As all good Christian folk know, a church is not made up of its pews, the stained glass of its windows or even its altar. The true spirit of any church is found in the members of its congregation. Walking amongst the wood splinters, the plaster chunks and the lighting fixtures that once graced the ceiling, I now realized that the same was true of any building. Its’ heart, it’s blood and its’ veins are the people that are inside of it, working, learning, living... loving.

The building at one time had been one of several comprising the campus of a boy’s school around the early part of the 20th century. The lower floor of the massive building contained classrooms, offices and the locker rooms while the entire upper floor was the schools gymnasium. By the mid 70’s it was the last building left remaining from the campus and had been sitting empty for almost two decades. It barely escaped demolition had it not been for the Madsen Arts Academy, which purchased it and turned it into what eventually became one of the most prominent non-accredited arts schools in the Northwest.

Several windows were broken or missing and the freezing cold air poured in causing my breath to swirl around me and mix with the equally vaporous strains of music I could occasionally hear floating around the rafters like renegade bats. The mirrors had been removed from the walls but I could still see my reflection in the far wall just as I always did six days a week for the six years that this studio was my home and refuge from the everyday trauma of being a square peg. Here, boys that danced were not freaks of nature. Here, nobody slammed me up against a wall, spit in my face and called me a faggot…

I struck an arabesque pose and I could automatically hear my teacher Stephanie calling out to me to turn out my supporting leg, her voice floating upwards to mix with the music and my frozen breath...

Over in a corner, under a pile of debris, I spot something pink peeking out. I walk over and pull it out, the delicate net fabric tearing on the wood splinters. It is a child’s tutu, something a girl of five or so would wear in a ballet level one class. I hold it in my hands wondering which of the thousands of little girls who passed through here had worn it, what they had danced and if they had been as happy as I had been here. Upon closer inspection, I can barely discern a name written inside it...

"Stephanie, I found this in the upper studio, no name on it. Any idea whose it might be?" I hand the little pink tutu over to our schools director who never lets anyone call her Miss Madsen; it’s always "Stephanie". She looks at it for all of two seconds then arranges a stray lock of her long prematurely gray hair. "That belongs to Becky Lowell in my level one class. Do me a favor Grayce, write her name in it and put it in the lost and found. She can pick it up on Wednesday when she comes for class.

O.k. Steph. By the way, I'll be staying after the eight o'clock class to run my pas-de-deux."

"Oh, so Katia can rehearse after all?"

"Well, she can stay long enough to run it once or twice. I guess I can walk through it by myself a few times after that."

"Well, I'm glad you'll get a couple of good rehearsals in. I’ll try to get up there to see it at least once. I did hear Clark mention something about using the main studio tonight, so you might want to check with him first."

Stephanie becomes engrossed in choosing ballet music albums for her next class. I walk out of her office on the mezzanine level and down the front staircase. I pass the huge radiator that we love to sit on and warm up our legs. It’s so huge I can comfortably lie down all the way across it and only my feet hang over the edge. Right now, six dancers of different sizes are perched on it like birds on a telephone wire. Clark is at his usual post at the foot of the stairs by the front doors busily manning the "security" desk, checking passes and making sure all the dancers sign in.

I decide to pull seniority.

"Clark, Steph said you’re rehearsing something later?"

"Well, I was gonna do some foot stretches then work on some choreography afterwards but I forgot my pointe shoes..."

"Katia and I are staying upstairs after class to run our duet."

"O.k., well, why don't I start cleaning downstairs then we can trade studios later..."

"I’ll tell you what. You stay downstairs and I'll lend you my pointe shoes."

"I get the feeling you want the big studio tonight."

"You know, for a lowly peon of a scholarship student, you're very perceptive."

Clark laughs and then abruptly stops to reprimand a little ballerina that walks by without signing in. As she passes me she says in the loudest most mocking voice a 12 year old can muster…

"Hi CHRISTIAN!"

Which is what anyone below the age of puberty calls me around here since the day she decided I looked exactly like Christian Slater. She is not entirely to blame. There is a very strong resemblance. But you know how kids will NOT let go of a joke…

She rolls her eyes upward and trudges back to sign in.

