scarlet shoes

Sweat.

All she knows is the sweat.

It runs down her back in long smooth waves as the muscles in her legs begin to shake violently.

The music swells in a beautiful crescendo, but it’s all she can do not to let her facial muscles quake.

Somewhere in the back of her head, the tiniest corner not devoted to holding her muscles completely ridged, she notes that the makeup on her face is slowly slipping off; she can feel it cracking along her hairline where the crown of feather nestles next to her scalp.

The woman dancing Odette glides by, but Wanda sinks gratefully to her knee, tilting her head in time to the music.

Everything hurts, but she barely notices, so accustom to the pain.

White tulle swirls around her hips as she spins, toes catching on the floor of the stage. The second she stops, the tulle floats back around her legs, nestling scratchily against her tights, a halo of discomfort she has to ignore.

The orchestra pounds out the last few notes and she lifts off the ground into an arabesque, her back leg arched above her head as she desperately tries to stay on her toes.

The music fades and she gratefully lowers her leg back to the ground, her muscles liquid, her hands crossed in front of her and her eyes down swept.

She is one of a line up, and she meets them as perfectly as she can manage, trying to slow her breathing even as it gasps from her lungs in deep bellows.

There is a moment of pure silence before the audience breaks into riotous applause.

“God, my feet,” Natasha hisses somewhere to her right, her voice lost in the swell of cheers.

“At least you can still feel your toes,” Monica grits out to her left.

“I’ll take numbness over burning, are toes supposed to burn?”

Wanda keeps her body upright, refusing to acknowledge the conversation next to her, but the right side of her mouth pulls into a smirk.

She attempts to school it down, swans have no feelings but grief, and as the orchestra begins the newest movement, she races offstage.

Wanda doubles over to catch her breath, greedily gulping air, the bodice of her costume feeling uncomfortable sticky in the cool darkness of the wings.

Odette and the prince are dancing now, swirling around each other as the music picks up speed.

“How is she still going?” Natasha has sidled up behind Wanda, her feet silent on the wooden floor. Her gaze is focused on Maggie Quinn, the principle dancer lucky enough to be performing Odette that night. Her face is glowing red under her ghostly pale makeup and as the prince lifts her in a press lift, Wanda can see her exhaustion in her limp hands.

“No idea,” Wanda hisses back.

Their musical cue begins and Wanda leaves Natasha behind, racing into the warm, dusty brightness of the stage, the clatter of pointe shoes only slightly deadened by the orchestra’s music.

Luckily, the last bit of the ballet is easy. Too many bourrées, tiny picking motions with the tips of her toes until Wanda thinks she’d prefer to just cut them off, but as she sinks gratefully forward into the mist that Bruce, a burly stagehand with a bit of a temper, blows across the stage, she’s allowed to realize with a rush that she’s doing this for a living.

It makes it worth the small fortune she spends on ibuprofen, the ice baths she abhors, and the absence of a social life.

The cool dry ice fog wraps around her ankles lovingly, and she places her head down in time with the music, gratefully allowing the mist to cover her flushed face.

The curtain lowers as Maggie Quinn sinks into the haze and the audience breaks into wild applause.

Wanda demurely rises to her feet and steps forward as the curtain opens again. She curtsies with the crowd of other dancers and rushes offstage, the instant change in the group from poised dancers to average human amusing in its juxtaposition.

She follows the line of sweaty women back to the dressing rooms, pushing open the door that reads: Rambeau, Romanov, Potts, Maximoff and collapses next to her enormous red water bottle.

She catches sight of herself in the dressing room mirror and winces, her red hair is still gracefully slicked back with gel and about three pounds of hairspray, but her makeup is melting slowly, the wings of her eyeliner almost to her cheeks, and her mascara pooling below her eyes.

“God, that was awful,” Natasha throws herself down next to her bag, yanking her shoes halfway off her feet. “Whoever choreographed Swan Lake can go die.”

“I think he’s already dead,” Monica runs a towel across her forehead, grimacing as it comes away damp.

Pepper Potts pushes open the door, her own makeup still flawless. “At least no one fell,” she says.

