Partly Cloudy, 64°
Arabella? Arabella! Jesus, trapped in this little hospital room with a sprained left foot, when just yesterday you were dazzling audiences with your breathtaking pirouettes and astonishing grande jetes! How are you feeling? Can I get you anything? Don’t worry, you’ll be back out there in no time, just give that stupid little thing a couple weeks to heal and you’ll be good as new!
What? Of course you’ll be on that stage again! This isn’t over, Arabella! It can’t be!
Think how far you’ve come! Remember growing up together in the slums, waiting for mother to come home from dead-end job after dead-end job? Remember standing outside the New York City Ballet in the dead of winter, just hoping for a glimpse of the beauty inside? And you did it, Arabella! You live that beauty! You’ve got talent that most dancers only dream of. This can’t be the end!
Don’t say that, Arabella. Don’t you dare say that. You are every bit the dancer–and person—you were before this. You owe it to yourself to keep trying.
Fine. You’re right—you don’t owe it to yourself. You owe it to me. For the hours I’ve spent helping you, praying for you to make it out there. The show must go on, Arabella, and you’re the only one who can make that happen. Nobody can do what you do. You’re a revelation. That’s what the press says, anyway, and that’s what they’ll keep saying as long as you don’t let this chance die, dammit.
What’s that? I’m glad. I’ll get your pointe shoes. When you heal in 2-4 weeks, you’ll show the world what you’re made of: a hell of a lot of blood, sweat, tears, and what else? That’s right. Dance.