"That's right Clark, get to work. Don't let 'em get by you."

"Whadda ya mean 'get to work'? You know, you're on scholarship too and I've never seen you lift a finger around here."

"Oh, I work plenty hard buddy boy, believe me."

Clark snorts in disbelief.

"Only I don't have to do the mop-and-bucket jobs anymore kiddo. I leave those to the low slime on the totem pole." I say as I reach over and muss up his ash blonde hair.

"Hey! Is that an insult?" he says in mock seriousness.

"So what if it is? Have you forgotten two years ago? Give me any more of your shit and you'll get more of the same."

"Jesus H. Christ! I'm NEVER going to hear the end of that am I?"

"Not if I can help it."

"Mr. Connors, you are late for class and how many times have I told you not to antagonize the low slime on the totem pole?" Stephanie says as she comes down the stairs from her office, her arms full of albums and assorted papers. Even balancing the awkward load she effortlessly manages to make the descent an exercise in elegance and tall grace.

"You've never told me that."

"Well, I always meant to. Now get to class." She says as she passes me, her Norwegian blue eyes twinkling with a combination of sternness and amusement.

"Oh, I don't know Steph, I thought I'd just skip the barre and show up for the fun stuff in the center."

"Very funny. Get upstairs."

"You don't think Troyos would mind do you?"

"Go!"

"I'm going, I'm going."

"Grayce Connors, if you aren't at the barre in ten seconds, I'll send Clark here home early and YOU can do the clean up tonight."

"You're not serious. You’d actually make me clean?"

"Ten, nine, eight..." She finishes her descent and enters the main office right by the front door. She continues counting loudly while out of sight.

"After all I've done for you?"

"Five, four, three..."

Stephanie’s tall and willowy frame comes back out of the office but I’ve already made my escape…

I take my reserved place at the barre by corner one and join in the middle of a tendu combination after a few quick plies.

"What’s the matter G.C.? Couldn't decide whether or not to grace us with your presence?" Troyos asks wryly as he makes his way past the other dancers, pausing to stop just behind me.

"Nah, someone tied my tights into a slipknot so they took a while to put on. Do I look o.k.?"

"You never stop do you?"

"Only long enough to take a breath."

"Obviously. Don't knuckle your toes under like that."

"Sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Just stop doing it." He says as he walks away to correct the same dancer that forgot to sign in earlier.

Troyos comes out to the suburbs four days a week to teach at Madsen, which is the largest, most professional school out here. The next step up would be to go into the city and study at the Chicago Ballet School, which is the training school of the Chicago City Ballet. Unfortunately, a lot of us are stuck way out here in the suburbs and driving an hour or more to the city each way and still keep up with school is next to impossible. Steph was once one of CCB’s stars and her close ties with the company keep us all connected to our greater goal. But still, it isn't quite the same...

"Aaargh!! NO! NO! NO! STOP!"

Mrs. Ethel Bullard, the senile and deaf but still amazingly brilliant accompanist stops and looks up from behind the piano.

"WHAT is the point of doing grand-rond-des-jambs if you aren't going to fully extend your leg AND turn it out at the same time? EH? I mean we all might as well take the five minutes and LAY ON THE FLOOR!

I could use a little nap, I think to myself but before the wisecrack can make it's way out of my mouth, Troyos fixes me with a glare that could cause the air conditioning in Hell to finally kick in. I wisely say nothing.

"Let's start over. FIRST side everyone!"

I once saw his paycheck and aside from discovering how much he gets paid, I found out his name is George. It apparently is a big secret because I've never once actually heard anyone call him that. He's a hot-tempered Greek and you'd have to have absolutely no brains in your head to seriously consider pissing him off. At six foot three he's surprisingly tall and built more like a pro wrestler than a dancer. Brown hair and eyes, Dudley Do Right chin and a matching smile help create a very All-American Boy look and if it weren't for the perpetual five o'clock shadow, that picture would be perfect. He's the kind of guy who could get through life on his looks alone but aside from being a visual treat he's also one hell of an amazing dancer and has been a principal with CCB for several seasons now. I’m a little old to be having crushes on my teachers like some stupid 7th grader but fate continually conspires against me. To make matters worse, we often change together, so every time he walks by I have no trouble at all imagining what's under those tights.