“I almost did,” Natasha grimaces as she removes her swan headpiece from her hair. “Bruce was getting pretty liberal with the mist at the end.”

“But it’s so pretty,” Pepper says sweetly.

“You’re too nice,” Natasha informs her bluntly.

Instead of taking offense, Pepper just smiles.

Wanda has removed her pointe shoes and lies down on the floor, plunking her feet up on the wall the drain them.

“Ugh,” Natasha wrinkles her nose.

“What?” Wanda says, her attitude somewhat impeded by the fact that she’s glaring at Natasha upside down.

“You stink,” she says bluntly.

“Takes one to know one, Romanov,” Wanda grins at her cheekily.

“Any plans tonight, Nat?” Monica asks, stripping off her costume.

“God, I wish,” Natasha rolls her eyes. “I’ll probably just take two Xanex and conk the fuck out.”

“Wild,” Wanda chuckles.

Natasha’s eye cut across to her. “Hi Pot,” she says. “I’m Kettle.”

“Oh, leave me alone,” Wanda heaves to her sore feet. “I’m going to Darcy’s party tomorrow, aren’t I?”

Her stage makeup is caked onto her skin, and Wanda chips at it with a makeup wipe.

“Yeah, only after I threatened to post those pictures from graduation,” Natasha shoots back.

Wanda winces and unhooks her bodice. “I don’t appreciate you bringing out the big guns.”

“The big guns are the only way to drag your social life kicking and screaming off the couch,” Natasha says.

“What pictures from graduation?” Pepper asks curiously.

“Oh!” Natasha’s eyes light up and she dives for her phone. “You’re in for a treat, sweet Pepper!”

“I’m leaving!” Wanda announces loudly, shoving her legs into a pair of sweatpants.

None of them acknowledge her, they crowd around Natasha’s phone with glee and Wanda lets the dressing room door shut slightly harder than she meant to.

Out of habit, she makes a beeline to the cast list, posted backstage on an ancient cork board, lit by ominous blue light.

There’s really no reason for her to check, casting was posted three days earlier and it wasn’t like her name would magically move from its spot under Agon and Jewels to anything else.

Agon.

She resists the urge to groan.

“Hey Wanda,” a voice from behind her says.

She turns, plastering on a false smile, her stage smile, as Darcy Lewis, lighting designer extraordinaire comes to a stop behind her.

Darcy is New York City Ballet’s first female lighting designer and the youngest person ever to design lights at Lincoln Center. She carries herself with dancer-like grace, but Wanda’s seen her throw down with a stage hand when a tree of lights got cut.

Wanda’s never wanted to be more like another person in her life.

Darcy’s brow crinkles and her head tilts. “What’s up, buttercup?”

Apparently, her stage smile needs work.

“Nothing, Darcy,” Wanda says breezily. “I’m fine.”

“Huh,” Darcy raises an eyebrow. “Jimmy!” she suddenly hollers.

Jimmy Woo, the overworked, overburdened, always cheerful head stage manager, pokes his head out of his office, located just off the stage right exit. “Yes?” he asks.

“Does Wanda look fine to you?”

“Mentally or physically?” Jimmy asks.

“Mentally.”

He examines her closely. “No,” he says.

Wanda huffs out a breath. “I’m fine!”

Darcy leans around her and looks at the casting. When she pulls back, her face is sympathetic. “Agon again?”

“At least I know it,” Wanda says, trying to be cheerful, fully aware that the walls had ears.

Darcy smirks. “Nice try, Maximoff,” she says.

Wanda huffs again. “I’m leaving,” she announces. “Bye, Jimmy!”

Jimmy pokes his head back around the door. “Bye, Wanda,” he says.

“Wait!” Darcy calls. “You coming to my place tomorrow night?”

“Where else would I be on my one night off?” Wanda says with only the barest nip of sarcasm.

Darcy’s laugh follows her as she leaves the building, the early fall air warm and humid against her skin.

She lives off the 1 train, lucky that her commute is only about fifteen minutes tops. As she walks to the train station, she removes her bobby pins from her bun, one at a time, relishing the release.

She pulls the hairband out and rubs her scalp with her fingertips, the skin sore from the hair particles pulled in every unnatural direction.

