NEW YEAR IN NEW YORK – PART 18

 


NEW YEAR IN NEW YORK – PART 18

It’s New Year’s Eve day, and I’m so nervous I can hardly stand still. I pace around my apartment, caught in a whirlwind of anxiety. What if my work sucks? I think to myself. What if someone falls, and everyone laughs? I can barely contain the pressure. This is it. The big time. The city of New York. The moment I’ve worked toward for so long. I can’t help but wonder if I’m ready for it.

When I arrive at the building, the doorman looks me over, checks his list, and ushers me inside. The place is packed—so packed that people are standing up the staircase, crowding behind the stage. I’m handed a program, and my heart sinks when I see that we’ll be sharing the stage with City Ballet and a Broadway star. I suck in my breath. The magnitude of the situation hits me hard. This is it. This is the moment.

I received good luck emails from the cast and even two phone calls from London. "I hope everything goes well, and I wish I was there," one of them says. The cast has become my family. Even though we’re separated, we stay in touch every day. It’s amazing how connected we’ve become despite everything that’s happened.

I stand backstage, watching the dancers enter. I’m so nervous that if you looked at my swing dancer from the front, you’d only see one of my eyes. My breath is shallow, my chest tight with anxiety. The music starts, the beat of the drum fills the air. And then it happens: the performance begins.

The show goes so well. The audience gives a standing ovation, and in that moment, I think to myself, That’s for me. That’s for me! All the hard work, all the pain, and finally, a response that makes it feel worth it. The head of the organization comes over to thank me. I’m on cloud nine, basking in the success of it all. I fly all the way home, exhausted but elated.

Not long after, I meet one of the cast members for breakfast early one morning. We sit on his terrace in New York, the warmth still lingering in the air. We talk about everything we’ve been through, and about the responses we’ve gotten from others. No one believes us. “How could the company do that?” they ask. We ask ourselves the same question. It’s impossible to comprehend, but it’s real.

Back home, I’m faced with the aftermath. I have to pay off $2,000 in bills that my subletters racked up in my name. Goodbye, debt, I think, as I cancel a joint bank account I set up for them in case of emergencies. The only emergency they had was needing a new Nintendo game center. The bills pile up, forgotten and unpaid. But it’s over now.

I begin packing for Italy. I’m so excited to go to the one country I’ve always dreamed about. I picture scenes in my mind—beautiful young people lounging around, sipping coffee. Guido, my latte is cold. Could you please heat it for me? I imagine cobblestone streets, old women tottering home with loaves of bread tucked under their arms, fast cars speeding by, and girls with beehives tied up in silk scarves. Italy is going to be everything I’ve ever wanted.

I didn’t know then that this would be yet another rollercoaster ride, one that would take me even further into hell.

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