You can imagine the bun head feathers he ruffled everywhere on his arrival here and I’d never seen so many people try to get into one persons pants at the same time in my entire life. I was naturally hoping to be somewhere in line and at first, the scales seemed tipped in my favor. Since there aren’t many guys here, so it’s not unusual for guy teachers and students to hang out together. We took to each other right away and eventually, he invited me out after class one day. I wondered if he could read the disappointment in my face when the entire conversation centered on detailed (and I mean detailed) descriptions of he and his girlfriend "fucking like rabbits" as he so delicately liked to put it. I decided to bide my time and go along with the Super-Straight-All-American-Fags-Should-Be-Shot game. Yes, it’s 1983 but after all, he’s a man working in what is still generally considered a feminine (re: gay) profession. A certain amount of male posturing is pretty much par for the course. I mean, we all do it to a certain extent.

We’ve become close in that very "good buddy" sorta way that most straight boys seem fond of but no one is a bigger source of constant confusion. See, once in a while he’ll actually relax a little bit (usually after a few beers) and he’ll look at me a certain way. Or leave his hand on my leg too long. Or actually say something nice to me. At moments like these I can hardly stand it because I start to think that maybe there’s a little crack in the veneer after all. It never lasts though and without any prior notice his mood will suddenly change for the worse and I realize I’ve been deluding myself, imagining what isn’t there. Once again I’m back on the receiving end getting hammered as usual.

"And set her down, six, and turn, eight, and you’re ready for the same thing on the other side."

Troyos looks up in the mirror and catches me staring. I quickly look up

"Uh, where does the preparation for the turn come in?" I ask, instantly realizing my mistake.

He glares at me.

"There ISN’T one! When you put her down, she goes right into fifth position and the turns come from there! There IS no preparation!"

"Sorry."

He quickly turns away. "Ethel, you ready?" The accompanist nods. "All right everyone, let’s go. And a five, six, seven, eight!"

My partner Katia and I are in the first group and off we go...

"Tombe, pas de bourre, glissaade, lift, set her down, six, and pirouette, eight... That’s it Katia and G.C., you’ve got it..."

We finish our combination right by the door where Clark stands watching, broom in hand.

"Hey buddy, yer missing all the fun." I tease him.

"Well, some of us have to work for our scholarships."

"Hey there Clark! You still warmed up from class earlier?" Troyos calls from across the studio. "Get in here and help us partner these young ladies and we’ll get through a lot faster."

"Aw right!"

Off come his high tops and he removes his sweater leaving his white tank top underneath. His St. Christopher medal gleams on his smooth chest...

"You got the combination?" Troyos asks.

""Yup."

"Then let’s go!"

We start all over with different partners. I’m with Gina now who’s a bit of a challenge ‘cause she’s at least three inches taller than me on pointe and a bit heavier than the others. We’ve worked together lots of times so she trusts me.

"And set her down, six, and turn..."

"Whoah!"

Gina totally wipes out on her pirouette and falls but I save her.

"Are you all right?" I ask holding her just inches from the floor.

"I’m fine thanks. My pride is another story." She replies grinning up at me

Not long ago, I struck up an odd friendship with this big dumb jock at school named Michael Kerrigan who when he found out I danced initially gave me the usual "Aren’t all male dancers gay?" question. O.K., yeah, maybe there are a few more gay dancers than there are say, truck drivers or football players. But, then I asked him to think about it for a second. Where else could a guy spend an hour and a half putting his hands all over 25 to 30 half dressed, gorgeous girls and practice putting them into positions all over his body that no amount of drugs or alcohol could get his own girlfriend to replicate? And that’s just in class. Performing is whole different ballgame, especially if you’re doing some romantic work like "Romeo and Juliet".

