, credit cards, and makeup samples. Emma thought perhaps dancers got paid more than she expected. The shoulder bag was a well-used, fairly high-end label. You pay all this money every month, and you still gotta pay the freakin’ co-pays, excuse my language. When I’m nervous I get a bit of a potty mouth. She popped a piece of gum into her mouth. Emma placed Kiki in her early 20’s, even though the worry lines around her mouth and eyes made her look much older. A hard life-style, perhaps, of too much partying? Emma scribbled some notes to herself. She got up and made a copy of the insurance card and sat back down.

So, like, what is this all about, anyway? How do I do this therapy thing? Kiki handed back the paperwork and the $20.00 co-pay, exchanging them for her insurance card, which she carefully placed back inside her wallet. She held her hand out as if hoping a cigarette would appear and sat with her legs tucked under her chair like they teach at finishing school, her back completely straight. Though she sounded young verbally, she was, after all, a professional. Emma scribbled more notes to herself.

Watcha’ writin’ there, Ms. Bartlett? Kiki watched the pen move up and down and then stop. Their eyes met, and for a moment it felt to Kiki that Emma’s eyes saw into her soul. She quickly looked away.

Yeah, I get it. You write yourself notes about me, right? That’s okay. I’m used to it. What do you want to know? Like, how long I’ve been a dancer? My whole life since I could walk. If my mom treated me okay? She was never around to try. If my old man banged the babysitter? Who knows, who cares? She chewed hard on the gum and it snapped loudly.

Well, actually, yes. I want to hear about what you want to talk about, Kiki, Emma said, not moving. She sat very still, like a Ranger holding out food for a baby deer. The dancer moved her eyes back to Emma’s and she stopped chewing. Then she let out a loud laugh.

Oh! You want to get right to more of the good stuff. Okay, Ms. Bartlett. Sure. Umm, let’s see. Oh! You know what I hate? I hate that the ATM machines only give out 20’s. Doncha hate that? Hahaha! Her loud laugh sounded way too big for the intimate room.

Well, actually, there are some machines that give out 50’s and 10’s, Emma said, seeing where Kiki would go if she were challenged. If you can find them.

Oh! Yeah, right. Kiki’s voice stayed steady, but her right foot bounced up and down. She chewed her gum more slowly. So, I can stand, right? I mean, I don’t have to sit, right? Kiki leaned forward in the chair with her hands on the arms as if about to get up.

Sure, Kiki, whatever you want. The young lady stood up and went to the window. She was quiet and still for a long time. Only her eyes moved, following a bird that swooped into a nearby tree across the street next to the school. She thought about all those little kids, so innocent, running around the playground, swinging on the swings. Like when she was little. She used to try to get as high as she could. She could go higher than anyone in her class.

Emma waited, watching the young lady’s facial expressions change. A lot was going on in that mind.

Okay! Okay, she said. She took a deep breath. It’s not like I want to do it, you know? I mean, don’t get me wrong here. These are hardworkin’ kids, very talented, but weak. Most would never have made it. People don’t know what this world is.

And what world is that, Kiki? Emma asked.

"You know. Me. Dancin’. Bein’ a ‘Prima Ballerina’. She said the words with emphasis. That’s not what they’re really called, you know. People just made that up to sound all fancy. It’s Italian, and is a title given to only a few ballerinas who get international fame. We, she was pointing to herself, are actually called Principal dancers. She paused, collecting her thoughts. You think I got where I am because of a love of dance and a commitment to hard work? Ha! You’re the one whose freakin’ nuts if you believe that crock