scarlet shoes

Wanda thinks she sleeps a single hour that night.

She arrives home at midnight, emotionally and physically exhausted, ready to take a quick shower and collapse into bed.

Vision had vanished after their time on the roof and Wanda hadn’t bothered asking where he’d gone, her anger beating a drum behind her temples.

But as she burrows under her blankets, shutting out the world, it becomes clear that sleep is the last thing on her mind.

Her brain buzzes and her stomach churns and her fingertips prickle as she relives the night over and over and over again.

Particularly the kiss.

She spends far longer than she wishes to admit fixating on the feeling of Vision’s mouth on hers.

Around four AM, she falls into an uneasy slumber that she’s roused from at dawn, waking with quick breaths and flushed cheeks, after a horribly vivid dream of Vision chasing her around with a knife, begging her to allow him to cut off her arms in an effort to help her finally hit her target weight.

Wanda gives up on sleep after that, swinging her legs out of bed. Her eyes feel gritty and her head aches and all she wants is a bagel with heaps of cream cheese.

She fills up her bathtub, drops in a bath bomb that she’s been saving for emergencies, and eats a bowl of Greek yogurt with banana slices while the tub fills with fragrant and steaming water.

She wiggles out of her pajamas and drops her body in the tub, the water almost too hot for her skin to bear, but the sting focuses her mind away from Vision and his stupid blue eyes and hurtful words.

She tilts her head back and closes her eyes.

Her phone dings loudly from her tiny bedside table and Wanda’s eyes fly open. Her apartment is brighter and the water in the tub is lukewarm, the steam completely gone.

She feels groggy and off balance as she blinks, deducing that she must have dozed off, lulled by the warm water.

Shit, she’s lucky she didn’t drown.

Her phone chimes again, but she ignores it, sliding down in the tub until only her eyes are visible above the water.

Her phone chimes again, the sound muffled through the bathwater.

Wanda wrinkles her brow as she comes up for air, droplets of water sluicing off her chin.

Her phone chimes yet again and she groans, hoisting herself out of the bathtub with a splash, her body creating small waves that lap against the sides of the tub.

She wraps her thick robe around her torso, ignoring the tendrils of wet hair that cling to the back of her neck, and pads over to her phone.

It chimes again before she reaches it and she makes an audible noise of annoyance. “What?” she asks it in exasperation, unplugging it from the charger.

She has six new text messages, eight new Facebook notifications, and fifteen follow requests on Instagram.

“What the hell-,” she says out loud, sinking onto the end of her unmade bed, lifting her feet off the cold floor and crossing her legs into a basket.

She clicks on the top message from Pepper.

Pepper: oh my god i’m so proud of uuuu!

Wanda blinks and clicks on the next text, this one from Steve.

Steve: well fuck, of course. Congrats!!

Since this text makes even less sense than Pepper’s, Wanda finds Natasha’s text.

Natasha: girl, have u seen nyt??? go look!

Wanda uncertainly opens a new tab on Safari and goes to the New York Times website. She’s searching through the morning report when a final text comes in from Monica.

Monica: you’ve probably heard this all morning, but congrats!

Attached is a tiny link to an article in the arts and leisure section of the New York Times. Wanda clicks on it, confused.

NEW YORK CITY BALLET GALA NIGHT

Last night was the annual New York City Ballet gala night. The night for donors and critics, like myself, to drink wine and see where their time and money is going. Every year, I expect all of the classics that keep the NYCB running, and I was not disappointed. However, the standout of the night was not Serenade, nor was it Carousel, no. The standout was the opening piece, a newly choreographed version of the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet. It’s choreographer, the elusive Vision Shade, whose father famously brought the Royal Ballet back from near bankruptcy during his thirty years as its director, was not only present at the gala, but dancing Romeo himself. His return to the stage after nearly four years of retirement would be impressive enough, but Shade does not dance like someone who has been out of the spotlight for any length of time. 