There you are onstage, the two most famous lovers in the history of the world with Prokofiev’s music to move you both. There may be two thousand people in the audience or there may only be two, it makes no difference for right now the entire world is only about you. She turns around and when your eyes meet you reading her mind and her body at once. The endless months of rehearsal are completely forgotten and you’re both moving naturally, instinctively and with a passion that normally only comes to things that happen for the first time. Her hand touches your face, you cover it with yours. Your other arm goes to her waist, she raises one foot and you spin her around on the other, around and around with the music just pulling your strings. Around and around and around... And it’s real, for as long as you’re onstage...

When I finished, Michael looked like he was ready to sign up for lessons right there on the spot…

Ethel plays Chopin and we line up for reverance.

"Thank you very much everyone, good class."

We offer Troyos and Ethel their traditional applause then everyone runs like hell to grab their things and get out.

"G.C., come here." Troyos exits through the double doors at the opposite end of the studio.

"I’ll be right back Katia."

"Hurry back. I don’t have a lot of time." She replies.

As I walk across the studio, Katia watches a video of our duet as done by the CCB. Clark stays behind to watch too. I run the rest of the way, do a lay-up and slam-dunk my sweatshirt through the basketball hoop that remains from the days when the studio was a gymnasium.

Troyos waits for me on the balcony by the back stairs surrounded by lumber, ladders, paint, lighting instruments and lots of other junk. The fire inspector would have a field day at the sight of it all. It’s dark back here and the only light comes from a single window, which Troyos is sitting on the windowsill of. I can’t really see him that well, but I can smell him. He smells of sweat and cologne and cotton and rosin. I probably smell the same way too.

"What the fuck is your problem G.C.?"

"Huh?"

"You heard me." He grabs me by the shoulders and backs me up against my locker.

"You wanna know somethin’? You wanna know why you’re still here at this school and not on scholarship at CCB where you should be? YOU FUCK AROUND TOO MUCH! Everything is a big joke to you! You never quit! If you stopped... stopped... daydreaming like you were in class today, you’d maybe get somewhere! You know what I’m sayin'?"

I can feel my heart racing wildly as Troyos holds my shoulders and forces his words into me...

"You think I’m a fucking idiot G.C.? Think I’m stupid? You think I don’t know what’s going on in that head of yours? How long have we known each other?"

His grip loosens a bit.

"About a year... I guess."

He lets go of my shoulders and places his hands on the locker on either side of me.

"That’s right. Do you think you’ve gotten to know me pretty well in that time?"

"I guess so." I say sounding very small.

"Yeah? Well I think I know you pretty well too..."

You know that feeling you get when you turn to look and you see the ball coming right at your face but you know you don’t have time to move so you know yer gonna get hit big time but there’s nothing you can do about it so you stand there for what seems like a long time but it’s really just a fraction of a second?

"I know how you feel about me."

For once, I have nothing to say.

"You’ll spend the rest of your life here unless you snap out of it and start taking yourself and other people seriously. I’ve invested a lot of my time and energy both in class and out on you because I believe in you G.C.. I look at you and, well shit man. The first time I saw you dance it was like looking in the fucking mirror! No bullshit man! I saw me a few years younger. A smart-ass with a lot of talent, a lot of potential and absolutely NO real self-confidence to back it up! I’ve always wanted you to like me, to take me seriously because I really want to be the one to help you succeed. O.K.? So now you know why I’ve never encouraged your feelings for me."

Strains of Mendelssohn’s "A Mid Summer Nights Dream" float out from the studio and I get a feeling in my stomach as though I were pregnant and the baby kicked.

Troyos looks at me squarely in the eyes. "Do you really want to be a dancer G.C.?" He asks me and I suddenly feel as though this were my only opportunity to answer the question truthfully.

"Yes." I say sounding smaller than ever.

"Then trust me. I’ll help you."

I move forward a step and curl up inside him. His hands come down off the locker and he holds me moving his hands up and down my back. They move all the way up and he places each hand on either side of my face. He bends down and kisses my forehead. I continue looking at him. If it were anyone else, anywhere else, any WHEN else, I would know just what to do and say but I really don’t feel like me right now. It can’t be me that Troyos is touching like this but it must be since I’m thinking like me but my body feels like someone else’s. Then it switches and my body feels him but my mind floats out so I’m never sure which...

I continue looking at him...

