Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97053 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97053 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
“Oh, how delightful,” my mother says.
“In the town nearest the Colorado Club,” Iris clarifies.
“Your family are from there?” my mother asks.
“Yes. Our family has a fruit farm on the outskirts of Star Falls.”
“A fruit farm. How sweet.” My mother smiles tightly and shoots me a look that says I’m being ridiculous by bringing a woman from a fruit farm to the New York City Ballet.
“We actually met in New York,” I say. “Here at the ballet, actually,” I say to my mother. “Iris used to be a dancer.”
Before anyone can say anything more, the lights of the auditorium dip and we have to take our seats. Greg steps in and rearranges the freestanding chairs so my mother’s seat is nearest the stage with the best view. I guide Iris to the seat directly behind my mother and take a seat beside her.
Iris glances across at me and smiles, but it’s a smile lacking in enthusiasm. I wanted Iris and I to enjoy the ballet together tonight. The last thing I wanted was my mother to be the judgmental third wheel. If I’d known she was coming, I would have gotten tickets somewhere else in the auditorium. I wouldn’t have used the family box. It’s not that I was embarrassed or ashamed to be with Iris, more that I didn’t want Iris’s night to be ruined by my mother.
I take Iris’s hand and squeeze it. At least we will have after the ballet. And we can come and see another performance another time.
The curtains open and I try to focus on the dancers and the music rather than the irritation of my mother being so close. But it’s difficult. I just want to sit here and watch Iris. She’s so animated as the different ballet stars take to the stage to perform parts of well-known ballets and some more obscure ones. She’s half out of her seat when Carlos Acoma dances. She feels the performances as if she’s living them.
I want to do this every week with her. I want to buy her a pretty dress and take her to the ballet and watch her light up. I feel so privileged to see this side of Iris. I imagine most people, not even people she’s known her entire life in Star Falls, have seen this side of her.
The current principal male of the New York City Ballet finishes a leap with a particularly dramatic flourish and the audience bursts into applause. Iris is out of her chair and clapping furiously. She’s a joy to be close to.
Iris’s applause captures my mother’s attention, and she looks up and around from where she’s sitting. Then her gaze slides to me.
The curtain comes down and my mother gets to her feet. Immediately, Greg is by her side. “Mrs. Alden, did you enjoy it?” he asks.
My mother glances at Iris, who’s still staring at the stage, willing the dancers back. “Not as much as others, apparently,” she says. “Jack. Come and have a drink.”
It’s a summons, not a suggestion.
I pull in a breath and remind myself that I don’t care what my mother thinks. What I care about is Iris. I know how I feel about her. I don’t need commentary from my mother.
I turn to Iris. “Shall we—”
My mother takes Iris’s hand. “Come and have a drink.”
Iris’s gaze flickers to me, an expression of panic on her face. “Certainly, Mrs. Alden,” she says.
I shrug. It’s ten minutes that we have to endure dodging jabs from my mother. I hope the ballet’s worth it in Iris’s eyes.
“So, Iris,” my mother says as we sit at a low table, reserved for the Aldens. Three glasses of champagne are being poured by a waiter. “What did you think of the first part of the performance?” It’s a test with multiple elements. Most of the women my mother has suggested I might want to date would at least pass parts of the test. But they would know they were under pressure to say the right thing.
I’m not sure Iris does.
My mother is looking to see if Iris truly knows anything about dance. It’s not an automatic fail if she doesn’t, but she has to be able to have enough knowledge to make small talk. My mother is also looking at Iris’s body language, posture, her turn of phrase, her vernacular. It’s all under scrutiny.
Iris sits back and considers my mother’s question. My mother’s eyebrow inches towards her hairline as she waits for an answer.
“I really enjoyed it,” Iris says finally. My mother barely hides her eye roll. But Iris’s not done. “It’s wonderful to see some of my favorite dancers sharing a stage.”
My mother doesn’t respond, she just looks at Iris as if she hasn’t finished, putting pressure on her to say more. I hope Iris doesn’t fall into the trap. My mother is looking for rope to hang her with. I don’t want Iris to help her.