The subway station smells like bleach, dust, and mold, the dry air sweeping across her face unpleasantly as she roots around for her wallet, swiping her MetroCard.

The train is a whopping ten minutes away and she sighs, wandering to a bench to sit, her muscles grateful for the break.

She has a small brush in her dance bag and she fishes it out, attempting to brush some of the gunk from her hair as she waits, the long red strands floating in the unflattering fluorescent light.

“Uh,” there is a cough next to her elbow and she turns.

And does a double take.

A tall blond man has sat two seats down from her, the glint of his hair flopping over his forehead.

His face is a chiseled oval with wide blue eyes and bright blond hair, his cheekbones actually cast a shadow, like a real shadow, and as she watches, he reaches up with a large hand and ruffles his golden hair.

“Yes?” she manages to squeak out, very aware of the fact that she’s clutching a tiny pink hairbrush in one hand with her stage makeup gathering under her eyes like a raccoon.

“Do you know if this train goes to Christopher Street?”

“Um,” she says intelligently, mesmerized by the sheer length of his eyelashes. “Um,” his question sinks in and her shoulders snap back. “No,” she says. “No, I’m sorry. You need to be on the other side of the tracks.”

“Great,” he mutters. “Just my luck.” He’s got the most delicious British accent, the syllables melting into one another like a dance and Wanda resists the urge to sigh like an idiot.

Luckily for her, the 1 train decides to roll into the station, its shrieking stop sounding almost musical to her ears.

“Um,” she says again, hopping to her feet and grabbing her bag. “Good luck.”

Something has dropped over his expression as she stands, his gaze focused on her bag that proudly reads: NEW YORK CITY BALLET, the pink ribbons of her pointe shoes visibly poking out. He looks almost angry. “Yeah,” he says and walks away. Without a thank you, without a see you around.

Wanda huffs and gets on the train, snagging a seat near the window. As the train pulls out of the station, she sees the blond man entering the other side of the platform, his flawless figure cutting an impressive picture.

He looks back to normal, his face smooth and free from the temporary anger that had flashed across his features.

Wanda hikes her bag into her lap and fixes her eyes unseeingly into the darkness of the subway tunnels.

***

The next morning is slow and monotonous.

It begins with company class, the time when everyone: apprentice, corps, soloist, and principle, all drag themselves into the studio at ten am, chugging coffee and hiking up sweat pants.

When Wanda was an apprentice, she would show up to class thirty minutes early and warm up. Her hair would be in a perfect bun, her tights and leotard smooth, and her face made up.

Now, five years on and in the corps de ballet, she hauls her body to the barre with her hair partially down, an enormous sweatshirt hanging to her thighs, and a yawn spread across her face.

She sits on the floor and rolls out her hamstrings with a tennis ball, watching members of the company slowly trickle in, exhaustion draped under their eyes.

Natasha tosses herself next to Wanda, her long legs stretching out in front of her body, a coffee cup caught in her hand. “Morning,” she says, her voice gravely.

“Good morning,” Wanda says.

“Mmph,” she agrees, her nose in her coffee.

The ballet master arrives and Wanda stands carefully to her feet, her body still sore from the night before, and class begins.

At the New York City Ballet, there are four levels of dancers.

The apprentice, the corps de ballet, the soloist, and the principle.

The apprentice is the trial run, a paid internship to see if the dancer has what it takes to be in the company.

The corps de ballet member is in the back of every dance, creating the backdrop of the story, and dreaming of the opportunity to be thrown into a larger role.

The soloist lives in purgatory, dancing less corps de ballet roles, and more principle roles, but always in second place.

The principle is the striven for position, the promotion everyone waits for. The promotion only ten percent of the dancers ever actually get.

It dangles in front of them like carrots as they hop mindlessly forward.

But, Wanda muses as she moves her muscles in long slow movements. You wouldn’t know there were levels in the company during the required morning class.

She sees Clint Barton, soloist and one of her favorite partners, completely fall out of a turn, both feet landing on the floor with a graceless smack.

She sees Maggie Quinn, principle dancer, gingerly putting her weight on her right foot, her body still not totally recovered from the night before.