Troyos looks to the left, then towards the studio, then suddenly moves and meets his mouth to mine. With his hands still on my face he kisses me very slowly, very directly so that there is no mistaking what kind of kiss it is. I usually know just what to do when someone kisses me but I’ve never been kissed quite this way before. Suddenly I can feel both my both body and mind coming together, focusing solely on this moment.

He pulls away.

"You remember what I said." He says as he suddenly turns away and runs down the stairs.

Whoever it really is standing where I’m standing right now thinks that he will never forget this moment in a zillion years.

I hear a muffled "Ah fuck!" as Troyos trips on something at the bottom of the stairs causing a loud metallic ruckus.

For once, I don’t laugh.

"Connors?"

I whip around to find Clark standing in the shadow of the doorway. Suddenly, I’m fully back.

"Are you all right?"

At first, I think it’s a strange question, but I realize my hair is all messed up, I have tears on my face and I’m probably wearing an expression even my own mother has never seen.

"Yeah, I’m fine. Katia ready?

"She had to leave. Are you sure you’re O.K.?

"Yeah."

I can’t help but wonder just how long he’s been there and what, if anything, he saw...

"We watched the video a couple of times together ad then I ran through it with her."

"Oh that’s nice. Trying to steal my partner huh?"

"You can have her, she’s too tall for me."

"Clark, yer five-five. Everyone is too tall for you."

"Geez, just shoot me and put me outta my misery why don’t ‘ya?"

He’s barely any taller than when I first met him two years ago at a swim meet my sophomore year in high school. (I didn’t compete of course. Non-jock performing geek that I am I just held the stopwatches and handed out towels.) Shortly after we met, Clark mentioned that he took tap and gymnastics as a kid so I invited him to come to Madsen to watch one of my ballet classes. The next day he traded in his Speedo for tights. The swimming coach literally came storming over here, furious that he was losing one of his top performers but after Troyos got through with him we never saw him again.

Clark has developed his technique so quickly it’s scary. Sometimes he actually intimidates me although they’ll serve ice cubes in the drinks in the cocktail lounge in hell before I’ll ever let on. I guess that’s why I always give him such shit. Besides, it’s such a refreshing change to have someone smaller around to pick on instead of always being the abused one.

We walk back into the studio and he turns to me looking like a kid on Christmas morning.

"Hey Connors, if you still want to rehearse, I can do the pas-de-deux with you. I know it."

"You want to do it with ME?"

"Well, yeah. I mean you want to rehearse it don’t you?"

"Well... yeah... I mean, if you really know it... I guess you can walk through it with me, or whatever." I mumble.

Clark sits down by the mirror and proceeds to put on his pointe shoes. I should mention that guys generally don’t dance on toe. We use pointe shoes as a tool to help stretch our feet, improve the curve of the arch and our sense of balance. There are a few exceptions however like the ballet that we’re rehearsing now. I play a guy that has been changed into a donkey and to further the illusion the choreographer chose to put the guy on pointe to create more of an animal look, like dancing on your hooves if you had any.

"You’re gonna do it on pointe?" I say in amazement. Then I check myself. "I mean, I thought you forgot your shoes."

"They were in studio one."

"Oh." I say as I rewind the videotape and watch the duet over again. Our schools company is performing the CCB’s version of "A Midsummer Nights Dream" with all of Pacific’s sets and costumes. Troyos is setting all of the original choreography on us. It’s a huge honor for a school company to be able to perform a work from a professional company, but we’re so closely tied we do things like this all the time.

Since Clark and I are the only two guys around here who can actually get up on pointe, we pretty much knew what roles we would get. I would end up playing Bottom since they’d want Clark as Puck due to his size. In this duet, Puck has just turned Bottom into an ass while asleep in the forest. He casts a spell on Titania, the fairy queen causing her to fall in love with the first person she sees which just happens to be Bottom. It’s a real neat and unusual duet due to the fact that both the boy and the girl are on toe.

Clark is ready and stands next to me stretching his feet. His tank top, wet from his recent impromptu workout clings like a second skin.

"I’m gonna run downstairs and lock up." He says heading for the front doors.

"While yer down there, grab some rosin, the box here is empty."

