For English this semester, I’m taking an online course focused primarily on short fiction. We’ll be looking at stories and thinking about how they are put together, how they work, and how we as young writers can learn from them. I’m really looking forward to a series of assignments later in the year where we try to replicate an author’s style in a narrative of our own. 

So far, we’ve read short stories by James Joyce, Amy Tan, Ursula K. LeGuin, and Ray Bradbury. My favorite of these has to be “The Wife’s Tale” by Ursula K. LeGuin, which I can’t talk about too much because it’s far too easy to give away the twist, but rest assured it is fantastic. 

Our first writing assignment was a deep dive into character: This project will ask you to tell the story of a betrayal; however, there is a twist! You will tell a story of betrayal from both sides. Who betrays who? How does each “side” of the story see it differently? How does perception and perspective affect each character’s emotions, motivations, and experience?

I have been really enjoying opportunities for peer editing and feedback. Our first drafts were posted anonymously, and the assignment for that week was to offer constructive criticism on a piece of our choosing. My teacher naturally also gave feedback on my piece, and this week I submitted my final draft, which is entitled “Swan Song.” There were so many directions I could have taken with this assignment, because the character prompts we were given were so varied. A grandparent at a grandchild’s performance (which ended up being the one I chose), a betrayal in a royal court setting, a time traveler placing their trust in the wrong person in a foreign time period, etc. The prompts were fantastic, and I really enjoyed being able to read what my peers had written with the same prompts. Without further ado, here is my final version of “Swan Song.” 

Swan Song

Sofia looked out at the crowd, arms poised in first position, a picture-perfect prima ballerina. Her chest heaved, and she took shallow breaths as she smiled, trying to get her heart rate under control. He hadn’t stood. The audience had leapt to their feet, and she felt her eyes brimming with tears. A full standing ovation, on Sofia Orlova’s debut performance as the Swan Queen, her first lead role, and her grandfather hadn’t stood. 

The adrenaline from the dance made her legs shake, and her exhilaration turned to nausea and the lights were too bright and it was all too much and she rushed offstage, the crowd roaring her praise in sync with her heartbeat pounding in her ears. She felt sick to her stomach, hearing broken snatches of conversation as she flew past her castmates. Why hadn’t he stood with the rest of the crowd? Did he really think her performance so poor? She and her grandfather weren’t as close as Sofi and her grandmother had been, but to not give her any validation was just awful. It wasn’t as though he didn’t like ballet—hell, her grandmother, his wife, had been a prima ballerina for the Russian ballet. Her Nonna had been the epitome of dance in her time, and all Sofia ever wanted was to be just like her. 

Sofia paused, her pointe shoes skittering slightly along the smooth marble floor. Arm out to brace herself, she leaned against a wall. She pulled a lock of brown hair free from her bun and it brushed her wet eyelashes. Sofi twisted the piece of hair in her fingers, toyed with her earrings–and suddenly she could almost hear her grandmother’s voice in her ears, whispering to her as they watched a ballet, telling her stories of backstage, of dressing-room gossip and of glamorous nights spent out after shows. She could feel her Nonna’s earring brushing her curls, feel the weight of them on her earlobes the first time her grandmother had let her wear them. She’d worn those diamond drop earrings tonight, in hopes that it’d give her a little extra luck. She had wanted so much for both her grandparents to be proud of her. Instead, all she could feel was the intricate beading on her bodice, its heavy weight crushing her. 

Had her grandmother ever felt like this after a show? God, there were so many things Sofi wished she could ask her. Tears began to flow, hot and fast, running down her cheeks. She stumbled into her shared dressing room. Elena, the elegant Hungarian princess of Swan Lake, her best friend since college, glanced over and tilted her head sympathetically. Sofi wiped at her eyes, trying to stop her tears. She knew she looked a mess. Her mascara always ran, no matter how many times the label claimed it was waterproof. 

“Sofia, you were perfect.” 

Sofia tried to smile, without much success. “So were you, ‘Lena.” It had been an amazing show, especially for an opening night. 

She hiccuped slightly before she continued, “I just wish…wish my Nonna could have been here.” 

“Oh, of course you do.  She would be so proud of you.”

“Thanks.” 

Elena reached over and rubbed circles into Sofi’s back while Sofia unlaced her pointe shoes. 

“Thanks,” Sofia said again softly.

“Anytime,” said Elena matter-of-factly, and Sofia quirked an eyebrow, amused at the hyperbole. 

“Alright, not anytime, fine, because I’ve got to get out of costume as well.” 

“Mhm.” They both laughed a little, and Sofi felt just the tiniest bit better. 

Sofia turned her back to Elena, and she unlaced her silky corset strings with practiced ease, careful to not let the ribbons catch on any of the beads. Sofia’s feet ached from her pointe shoes, and when she turned to help Elena out of her embroidered velvet top, she was perhaps a little hastier than she should have been. The ribbon snagged and Elena hissed in pain as it tightened, digging into her spine. 

“Sorry! Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.” 

“Clearly,” Elena said, trying to glare at Sofi in the mirror, but Sofia could hear the smile in her friend’s voice. They got out of costume and into matching baby blue Swan Lake sweatshirts–Christmas gifts from Elena’s mother–and leggings. Elena stepped out of the room, looking back when Sofi didn’t follow. 

“I’ll be at the hotel room if you need me, ‘kay?”

“Yeah, you go ahead, I’m meeting my grandfather at stagedoor.” 

“Tell me how it goes.” Elena paused for a moment, stifling a snort. “And–oh, yeah, Sofi, maybe take another look in the mirror before you go.” 