The competition vanishes in the moment of warming up muscles, nursing the body to physical perfection, and Wanda feels like it’s one of the only times in her day where she relishes being one in a crowd.

She tries to enjoy each movement, but she’s got a brand-new pair of pointe shoes on her feet and the pink satin is digging into her heels.

The piano drums out careful chords and Wanda waits in the back next to Natasha to perform the across the floor combination.

She absently watches as Pepper glides across, each movement perfectly timed.

“Hey,” Natasha hisses. “We’re up.”

Startled, Wanda quickly rearranges her body and throws herself into the air, letting the music roll across her.

“And one, TWO, Ms. Maximoff, TWO, do you have weights on your ankles?”

The yell comes from far down a tunnel, Wanda barely registers it beyond throwing her body higher, demanding gravity let her loose.

She makes it across the floor and slumps against the barre, Pepper patting her arm. “You looked so good,” she whispers reassuringly.

“You’re far too nice to me,” Wanda mutters back.

“Not possible,” Pepper shoots her a gentle smile and Wanda twists her fingers together.

The truth was, Pepper could be sweet all she wanted, it didn’t change the fact that Wanda was distracted.

And she knew she was distracted.

It had started a few weeks ago when Jessica Clapper and Mary Tomkins had been promoted from the corps de ballet, Wanda’s current position in the company, to soloist.

And thus, began what Wanda had begun referring to as “the Dark Week”.

The Dark Week, when every corps girl, no matter how long they’d been stuck in the lineup, had begun coping with their stress as best they could.

Wanda had cleaned her whole apartment.

Which, she had to admit, was probably one of the healthier responses.

Natasha had begun smoking again, Monica had picked up kick boxing classes at the gym, and Pepper spent two weeks perfecting a sour dough starter.

But Wanda’s distraction had lingered, her joy of her job slipping slowly away, like sand in the tide.

“And thank you,” the ballet master at the front of the studio calls. “That will be all for today.”

Instantly, the entire room relaxes, muscles slumping and mouths exhaling.

There is chattering as the group moves out of the center of the studio to the messy line of bags shoved to the sides and out of the way of kicking legs.

Wanda sees her red hair frizzing around her face in a sweaty halo, and her leotard sticking to her back in the mirror and winces.

“Want to get a coffee before Jewels?” Monica asks Wanda conversationally as she towels off her face.

“Can’t,” Wanda makes a face. “I have to go rehearse Agon.”

“Jewels after Agon,” Natasha muses. “You might as well chop off your feet right now.”

Pepper drops next to Wanda and unties her pointe shoes. “You’ll be great, Wand,” she reassures her.

Wanda wastes a few precious seconds, sinking down onto her heels, taking the pressure off her knees and ankles. “This is about to be a disaster,” she groans.

“Hello, ladies!”

“Speaking of disasters,” Natasha mutters.

Steve Rodgers, the gorgeous principle dancer with the legendary jumps is grinning at their tiny circle, his eyes warm.

“I’m getting a coffee,” Natasha stands without acknowledging Steve, her shoes bundled in her fist and an enormous Mets sweatshirt pulled over her head.

“I’ll come,” Monica jumps to her feet. “Don’t forget to eat,” she says to Wanda.

“Yeah, yeah,” Wanda waves at her. “Thanks, Mom.”

“No coffee for you?” Steve directs his words to Wanda, but his eyes are on Natasha’s back.

“Can’t,” Wanda says. “I’ve got Agon in five.”

He tisks sympathetically. “They work you to the bone,” he says.

“Yeah, well,” Wanda stands, every joint popping. “You know Agnes.”

“’What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’,” they say together, imitating the terrifying company director.

“You’re going to be late if you don’t run,” Steve says.

Wanda rolls her eyes. “See you later?”

“I’ll be the one in the tights,” he blows her a kiss and she laughingly bats it from the sky.

One look at the clock tells her she’s really going to have to run if she’s going to make it to the rehearsal on time, so she says a quick goodbye to Pepper and races out of the studio, her pointes clumping against the floor.

No time to eat, she thinks wryly. At least Agnes will be proud.

Her stomach snarls though, and she wills it to hold on for another hour.