"Yes SIR!" he salutes and marches out. "Hey!" he says popping his head back in. "Why don’t we do it onstage? Want to?"

"Do you know it well enough to do it without the mirror?"

"Yeah, sure. Be right back."

I take the cassette and put in the player "backstage". The giant studio is also used as a theater. A curtain divides the last quarter of the floor marking the stage area. Risers are set up in the rest of the space for our regular school performances. For really large performances, we use the high school auditorium. I open the curtain and begin marking my steps onstage. Clark comes in from the rear stairs with the rosin box, joins me, and in a few minutes we have it all marked out.

"If you really expect me to partner you, you better take that wet shirt off. I don’t want to risk a slip up. Especially since were here alone." I tell him. The shirt comes off and I can’t help staring. I see him naked or nearly naked six days a week and I still can’t help it. Some things will never change. I hope.

"Since your solo comes right before this, we may as well go from there right to the end."

"I don’t wanna do my solo." He whines.

"Did I ask you? C’mon, get in place. Go! I already started the tape.!"

"All right, all right. Shit." He mutters as he runs offstage left. I get into my position on the floor downstage right.

As the mischievous prankster Puck, Clark is perfect casting. His spiked ash blonde hair, bright green eyes and sharp, straight features give him a natural elfin quality. He doesn’t just look the part though. His small, compact swimmers body moves with a nervous, brittle energy that only shorter dancers seem to have. He finishes a combination with a series of multiple pirouettes (five to be exact, the fuckin’ showoff) and I watch his shoulders and pecs as he makes the required motions over me "casting his spell". His back muscles are equally fascinating as he does the same over the unsuspecting Titania. With a leap the moment is over, he is gone.

The music changes to a legato piece with a melody played by an oboe. My solo in contrast to Clark’s is made up of long, sustained movements. As I make my way around the stage, Clark towels off watching me, then gets into what would be Katia’s place onstage.

We crack each other up with the silly exaggerated pantomime section where Titania falls for me and I have no clue what’s happening. That section ends and we are now in place for the duet. I offer Clark my hand, he takes it striking an attitude pose on pointe. He holds it for a few seconds then I begin to promenade him.

"Just walk through it Clark. You don’t’ have to do it full out on my account."

"I want to." He says as he lets go, raises both arms up and spins around.

"Why? I ask as I catch him at the waist, stopping his spin facing me. Avoiding my eyes, he continues to his next position.

"Why Clark?" I ask again as I slowly promenade him again. He straightens up and facing back to back, we hold hands. He leans over my back, I rise up on toe and bourre across the floor carrying him with me.

I set him down and still holding hands, we turn and face each other, I in a forward lunge, supporting him in an arabesque.

"Why do you have to do it full out?" I ask him again looking him straight in the face.

The music continues but we stop and just stand looking at each other. He looks at me as though I’ve asked him the stupidest question in the world. Maybe I have. Maybe I kinda know what’s happening here but maybe I just wanna hear it out loud...

"Why Clark? ANSWER me! WHY?"

"Haven’t you ever wanted to be partnered?" he suddenly blurts out almost in tears.

The image of the ethereal, weightless ballerina made even lighter by the man supporting her as she floats through the air in a high lift is the first image of dance I fell in love with. I admit that as a kid, it was the ballerina I first envied and identified with, not her male partner. I wanted to soar above with my man beneath me, feeling his warm, strong hands guiding me. I wanted to be light and graceful, beautiful and strong. Strength is about the only thing I can say I’ve safely mastered. I’ve become an excellent partner and to always be there for a ballerina, helping her to fulfill her dream of lightness is the closest I’ve ever come to fulfilling my own.

"Yes Clark, I have." I say very softly and his expression changes. He looks a little better, relieved maybe, but now I feel like a plug has been pulled somewhere on me and all the water is rushing out.

How many times did I go through class, did I go through performances, did I watch other dancers wondering what it would be like to feel as secure, cared for and safe as I make my partner feel when I dance with her? Could I ever once trade places and always have someone’s strong arms around me to steady me, balance me... find my center? Could I throw myself into a lift and really FLY, secure in the knowledge that he’ll see to it I never touch the ground? How different would be if someone’s hand were always outstretched to me?

