Apollo (Contemporary Mythos Book 2)
Apollo: Chapter 1

Stick the landing. Just stick the landing and don’t stumble—a mantra I’ve said to myself since I was ten and learning how to do a triple pirouette. Another day. Another audition for the Buffalo Ballet Company, my employer in New York. My hands wrung around the barre behind me, watching Jamie Harland’s audition. She was arguably the company’s best dancer and could walk onto the floor with the utmost confidence that she’d land a principal role. I was surprised she didn’t have a crick in her neck from how often she moved with her chin held high.

I’d like to think I wasn’t jealous. But I was. Everyone knew a ballerina’s career wasn’t one you worked until you were fifty and retire. Here I was at the ripe age of thirty-two and never landed a principal role. Dancing was my life. Dancing in the corps wasn’t bad because I still got to do what I loved, but I wasn’t getting any younger. My ankles liked to remind me of it every other day.

Jamie smiled as she whipped her head forward with each fouetté turn. Effortlessly rising on pointe with one foot, she twirled her other leg around to bring to her knee over and over. We could be here all day. She had the principal role in Swan Lake when we performed it. A part requiring a flawless execution of thirty-two fouetté turns in a row.

On a good day, I could do ten, but we weren’t performing Swan Lake. They kept relatively quiet about the show, only stating that it was something new and innovative. We’d lost the only male dancer we had weeks ago and had yet to find a replacement. They came and went. Maybe it was finally my chance.

Jamie extended her thin arm with the grace of a dove as she rested her foot behind her, completing her last turn. Her grin widened, and the bobby pins pulled her ash blonde hair so tightly into her bun, it made her eyes narrow. She walked past me, scooping up a towel from her bag, and proceeded to dab her neck as if she’d actually broken a sweat.

“Laurel Berg,” they announced.

I smoothed my hands over my taut hair, shoving a rogue pin back into my bun. After taking a deep breath, I fluttered to the center of the dance floor. Knowing my pointe work wasn’t as strong as the other dancers, I always chose to play to my strength. Leaps. Between the various pirouettes and piqué turns, I’d throw in a grand jete, a split high in the air with perfectly pointed feet. The music played, but the classical pieces they punched out on the piano sounded robotic in my ears.

Over time, I drowned it out and let the sound of the air entering through my nose guide my movement. The moment I dreaded came far too quickly. I lifted my chin in the air, readied my stance, and lifted to pointe for my first fouetté turn. With the momentum and placement of my arms, I completed three, four, five. My ankle started to ache. I pushed through it. Six, seven, eight.

The pain dulled to a numbing sensation. If I didn’t stop, my ankle could roll. I ground my teeth together and swung my leg out to land. It was flawless…except when my heel bounced. I wanted to scream. Instead, I plastered the fake smile I’d perfected over the years. The first few times I’d known I bombed an audition—tears streaked down my cheeks. My skin had grown an additional three layers over time, and I accepted it.

I kept my posture as I walked to the dance sidelines near the barre that lined each half of the room. Jamie crossed her arms over her flat chest.

“Why don’t you just say it?” I spat in a hushed tone.

She shifted her eyes but kept her head forward. “Face it, Laurel. I don’t have to anymore. When are you going to accept it? You’re done. You’ve never had the feet for it. Passion only gets you so far.”

I ground my teeth with such force I thought I’d crack a filling. We were two sentences away from being reamed by one of the directors. But I couldn’t let her have the last word. It didn’t help she was nearly a decade younger than me. The clock on the back wall read 5:30 PM. I was going to be late for work.

After hoisting my bag on my shoulder, I paused in front of her. “At least some of us have a passion for things other than our reflection.”

Her arms fell slack at her sides, and her eyes grew to the size of grapefruits. I powerwalked to the foyer before she had a chance to retort. Flopping my bag on a nearby bench, I slipped my Metallica shirt over my leotard and a pair of shorts. After replacing my pointe shoes for the reprieve of flip flops, I headed for the parking lot.

“Hey, Blondie,” a voice chimed.

Kate Dao. My dance partner in crime. We’d become friends outside the confines of a dance studio but forged a sisterhood trudging through the trenches together.

“Well, hey there, Sprite. Getting here a little late, aren’t you?” I crossed my arms.

Kate was a modest five foot and looked like an enchanted sprite when she danced. Hence the nickname.

She locked the door on her Volkswagen beetle. “They separated the audition times this round. I’ll have you know I got a power nap in before coming here.”

“Don’t rub it in. Some of us have to work second jobs to afford our studio apartments.” I nudged her in the shoulder. “Your bun’s coming undone, by the way.”

She groaned, feeling for the bobby pin sticking out in defiance. “I swear my hair isn’t made for a ballet-style bun.”

Kate’s parents came from Thailand and passed down their shiny, smooth, bone-straight black hair to their only daughter.

“Here.” I batted her hands away. “Let me help you. You’re making it look like a lumpy mess.”

After tucking in several places, I pulled more pins from my pocket and gave extra support to the bun’s base. Grabbing her shoulders, I jostled her left to right. The bun withstood the test. “You’re good to go. Watch out for Jamie. She’s extra feisty tonight.”