As she blows past the elevator, which has been out of order since Tuesday, she sees a tall blond man hitting the button repeatedly, his face screwed up in frustration.

“It’s out of order,” she calls to him on the staircase.

He turns and she stumbles on the steps, her feet suddenly wobbly.

“It’s you,” the words slip out of her mouth before she can catch them and she flushes.

It’s the man from the subway, his chiseled face annoyingly fresh in the late morning light that streams through the hallway windows.

He looks at her like he’s concerned she might pass out. “Do you know where I can find Studio B?”

A flash of jealously darts across her chest. Studio B is where perfect Mary Tomkins rehearses every Thursday.

Of course, perfect Mary Tomkins would know someone who looks like that.

“One floor down,” Wanda says out loud. “Second door on your right.”

The clock on the wall flips to eleven thirty and Wanda curses, whirling on her toes and virtually flying up the stairs, praying that Suki, a sweet ballet mistress who always smells like menthol, isn’t too pissed at Wanda arriving with bright red cheeks and sweat dripping back down her back.

“Ah, Ms. Maximoff.”

Wanda’s blood runs cold.

Shit, shit, shit, shit!

Agnes Harkness, director of the New York City Ballet, Wanda’s boss, and one of the most terrifying women she’s ever encountered, stands at the front of the studio, her arms crossed and her eyebrows raised. “Nice of you to join us.”

Wanda drops her bag and scurries to the middle of the floor, her heart in her throat. “I’m so sorry, ma’am, I-.”

Agnes raises a hand and Wanda shuts her mouth instantly. “Maybe Ms. Maximoff would like to show us the combination,” she says.

Wanda can see a tiny apprentice hiding a smile behind her hand and she swallows, squaring her shoulders. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t know the combination.”

“Shame,” Agnes says, her eyes dark. “Maybe someone else can show Ms. Maximoff what she missed?”

The tiny apprentice’s hand shoots up.

Agnes’s eyes pass her over and land on Julie Tyler Tremble, soloist and, if the rumors were true, soon to be principle. “Show her, Julie,” Agnes says.

Julie blushes like she’s so honored to be chosen and takes her place in the middle of the room.

The pianist begins and Wanda, even seething and honestly terrified, has to admit Julie is a brilliant dancer.

Every move is technically perfect and as she glides through each step gracefully, Wanda can see even the tiny apprentice staring in awe.

The music fades and Julie comes to a stop in front of Agnes, barely even out of breath.

The studio is silent as Agnes smiles up at Julie sweetly. “Excellent job, my dear,” she says.

Wanda barely dares to twitch, her muscles holding her in place as Agnes looks at her, her expression changing from soft to hard in a single moment.

Wanda flinches and lowers her eyes.

“Right,” Agnes claps her hands. “We’ve wasted enough time on Ms. Maximoff today. Let’s begin.”

Agon is a brutal piece and Wanda hates every minute of it.

She’s been in the company for five years, and every year without fail she’s shucked into the corner of Agon.

Every year.

“An apprentice piece,” the other corps members scoff when they see their names in the casting. “Why am I in an apprentice piece?”

Apprentices are the grunt workers. Once you get your official contract with the company and join the corps, you’re expected to be better.

But while the whispers had followed her as she rehearsed Agon over and over and over again, Wanda had striven for the first two years to be positive.

Hell, she was lucky to be cast in an onstage performance. Dancing at Lincoln Center had been her dream for years, absolutely years.

She wouldn’t let some snobbish remarks keep her from enjoying the performance.

But after year two, Agon became sluggish.

Year four, it felt like the broccoli she had to eat to get to dessert.

And now, year five, she’s not entirely sure that it’s not some kind of punishment.

Maybe she did something horrible in her childhood that she has to atone for now.

She races past the tiny apprentice girl and resists the urge to trip her.

Agnes is watching her, her hair scraped back so tightly that the skin on her forehead pulls her eyebrows upwards.

The number one rule of the company is to never be late to Agnes’s rehearsals.

And she’s looking to promote, as the thought crosses her mind, she stumbles, her body trembling with exhaustion.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Agnes smirk.

Wanda manages to finish the rehearsal without collapsing, though she is painfully aware that she’s only had half a banana and two scoops of peanut butter since seven thirty that morning.

