Ballerina

By Clara Ann Simons

Ballet is sacrifice, sweat, and tears...lots of tears.
It is also my dream, my passion. My whole life.
Or, at least, it was.
Since a severe knee injury shattered everything I loved, I have been aimless.
Buying a small dance academy in the South of Spain was not the best of my ideas.
I thought it was the best way to keep in touch with my passion. Now I see that it is not the same.
Still, here I am, up to my eyeballs in debt, living in a small town with an academy that has seen better times.
And the worse part is meeting every day the mother of one of my students, who, for some reason, makes me too nervous.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clara Ann Simons
• Release date: Oct 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215725818

Book preview

Chapter 1

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ALLEGRA

The ballet studio was located at the north end of town. It was small and unassuming, with a simple sign at the entrance that read Ballet Classes.

The second I walk in, I feel like I’m being crushed. The floor creaks with every step I take, the noise echoing through the building. The small, well-lit rooms are surrounded by mirrors that seem to be in good condition, but the studio smells of bleach. This is not the smell of sweat and tears that a good ballet studio should have.

I realized then that I had made a huge mistake. No, huge doesn’t even begin to describe its size. It is colossal, monumental, gigantic. For lack of better words to describe it, I have made a complete idiot of myself. I now understand why the lady is so excited to show me the dance academy. She must really want to get rid of it.

When did I have the stupid idea to buy the ballet studio? I must look like a moron. I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life, but this decision is the worst one yet.

To my misfortune, I know the reason why. The pain reminds me as soon as I take a step and must lean on the wall for support.

Fuck! That knee injury put an end to my dancing career. The afternoon the doctor told me I would never dance again was the worst of my life. I cried until I had no tears left. Ballet was my life. It was everything to me; I didn’t know how to do anything else. Since I left my native Italy as a child to enter a ballet school in Paris, all my life revolved around dancing. Now, a bad fall has sent it all to hell.

Lying in bed in the fetal position, tired of crying and pitying myself, I made my biggest life mistake. That dance academy for sale in a small town in southern Spain was calling me. I impulsively offered to buy it, and the owner accepted without hesitation. Now, looking at this place, I understand why.

I should have done my research before visiting. I hadn’t even checked the size of the town. I was probably just panicking about my future. I wasn’t thinking clearly, or I maybe got carried away by the town’s pretty little white houses. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I felt like I was taking control of my life. I was the one making decisions instead of being a puppet of the dance companies. I wasn’t going to let my injury stop me from ballet. I would keep going.

It seemed like a good compromise. I could pass on my love of dance to the next generations, teaching them the value of hard work and dedication. The importance of sweat and tears.

Tears that now fill my eyes as I peek into one of the classrooms and observe that even the youngest children enjoy something I love and can no longer have. Shit! This knee pain is a constant reminder of everything I’ve lost.

The former owner of the academy sees me wiping away tears and asks if I’m okay.

Yes, sorry. It’s just that seeing the little ones in the class reminded me of when I was their age and I started dancing. That’s all, I lie, trying to hide my despair.

I’m now stuck in a small town in southern Spain, with a tiny dance studio weighing me down like a millstone. All my savings are tied up in this business, not to mention the loans I took to buy it. I’ve made a huge mistake and am now paying the consequences.

The woman showing me around points out the biggest room in the studio. It’s usually for more experienced students, she explains, but you can use it however you want. 

I think I’m teaching a class here later, I reply, hoping I have memorized the schedule well before coming.

I’m not sure if it was the right decision to start teaching on the very first day. I have always danced, never taught. Even though I have worked with some of the best ballet teachers in the world since I was a child, the idea of teaching children now scares me. Or maybe it’s the very situation I’ve gotten myself into that terrifies me.

That’s right. We offer a free beginner’s ballet class once a month to attract new students. Are you sure you want to teach it? It’s very basic. One of your girls can take it, the woman hastens to announce.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly as I look around the room one last time. I've got this, I tell her.

The large classroom is in better condition than the smaller ones, although one of the mirrors is broken. I guess I’ll have to wait until I have enough money to repair it. Luckily, it is damaged in one corner. It won’t affect how the classes go, but it looks terrible.

Why are there so many chairs in the classroom? They take up space, I ask, confused when I see they take up a good part of the dance floor.

It’s for the mothers. They like to watch their daughters dance, the former owner replies matter-of-factly, looking at me as if I were crazy not to know such an essential thing.

I heave a sigh, barely resisting the urge to roll my eyes. The last thing I need is mothers barging into the ballet room and second-guessing my every decision. I attended two of the best dance academies in the world, first in Paris and later in New York. No mother had ever set foot in the building, except when they went to the principal’s office.

I guess it will be a long learning process until I get used to this. If I want to keep my students, I must keep their mothers happy, even if it means making things seem better than they are. Aspiring ballerinas in Paris were willing to risk everything for a chance to dance professionally, but here...

Our teachers didn’t have to worry about hurting our feelings. We were just a "petit rat." A little rat with no other right than the luck to work every day until our feet bled so we could practice in that academy. Thank goodness the other teacher has decided to stay. I have too much to learn.    

Here you go, the former owner says, handing me a set of keys. I hope you have a good time in our small town. The kids will love having a professional dancer as their teacher.

I force a hint of a smile on my face, though I’m not sure I get it right. I wonder if the townspeople would allow their daughters to attend my new academy if they knew how much I despise being here and regret buying it. Still, now there’s no turning back. I’m stuck in this place for good. I must move on, whether I like it or not.

As the woman walks away, I feel even more overwhelmed. I try to calm myself by taking deep breaths, just like I did before going on stage, reminding myself that I have always been a fighter. If I could dance in Paris, New York, or Chicago, I could run a small ballet academy in southern Spain.

Soft footsteps behind me break my concentration and pull me back into the reality of the small dance studio. I turn in the direction of the footsteps and see a woman who looks to be a few years younger than me. She has a dancer’s body, though she might be carrying a few extra pounds.

You must be the new owner. I’m Erica, the other teacher. Thank you very much for letting me stay, she says, squeezing my hand with surprising strength.

I smile and ask her to speak to me informally. I’ll be depending on her over the next few months if I want to get the business off the ground. Her complexion is as smooth as porcelain, without a single blemish. Her eyes, full of illusion, invite you to get lost in their depths. I see a wedding ring on her finger and realize that she’s not available. I start to think that Paula might be right and that I have been single for too long.

Do you have a class now? I ask. Mind if I come in with you? I try to remember the schedule as I speak.

Erica leads me into one of the smaller rooms. It’s a class for seven to nine-year-olds, she says, but we have some very talented ones.

A small group of girls and two boys patiently wait for their teacher. I am pleased to see that the little dancers appear to be disciplined. That is the key to success in ballet. The public sees only the talent and elegance, the graceful and fluid movements. They don’t see the sacrifice behind it all. The tears, sweat, and blood are invisible