Of course, it helps that his Juliet, the relatively unknown corps de ballet member, Wanda Maximoff, is herself a force to be reckoned with. She brings a maturity, an almost mournful nature to her Juliet, that I found entirely refreshing. The two have such crackling chemistry that I could not look away as they moved in beautiful symmetry. 

I for one, am looking forward to watching Wanda Maximoff’s journey, for surely, she will not be in the corps de ballet for much longer, and hopefully, if we all get lucky, we shall see her and Mr. Shade gracing the stage together in the future. 

Wanda bursts into tears. 

Her body feels as though she’s been washed and wrung out, squeezed until every last drop of control has puddled on the floor. The past two days of ridiculous rehearsing, panic, uncertainty, and emotional exhaustion catch up to her all at once, a wall that she has unknowingly slammed headlong into. 

She rereads the article through her tears, sniffling at each word, the positive encouragement a drink of water after months in a desert of discouragement, the comments about Vision a battering ram to her bruised ribs. 

She wishes she had someone to share it with. 

Her stomach rumbles and she stands blindly to make a bowl of oatmeal, scooping oats into a bowl with water, her nose still running. 

While it heats up, she checks her social media, noting new followers, random people she doesn’t know are liking her ridiculous pictures from backstage with Natasha or posing in arabesque in Central Park with Pepper. 

Out of curiosity, she searches for Vision Shade, finding two fan accounts but no Instagram or Facebook belonging to him. 

She clicks on an account named @visionshadefan, and finds a picture of Vision standing backstage at the Royal Ballet in a pair of blue tights and a blue jacket, blue feathers hanging from the hips and arms of the jacket. The caption reads: the most precious bluebird. Sleeping Beauty, 2013. 

She swipes over, the next picture is of him flying through the air onstage, his blue feathers ruffling behind him, his face caught in a blissful half smile, as though he’s forgotten where he is. 

I’m falling in love with you. 

Wanda swallows and closes Instagram forcefully. He’s not worth it, Maximoff, she scolds herself. Just let him go. 

Despite her early wake up, she’s running late to class and that in turn keeps her off balance for the rest of the day. She’s also incredibly unused to the attention she garners that day; strangers come over to congratulate her and she receives a number of extremely jealous looks from apprentices and even some of the other corps women. She does her best to tune it out, her exhaustion slowly overcoming her as the day progresses. 

She manages to take a small nap on Maria’s table, getting some electricity for her ankle after Nutcracker rehearsals and before the show that evening. 

They are back to their regular show schedule for the next two weeks with one day off for Thanksgiving before Nutcracker performances begin on November 26th. Wanda finds some relief in the regularity. There’s no intense pressure, no half hysterical partner she must rely on, no extra feelings rocketing around in her skull. Just her and her In G Major costume with the pink stripes that clash so horribly with her hair. 

She arrives at the hour call and settles in her chair in front of the makeup mirror with her new tranquil mindset. For once, it’s truly quiet in the dressing room, Pepper blots foundation across her cheeks gently and Monica twists on her yoga mat, breathing deeply with enormous headphones on her ears. 

Wanda is gluing her second eyelash onto her right eyelid when the door opens and Natasha enters, her cheeks pink, her coat smelling of smoke. “Hey, Wand,” she says cautiously. “There’s someone here who wants to talk to you.”

“Who?” Wanda asks. 

Natasha steps out of the doorway to reveal a very nervous looking Vision Shade, his hands stuffed in his pockets, a scarf wrapped around his throat. 

Wanda feels her eyes narrow. “I’m good, thanks,” she says stiffly, turning to uncap her red lipstick. 

“Wanda, please,” his voice is hoarse. “I just need five minutes.” He sounds so desperate that Wanda’s stupid heart clunks unpleasantly. 

“One minute,” she says. 

“Three,” he pleads. “Please?” 

She looks at Pepper, Monica, and Natasha, all of whom are trying desperately to look like they aren’t listening. “Fine,” Wanda stands and grabs her coat from the back of her chair. “But outside.” She sweeps out of the dressing room and down the hall to the stage door, not looking to see if he’s following her.