“Before you go,” Agnes stops them from exiting. “We have a guest choreographer coming in from London this month. He’ll be watching class tomorrow morning and casting will be posted next week,” she darts a look around the room, her eyes lingering on Wanda. “If you know what’s good for you, don’t be late.”

The tiny apprentice sniggers and Wanda has to hold herself back from turning around and saying something irreversibly bad.

“That’s all,” Agnes waves them away.

Wanda eagerly snatches her bag and leaves the studio before anyone else, sinking into a dark corner to remove her pointe shoes, her feet crying at the relief.

She leans her head back against the cool wall, trying to shut out the images of Agnes smirking as she stumbled.

“Here,” a granola bar smacks her face and Wanda opens her eyes to see Natasha sinking down next to her. “Thought you could use some sustenance.”

“Thank you,” Wanda rips the plastic open and takes an enormous bite.

“How was it?” Natasha asks.

“Awful,” Wanda points one poor mangled foot, the polish on her toes a horrible, chipped mess. “I was late, Nat.”

“So?” Natasha asks. “It’s Suki, she doesn’t care.”

Wanda shakes her head. “I don’t know where Suki was today,” she says. “Agnes ran rehearsal.”

Natasha’s mouth drops open, her eyes wide. “Oh no.”

“Yep,” Wanda presses her cheek against the wall and closes her eyes.

There is a crinkling noise and Wanda peeks to see Natasha holding out a piece of a Starbucks chocolate chip cookie. “I was going to hoard this all to myself,” she says. “But I think you need it more than I do.”

Wanda is touched, taking the bite of cookie. “Thanks.”

“At least we’re off tonight,” Natasha says. “No need to rush to the dressing rooms.”

“True,” Wanda finishes the cookie. “God that was good, I miss sweets.”

“You work too hard,” Natasha tells her.

Wanda stands. “I have Jewels in ten minutes.”

“You’re still coming to Darcy’s tonight, right?” Natasha asks.

“Oh god, Nat,” Wanda rolls her neck. “I don’t know, I’m not really in a party kind of mood.”

“Wanda!” Natasha protests. “You promised!”

“Before my day went to shit!” Wanda says.

“I’ll post those pictures!” Natasha threatens.

“You’re mean,” Wanda mutters, tearing another bite of granola bar.  

“Oh, come on,” Natasha nudges her playfully. “You can’t tell me you’ve never wanted to know what Darcy’s apartment looks like.”

“I think I’d be better taking a Pilates class tonight,” Wanda says. “And then maybe clean my bathroom-.”

“No,” Natasha points a finger in her face. “No, Wand, these are your twenties! It’s time to live a little before you get to your forties and realize you never had fun.”

“But-,” Wanda starts.

“Clint!” Natasha grabs Clint Barton by the wrist as he passes with a diet coke clutched in his fist. “Tell Wanda she needs to go to Darcy’s party tonight.”

Clint smirks at Wanda and she rolls her eyes at him.

“Wanda,” he says gravely. “You should do whatever you want to do with your one night off this week.”

Wanda laughs triumphantly and Natasha smacks Clint on the arm. “Asshole!” she says. “I’m trying to encourage her to live a little!”

“Who needs to live a little?” Steve Rogers has appeared again, a little sweatier than before, his eyes bright and his smile wide.

“Me apparently,” Wanda says when Natasha refuses to speak.

Steve wiggles his eyebrows at her. “As much as I hate to admit it, Natasha is right, you do have a tendency to hermit, Wand.”

Wanda feels her mouth fall open in shock. “Excuse me, I do not hermit!” she looks and Clint and Natasha. “Do I?”

“Well…” Clint trails off as she fixes him with a death glare. “No, no you don’t!”

“Is that what you all think?” Wanda stares at them.

“Your work ethic is inspiring,” Steve says. “But maybe you need to let your hair down,” his eyes sweep across her tightly pinned hair. “Literally.”

Later, Wanda would chalk up her acceptance to exhaustion and possibly extreme hunger, but in that moment all she could think was: challenge accepted.

“Sure,” she says brightly. “Where does Darcy live?”