Kate rolled her eyes. “Lovely. Oh, hey. A few of us are going for drinks tonight after auditions. You want to meet up with us after your shift?”

“Mm, I don’t know.” I scrunched my face. Normally after work, and on a night I didn’t have to show up to the studio the next morning, all I wanted to do was snuggle under my favorite blanket with a bowl of ice cream and binge-watch Vikings.

“We don’t have to be in the studio for the next two days as they formulate their big decision. You don’t have an excuse,” Kate added.

“I’m—watching my neighbor’s cat.” Never had anyone said Laurel Berg was an astounding liar.

She snickered. “Fine. Fine. I get it. I’ll see you soon.” She turned for the door.

“Hey, Sprite.”

She cocked a dark eyebrow over her shoulder.

“Merde.” I gave a sparkling grin.

She laughed. “Oui.”

Dancers never ever said ‘good luck’ for superstitious reasons and most certainly never said “break a leg.” Why they started saying the French word for ‘shit’ to each other, I didn’t know, but it tickled me pink to say it.

After I flopped into my Pontiac something or other, I began the arduous task of removing all my bobby pins. There were two cupholders in the middle console. One was sticky with repeated drippage from my occasional iced tea indulgence, while the other was full of bobby pins. I’d wait until they were spilling over before throwing them in the trash. Meanwhile, there was a modest pile in case I needed one.

Once my hair was free to hang in a ponytail, I turned the crank to roll the window down. When I bought my car, it sat on the side of the road with a price and a phone number drawn on the front window. The idiot used a permanent marker, but I managed to get most of it off. It hadn’t bothered me that the car model insignia was gone because the price was right, and it would get me from point a to b.

The car had a cassette player, but considering I sold my cassettes back in high school for a new pair of pointe shoes, I wasn’t even sure it worked. The radio suited my modest travel times fine. I turned the knob to one of my favorite rock stations, and DJ Ellen Magellan’s voice boomed over the speakers.

“In case you’re just tuning in, we’re here with frontman, Ace, of Apollo’s Suns.”

“And it’s been an absolute pleasure so far, Ellen.”

Oh, brother. I could hear the man’s electric snarky smile from here. Ace could sing, there wasn’t any doubt about it, but from the few interviews I’d heard with him, the man’s arrogance was plain as day.

Ellen gave a girlish giggle. “Oh, you’re too much. Alright, last question. When you’re on that stage, you seem to put the audience in an absolute trance. Tell us—what’s your secret?”

“This ought to be good,” I mumbled.

“Well, Ellen, pulling your audience in—making them experience the music rather than just listening to it, is all part of being a true rock god.”

“And that’s enough of that,” I spat, changing the channel.

Apollo’s Suns was a newer hit rock band on the circuit. I didn’t dislike their music per se, but Ace never failed to come across as a smug douche. It rubbed me in all the wrong ways. My last boyfriend made damn sure of it. Thanks to him, arrogance equaled cheating in my mind. It was a road I no longer cared to travel down. Not even for the scenery.

Once I pulled into the lot for Gino’s Diner, I clambered out of the car so quickly I narrowly missed shutting my bag in the door. Gino knew my main job was for the dance company, but it was only a matter of time before he’d grow tired of my continued tardiness. And today—was the worst yet.

The bell above the door clattered when I walked in, making it impossible to be discreet. Most businesses had back doors for employees, but not Gino’s. Considering the back smelled like garbage and piss, it was probably for the best anyway.

“Laurel,” Gino announced, stepping from the kitchen in his usual white shirt, black pants, and grease-stained apron.

I held my bag up, waving it back and forth. “I know, I know. Five minutes.”

There was no use in making excuses. I’d worn them all out.

“I’m not giving you back your tables,” the senior waitress, Mirabelle, said, tapping a pen against her notepad. Her dyed red hair had more volume than usual. She must’ve used an entire extra can of Aqua Net.

“It’s fine, Mira. I’ll deal,” I responded before shoving my shoulder into the employee breakroom door.

After exchanging my dance attire for a white v-neck shirt, black shorts, and sneakers, I made my way back to the dining room floor. Gino’s wasn’t unlike any other classic diner scene. Booths with teal-colored seats lined the windows, and a long bar top with stools paralleled the opposite side. Black and white tiles scattered the floor, and my favorite feature nestled against the far wall. The classic-styled jukebox with nothing but music from the eighties and nineties. Gino was far too cheap to pay for new music, and I was glad for it.

Considering it was Tuesday night, my customers consisted of regulars. There was Chuck, the trucker, who loved to listen to stories about my ballet performances. Freda, the seventy-two-year-old widow, came in every Tuesday to drink exactly two cups of coffee with a slice of apple pie. And my personal favorite, Hank. Hank had been a cellist in the Boston Symphony Orchestra in his youth. There was a special place in my heart for the cello, and I’d bombard him with questions every week. He didn’t seem to mind.

The night went off without a hitch, and it took Gino only an extra thirty minutes to forgive my tardiness. I liked to think it was my glowing personality that brightened the place. But it was probably more like my ability to talk customers into buying more, even if it was in a doggy bag.