The November night is crisp and cold and Wanda wraps her coat as tightly as she can around her torso, her tiny In G Major skirt doing nothing to keep her legs warm. 

“Okay,” she turns around, Vision right behind her, his face half buried in his scarf, though because he’s cold or ashamed, Wanda doesn’t know. “What do you want?”

His gold hair glitters in the streetlights and his eyes are boring into her with an intensity that makes her swallow. He has large dark circles under his eyes and Wanda wonders absently if he had just as much trouble sleeping as she did. 

He produces a white envelope in his hand, her name written across the front in short, blocked letters, the crisp edges stark against his dark coat. “Here,” he says. 

Wanda just looks at it. “What is that?” she asks. 

“It’s a letter,” he says.

“I can see that,” Wanda answers dryly. “But why are you giving it to me?” 

His mouth twists. “It’s an explanation,” he says. 

She just blinks at the paper. 

“Please,” Vision says. “It’s not an attempt to change your mind or even defend my own actions. I just want to explain.”

Slowly, Wanda reaches out and takes the envelope, her cold fingers brushing against his hand, the contact causing her to jump. 

He clears his throat, a loud sound that echoes off the buildings around them. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “If you need anything confirmed, Darcy and Tony have both agreed to speak with you.”

“What about you?” The words tumble from her mouth without her permission. 

Vision gives a self-deprecating smile. “I’m leaving this evening; my contract is over.”

“What about your other piece?” Wanda asks, her mouth dry. 

“It can survive without me, I’m sure,” Vision answers. There is a moment of silence where he shuffles his feet, his eyes on her. Then he sucks in a deep breath through his nose, his mouth a firm line. “I’ll let you get back inside before you freeze. Goodbye, Wanda.” With that, he walks around her, his spicy scent brushing her gently, caressing her nostrils, before he disappears in the crowd of people mingling around the plaza. 

Wanda stands outside in the cold until her teeth are rattling in her skull, simultaneously wanting to open the letter but terrified of what it might say. She ends up stuffing the envelope in her pocket and pushing the encounter from her brain until she arrives home after the show that night.

She takes a long shower and eats a full can of chicken noodle soup before facing the letter, sitting innocently where she’d tossed it on her bed. “What are you so scared of?” she says out loud. “Just open it.”

Her hands shake, causing her to rip the envelope almost in half, her name on the front splitting in two. She pulls out a sheet of paper, both sides covered in words written in the same short, blocked letters as her name on the envelope.

She swallows and begins to read.

Dear Wanda,

Before you toss this away, don’t worry, I won’t be restating my feelings. You’ve made your own feelings on the matter clear and I won’t be bothering you again. However, I cannot let myself vanish into the background without addressing the two sins you have laid so squarely at my feet.

I have to admit, I feel a little silly writing you a letter like it’s the nineteenth century, but an email felt too formal and a text far too informal, so I suppose this is the happiest medium I could find.

The first offense is the easier of the two and that is the matter between Tony and Pepper. It’s true, I believed they were not the best match. Tony has had his share of horrible relationships, most of which were after his money and nothing else. I’ve spent many hours scraping him off the floor and piecing what’s left of him back together again. Naturally this would make me wary, both as an observer, but also as a friend. When Tony met Pepper, I thought she was a nice enough girl, perhaps a bit boring, but certainly not malicious. I did not expect them to last much longer than a week or two.

When they continued to date, I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and while I still believe she is a nice woman, I believe his feelings ran deeper than hers. I have many instances I can point to, but I believe the most respectful thing I can do is say that whenever I saw them together, she would look embarrassed if he put his arm around her or frustrated when he engaged her in conversation. The most emotion I even saw her exude was the night when you fainted. Her concern for you showed me what her true emotions looked like.

I did not break them up, but I will admit that I mentioned to Tony many times that I felt like she was not as interested as he was.