"Connors, I’ve watched you partner so many girls here and... I mean... I really envy you ‘cause you’re the best partner here, and, so... like... I’ve worked really hard but then I see you and Katia together and you guys are perfect. You look so beautiful and all I want is to look as good as you do so I’ve been taking all the pas-de-deux classes and practicing with the girls after the Saturday class and so... well... I just... lately I... I mean I always wanted to know what the other side of the coin would be like you know? I really envy you Connors, but sometimes, I’m jealous of Katia too...

I look at him for a minute longer ‘cause for the second time today I can’t think of anything to say.

"I mean... Shit. I sound like... Dude, I dunno what I sound like. Do you know what I mean?"

I nod silently. "Let’s start again."

I walk back to rewind the tape.

"You want me to mark it?" Clark asks nervously.

I feel as though everything depends on my answer.

"No Clark. You do it full out... if you want."

Before we begin, I flip the breaker on the wall and the stage lights come on. I turn off the fluorescents and now we are both bathed in hues of wheat and bastard amber. The music begins again.

I offer him my hand and he takes it as he strikes his attitude pose. Our eyes lock as I promenade him around. We dance as the music moves us to, he jumps and soars in a lift high overhead, he turns and I center him close to me with my hands around his waist, he balances and I am there right behind him, underneath him, aside him...

It’s happening. That passion that just happens when you dance and we’re both caught or maybe we’re holding it but either way it’s there and it’s happening and we both know it so we keep dancing and dancing very much unsure of what’s coming...

I bring Clark down from a lift facing me. Our eyes still locked, he takes my hands, pulls me down to him and kisses me. This time however, I know exactly what to do...

There is much more music, but this is as far as we get through the choreography. Hearing the music and feeling his kiss I suddenly wonder, did he know before I touched him? Before we danced? Did I even know?

Onstage, in the half-light, Clark and I make love and all I hear throughout are a few whispered words and the music of Mendelssohn. But all I ever see is not the piercing green from the eyes in front of me, but a hand outstretched to me promising me, my dream of lightness.

I can still hear that music echoing around the walls along with the laughter, the applause and the tears. I feel a little as though I were attending the wake of a best friend. The body looks like the loved one, but yet it really isn’t them, just an empty shell, a completely useless vessel. That’s how this building now feels to me and it almost brings me to tears.

Steph lost the school in a nasty divorce war almost a year to the day. I had already been accepted at the Pacific school by then and by the time I made it into the company a year later the school was sold to developers to make way for luxury condos. The local historical society however had preservation ideas and the legal battle to save the building from wreckage began. Consequently, the building sat empty and deteriorating for almost seven years.

Clark joined me at Pacific and had a promising career until he decided he wanted to have a family and found some girl to get pregnant. Last time I spoke to him he was managing a Starbucks.

I never lost my irreverent sense of humor of course but I came to realize that it wasn’t all I had to offer. The shield I used to hide behind to face a world that was hostile to anyone different turned out to be completely unnecessary. (Ironically, my straight friend Michael would also teach me not to sell myself so short. But that’s another story…)

I suddenly feel a warm hand on my shoulder.

"You ready babe?"

I don’t really know if I’m ready. I feel as though I want to take something from the building with me, to remember it by. But then I realize, I already have.

I sigh heavily and my man wraps his arms around me. I get an idea...

"One last lift?" I say as I turn around grinning like a fool.

"O.K., but if I drop you into a pile of rubble you’ll have to cancel your performance of Dream tonight."

"You wouldn’t let that happen would you?"

"No G.C., I’ll never drop you."

Troyos places his hands around my waist. I prepare, then suddenly I’m over his head, soaring around looking at the ceiling and the gray clouds outside the windows. He spins me around and around and around in a final performance. Somewhere up in the rafters there is a bit of applause still bouncing around. We finish and acknowledge it with a bow. Before we walk out the door of the studio for the last time, we offer our own round of applause as a thank you. Some time from now some luxury condo dweller will hear it floating around up there and wonder if he left the television on.