“I’m sure as hell not cleaning up tonight. You were an hour late,” Mirabelle said between bouts of smoker coughs.

Good. I wanted to be alone anyway. “I’ll take the hit, Mira. You go home to that husband of yours.”

She cackled like a crow. “Norm? Oh, please. That’s if he’s even home. It’s why I own seven dogs. For the company.”

Seven? Last week it was five.

“Well, good night.” I forced a grin.

Mira moved like a sloth when and only when I was waiting for her to leave. If her arms could’ve dragged on the ground like a cavewoman, they would’ve. I clasped my hands behind my back, trying with all my might not to tap my foot.

“See ya next week, chickadee.” She threw on her windbreaker jacket and slid out the door.

As soon as the door closed, I turned all the locks and went to each window, pulling down the shades. The jukebox glowed like a beacon in pink, blue, and yellow. The three rotating compact discs in the top glinted from the overhead lights. I traced my fingers down the chrome trim before popping several quarters and hitting B11.

My eyes fell shut as the bluesy guitar intro of Wicked Game by Chris Isaak played, echoing off the walls of the empty diner. I swayed my hips, wrapping my arms around myself to untie my apron. Sliding my foot in a circle, I tossed the apron to a nearby chair. I did turns, spins, and finished with a final leap until I reached the mop closet across the room. Magic comprised the ballets I grew up loving. Fantasy. Epic tales of a princess and pre-destined love with their prince. When I was by myself, I could get swept up in the music. Pretend I was in that fantasy world. If only it were true.

The mop moved with ease across the tiled floor, and I used the stick as an inanimate dance partner. I slid from left to right, making the occasional twirl, taking the mop with me. In the middle of the floor, I bent backward as if the mop dipped me. Once I was done with the floor, I scrubbed down the bar top, stopping brief moments to sway my hips. At the end of the bar, I put my back to it, pressed my palms into the marble, and did a sweeping kick with both legs.

I’d danced ballet since I was five. Only ballet. Never anything as liberating as jazz or contemporary. Wicked Game was my all-time favorite song, and it deserved a dance of freedom. Ballet, though graceful, was strict and conforming. It didn’t stop me from trying in the rare moments I was alone in a large enough space to let loose. If I were to do it in my apartment, I’d do one turn and break a lamp. Or worse—my TV.

My cell phone buzzed in my back pocket as I locked up from the outside. The keys jingled in my hand when I fumbled for it. Kate was calling. Oh boy, probably a drunk dial.

“Hey, Kate.”

“Blondie!”

I had to hold the phone away from my ear she screamed it so loud.

I chuckled. “How drunk are you?”

“A tad. Okay, more than a tad. But just a little.”

After locking the car door once inside, I snuggled into my seat, preparing for a lengthy conversation. Mostly a one-ended conversation considering not only did she talk a lot more when she was drunk, but she spoke like a well-oiled piston.

“Did you call for a particular reason at one in the morning, or are you trying to stay awake during your cab ride home?” I asked, smiling. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

“You won’t believe what I won.”

I waited for her to continue. Silence fell over the line.

“Are you trying to be suspenseful?”

“I was. Did it work? Is your curiosity absolutely peaked?”

I slapped a hand over my face. “What did you win, Kate?”

“I called into one of those random radio contests. You know where you have to be caller number whatever?”

“Uh-huh…” Now I could add, she took forever to get to a point while drunk as well.

“Well, yours truly was caller number seventeen and won two front row tickets and backstage passes.”

This was getting ridiculous. “That’s great, but to what?”

“Apollo’s freaking Sons,” she bellowed.

I winced. She was going to invite me. A reasonable excuse rummaged through my brain, begging to get out.

“And you, my dear, are coming with me. No one else would appreciate this concert like you.” She burped.

“I’m so happy for you, but rock really isn’t my thing. What about Liza or Corey?”

She snorted. “So, do you just wear Metallica shirts for show?”

Dammit.

“Okay. Yes. Metallica is one of my favorite bands, but they’re heavy metal. Apollo’s Suns is more…you know, modernized eighties hairband. Like that group Dynazty.”

“True. But as gorgeous as Ace’s hair is, it can’t compare to Nils Molin.”

I chuckled. “You’re right. All their music videos turn into a Pantene commercial every time he flips his hair.”

“Laurel, please,” she said, dragging out the ‘e.’ “If there’s anyone I’d pick to flirt with rock stars, it’s you.”

I held my phone above my head and had my own little version of a temper tantrum in my car, beating my feet in rhythmic succession against the floor. Pinching my eyes shut, I replied, “I’ll go on one condition.”

“Anything, anything. I’ll even bury a body with you if that’s what you ask.”

I questioned her level of seriousness. “You buy me a plate of over-priced nachos.”

She squealed like a tween at a boy band concert. “Deal!”

I sighed. “When is it?”

“Tomorrow night. I’ll pick you up at six. This is going to be so much fun. Bye!”

Tomorrow night? “Kate—” I started, but she hung up.

No big deal. Their music wasn’t horrible. It was merely a matter of ignoring Ace’s snarky swagger. From the front row and—backstage. Easy enough.

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