I was looking out for my friend, as I know you look out for yours and while I believe that it is for the best that they broke up, I did not specifically tell him to end things with her.

The second allegation you have accused me of is far more difficult to explain, but I’ll do my best.

I do know Hank Pym. I know him quite well.

We grew up together at the Royal Ballet in London. His father was a stage hand so we spent many hours backstage. We learned to dance together, both of us showing a lot of talent. However, as the auditions for the Royal Ballet approached, Hank lost interest. He still wanted the glory of the job, but without having to do the hard work required.

My father offered Hank an extra year of training before he auditioned for the school, thinking he needed another year, but Hank refused. When he didn’t get admitted, he left, burning many bridges as he did.

I’m not sure what he did between then and when I saw him again. I believe he continued to dance. I know he gambled and partied and led a far less disciplined life than either you or I are accustomed to.

He showed back up a few years ago, right after I had been named to the board for the Royal Ballet. There is a position created specifically for a principle dancer, chosen by a democratic vote every two years, to be the mouthpiece of the company. Mostly, it meant I sat in on a lot of meetings with the directors and was present during auditions so I could attempt to discern if a dancer was a good fit within the people who already worked for the company. I didn’t know that Hank was interesting in reauditioning until Darcy introduced him to me again.

Before I go any further, you should know I’ve gotten Darcy’s full permission to tell you the story after this, please know that I am not betraying her confidence.

It turns out, Hank and Darcy had met when she was running lights for a production of Sleeping Beauty at the Royal Ballet and she and Hank quickly become close friends. It was a few weeks after that that they started dating.

I didn’t have a problem with Hank then. I thought he was a little too charming and maybe a little narcissistic, but Darcy loved him and that was what mattered.

Tony wasn’t as forgiving as I was to some of Hank’s less than savory habits (at the time he was drinking a lot and would sometimes disappear for a few days without warning), but Darcy saw the good in him, so we strove to do the same.

They’d been dating for six months when he asked her to marry him and she accepted.

Tony and I felt that they were rushing, but he really seemed to love her, so we tried to swallow the news as best we could.

Hank auditioned the next week for the Royal Ballet and didn’t get in. There were hundreds of applicants and he just wasn’t the best fit for the company.

I tried to tell him in the nicest possible way, but he didn’t believe me. He got extremely angry and informed me, with Darcy and Tony present, that he wouldn’t have wasted six months of his life dating someone like Darcy if he didn’t expect to see some results.

That’s when Tony punched him.

I won’t go into details about how this situation has affected Darcy; I’m sure you can imagine.

We all decided that time and space would help her heal, which is one of the reasons why she transferred to New York.

And that’s the whole story.

If you’re wondering why I didn’t address both of these things last night, it’s because I have spent the last six years of my life protecting Darcy’s secret and I would not betray her confidence, not even for you.

If you would like to double check my story, Darcy has agreed to talk to you, you only need ask.

As for me, once I deliver this letter to you, my time at New York City Ballet will be over and I will be moving on to other things.

I doubt we’ll ever see each other again, or if we do, I doubt we will speak to each other.

Good luck with all of your endeavors, you are truly a wonderful dancer and I feel confident you’ll succeed.

Yours,

Vision

P.S. you asked about the significance of 1986. That was the year my parents met. My father was choreographing a production of Romeo and Juliet for the Royal Ballet, and my mother was one of the women cast as Juliet. I’m sure I don’t need to point out the irony to you.

They were married at the end of that year and I appeared three years later. My mother was never ready to be a mother, as I believe I’ve told you before, and she and my father were woefully unhappy together. I suppose my hatred for dancers, as well as Romeo and Juliet, begins and ends with that year.

Wanda lets her hands fall, the letter slipping from her fingers to the floor. There is a swimming sensation in her head and a ringing in her ears, but her eyes stay dry and gritty, wide open and staring at the ceiling.

For the second night in a row, she doesn’t sleep a wink.