“Thanks, ‘Lena.” Sofi said, rolling her eyes and turning back to the mirror. Yikes, Elena had been right. Sighing, she took a makeup wipe out of the pack on the counter, and resigned herself to being a little late to meeting her grandfather. Maybe it was slightly childish of her, but Sofia almost felt as though it was payback for all the times he’d made her wait before entering his office at the school he’d worked at when she was very young. 

She gave herself a once-over in the mirror, and she hoped fervently it wasn’t apparent she’d been crying. In order to reach the stage door, she’d have to walk past Vera’s dressing room. Vera was the mother hen of the Swan Lake troupe, and she tended to worry. Sofia gathered up her things and swept them into her tote bag, then cast one last lingering glance across the room, searching for anything she’d want to have at the hotel that night. The photo on the mirror caught her eye, and she smiled slightly as she returned to her dressing table. 

Sofi leaned forward, kissed her two forefingers, and pressed them to the photo pinned up on her mirror. Her grandmother, prima ballerina Natasha Orlova taking her final bow as the White Swan. She was radiant under the lights, an angel, almost. If Sofi squinted, she could imagine a halo replacing the feather crown. That picture was priceless to Sofia, signed by the woman herself: To my solnyshko, my Sofia. Her handwriting had been atrocious, the least elegant thing about her. Sofi had learned cursive from her grandfather, so their handwriting couldn’t be more different. 

✤

God, she looked just like Natasha. His granddaughter’s dark eyes glinted with the same light and her steps were made with the same elegance and finesse. Unbidden tears slipped from the corners of his eyes and he willed himself to not break down. He had made it until the final note of the show, the final swell of the orchestra, when his solnyshko, his sunshine, his beautiful little girl, received a standing ovation. And then, what could he do but cry? Natasha would be so proud. 

He was struck by a memory, sudden and sharp with nostalgia: Sofia visiting them in their quiet home in Kinerma, Natasha teaching her how to dance. Their laughter mingled, and if it wasn’t the sweetest sound he’d ever heard, he’d be tone-deaf. He’d played the accordion and watched them dance the kalinka, all whirling skirts and hair coming undone from intricate braids. 

The memory was so sweet, so delicious in the forefront of his mind, that he almost forgot to applaud. By the time he stood and hollered his praise, Sofia was rushing offstage. He was so proud. His little girl following in his love’s footsteps, what could be more beautiful? 

He twisted his wedding ring around his finger, felt the small box in his navy jacket pocket still. Natasha had given him strict instructions on how to deliver her gift to Sofia, and naturally, he would carry out her wishes. He would do anything for Natasha, then and even more so now. 

The intricately painted box contained a silver locket, engraved with two swans, one smaller, with an S in its feathers. The larger one had an N. He didn’t know what photos the locket contained, if any at all. But knowing Natasha, there would be something heartfelt and bittersweet hidden inside. 

Three years since she passed, and still he sees her in everything. Their kitten, adopted shortly before she died, named Swan in honor of her. He sees her in shop windows, in cafes he knows she would have loved for their elegant Art Nouveau barstools. She was a blazing woman, singular in her love of the world. The place where he can almost feel her delicate fingers wrapped around his own, the place where he can hear her soft Russian in his ear, that place? That place was her true home, the ballet. He can’t bring himself to go very often, not anymore. But he would watch Sofia dance every night, if he could. He wasn’t usually a man of emotion, but he made exceptions, especially for his granddaughter.

He met Sofia at the stage door. Her cheeks were flushed a bright pink, visible from where he stood beyond the rest of the dancers’ families. It had taken him a few moments to work up the courage to see her face, overcome as he had been by memories, but he was there. Sofia slipped out of the heavy door, her head bowed, dressed casually. He began to apologize in his still slightly halting English as soon as he saw her. 

“Solnyshko, I am sorry I did not stand in time. I was too…” and he saw that fresh tears were brimming between her eyelashes. He waited, twisting his wedding ring around his finger, hoping Sofia would say something. She looked up at last, and he could see the moment where she saw his tearstained face. He saw the softening of her dark eyes, and in that instant, he knew she understood. 

✤

“I know, deda, I know.” She smiled brilliantly through the tears, and said, “I was thinking of her too.” Of course he hadn’t stood. She should have known the ballet would have brought on such a rush of memories. She, too, had been swept by a wave of remembrance for her grandmother. 

He smiled down at her, a quirk of the lips. They embraced, and Sofi, sharp as she was, felt the box in his pocket. They pulled apart and his smile widened, finally reached his eyes. 

“Natasha was thinking of you, also.” He pulled the box from his pocket, and Sofia gasped. She recognized the intricately painted red box from her grandmother’s jewelry case; she’d coveted it from the moment she first laid eyes on it as a child. 

He laid the box in her cupped palms gently, like a baby bird into a nest. She opened the lid to see the glint of the silver locket, and she felt her throat tightening, felt the tears threatening to bubble up to the surface again. Her Nonna had planned this. Her Nonna had believed she could dance Swan Lake, could be the Swan Queen, could follow in her footsteps. Sofi’s heart swelled with emotion, looking up at her grandfather’s warm eyes. 

“But she never took it off, deda, I thought they buried–” 

“She wanted it for you, Sofia. So she set it aside before she died.” 

✤

He watched as his solnyshko, his Sofia, took a deep breath, words failing her, and he closed the box softly, placed it in her tote bag, and led her along the street to the restaurant. It was a much longer walk, smarter to catch a bus or a cab to get there in that unfamiliar city. But no, he thought. They would walk. He had so much to tell her.