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Oct. 29th, 2005 12:11 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
skygiantsShe sings in the corridors, absently, without quite realizing she’s done it; maudlin songs about heavenly guardians, beautiful angels. Jammes slaps her in the arm and tells her to se taire, does she think this is a church-choir, and Christine smiles with her oversized mouth and obediently quiets, and two minutes later the melody starts again. This happens every time.
On top of that, she’s one of the homesick ones. She spends long nights on her thin mattress gulping back sobs and wiping a runny nose with the edge of the pillowcase. Occasionally, Meg, who has the dormitory bed next to hers, hears the whispered word, “Papa.” Meg, who never had a Papa, and on occasion would quite like to do without her Maman, is unsympathetic.
It’s the little things that get on your nerves when you live in a dormitory. The sniffling that keeps you up at night, someone else’s hair in your carefully hoarded chocolate, that one girl who keeps cracking her toes no matter how many times people tell her to stop – if you don’t adjust, these will send you more sincerely fou than the traumatic events of any great melodrama. On top of this, the ballet dormitories have their own special aspects of competition, and pressure, and pride. Forming the friendships that generally allow one to tolerate the hair and the sniffling and the toe-cracking is difficult when you know that every friend is also a rival; more difficult still for the girl with an edge. Meg’s edge is her mother, and while Meg may genuinely deserve the parts she gets – for even the most jealous will grudgingly admit that the girl’s got talent – there will always be that suspicion that if she were not a Giry she’d be in the back like everyone else, working her way through the ranks like everyone should. Added to that, though, there’s always the fact that Meg must have her mother’s ear to a certain extent, no matter how much she denies it; favor in Meg's eyes might lead to favor with Madame, and favor with Madame could lead to better parts.
This makes things complicated, and Meg knows it. So she’s friendly and polite and keeps her distance, and tries to get used to living with a dozen girls who chatter and make noise and make messes instead of with her silent and fastidious mother, and does her very best not to go insane.
No one admits that Christine’s got talent, because she hasn’t. She’s competent enough to be let on stage, but her heart isn’t in dancing, and they all know it. They tease her for it, of course, and for the singing, and for the sniffling, but in a way she’s a relief to be around. You don’t need to worry about Christine. Moreover, there’s the ease of knowing that Christine isn’t worrying about you, either. Christine is refreshingly uncomplicated.
For this reason, perhaps, when Meg can take no more, it’s Christine she eventually blows up at; Christine whose little habits, whose sniffles and singing and transformation of easy French words into mangled semi-Swedish messes make her such an easy target. And Christine looks apologetic, and says that she’s very sorry, and she had no idea that she was bothering anyone, and of course she’ll try to do better, and make more effort to learn French properly, and –
It’s around at this point that Meg decides that what Christine really needs to learn is the growth of a backbone, and says so, and Christine smiles at her with her oversized mouth and says ja – oui – she guesses she’ll make more effort at that too.
And Meg smiles back, and tells her she’ll be all right; it’s not that complicated.
On top of that, she’s one of the homesick ones. She spends long nights on her thin mattress gulping back sobs and wiping a runny nose with the edge of the pillowcase. Occasionally, Meg, who has the dormitory bed next to hers, hears the whispered word, “Papa.” Meg, who never had a Papa, and on occasion would quite like to do without her Maman, is unsympathetic.
It’s the little things that get on your nerves when you live in a dormitory. The sniffling that keeps you up at night, someone else’s hair in your carefully hoarded chocolate, that one girl who keeps cracking her toes no matter how many times people tell her to stop – if you don’t adjust, these will send you more sincerely fou than the traumatic events of any great melodrama. On top of this, the ballet dormitories have their own special aspects of competition, and pressure, and pride. Forming the friendships that generally allow one to tolerate the hair and the sniffling and the toe-cracking is difficult when you know that every friend is also a rival; more difficult still for the girl with an edge. Meg’s edge is her mother, and while Meg may genuinely deserve the parts she gets – for even the most jealous will grudgingly admit that the girl’s got talent – there will always be that suspicion that if she were not a Giry she’d be in the back like everyone else, working her way through the ranks like everyone should. Added to that, though, there’s always the fact that Meg must have her mother’s ear to a certain extent, no matter how much she denies it; favor in Meg's eyes might lead to favor with Madame, and favor with Madame could lead to better parts.
This makes things complicated, and Meg knows it. So she’s friendly and polite and keeps her distance, and tries to get used to living with a dozen girls who chatter and make noise and make messes instead of with her silent and fastidious mother, and does her very best not to go insane.
No one admits that Christine’s got talent, because she hasn’t. She’s competent enough to be let on stage, but her heart isn’t in dancing, and they all know it. They tease her for it, of course, and for the singing, and for the sniffling, but in a way she’s a relief to be around. You don’t need to worry about Christine. Moreover, there’s the ease of knowing that Christine isn’t worrying about you, either. Christine is refreshingly uncomplicated.
For this reason, perhaps, when Meg can take no more, it’s Christine she eventually blows up at; Christine whose little habits, whose sniffles and singing and transformation of easy French words into mangled semi-Swedish messes make her such an easy target. And Christine looks apologetic, and says that she’s very sorry, and she had no idea that she was bothering anyone, and of course she’ll try to do better, and make more effort to learn French properly, and –
It’s around at this point that Meg decides that what Christine really needs to learn is the growth of a backbone, and says so, and Christine smiles at her with her oversized mouth and says ja – oui – she guesses she’ll make more effort at that too.
And Meg smiles back, and tells her she’ll be all right; it’s not that complicated.
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