Chapter 7 - The Story Celeste Told
The first article appeared online on Monday morning.
It was titled: Former Dancer Claims Credit for Star’s Signature Routine.
The piece described me as a former student who had left Halcyon after a
personal crisis and returned years later to challenge Celeste’s success.
It quoted an unnamed academy source who claimed I had voluntarily
surrendered my choreography rights.
By lunchtime, a second article had appeared.
This one included a photograph of me carrying champagne at the Vale
benefit.
The caption read: Waitress Elena Ward seeks spotlight after viral
ballroom exchange.
I read it once, then put my phone face down.
My father called.
“Don’t read the comments,” he said.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“People are saying awful things.”
“People have always said things.”
He sighed. “I should have protected you from this.”
“Dad, you can’t protect me from every person who lies.”
“I know.”
The foundation’s attorney called shortly afterward. The board had
commissioned an independent handwriting examination and requested the
original Halcyon archive files. The academy had not yet responded.
Margaret asked me to come in.
When I arrived, Alex was already there. He had a printed copy of the
article in front of him.
“I’ve asked the foundation’s communications team not to respond until
the review is complete,” he said.
“Good.”
“I also want to make a statement about what happened at the benefit.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“I won’t mention your private history without permission. But I should
acknowledge that I made a public joke at your expense.”
“You can apologize for that without turning the choreography dispute
into a public performance.”
He nodded. “You’re right.”
Margaret opened a folder.
“The handwriting examiner has reviewed the alleged release. The
signature is inconsistent with Elena’s known signatures. The document
also contains a date that doesn’t match the academy’s own registration
log.”
I looked at the page.
“So it was forged.”
“The examiner’s preliminary report says it is highly likely. We are
waiting for the final report.”
Alex leaned forward.
“Who created it?”
“We don’t know yet,” Margaret said. “The academy’s director has agreed
to provide the original file history.”
I looked at the photograph from the article.
“Celeste knew the release was false.”
Margaret did not answer immediately.
“She may have been told it was valid,” she said. “We need to establish
what she knew and when.”
I appreciated that she did not leap ahead of the evidence.
Later that afternoon, Celeste called me.
I almost let it go to voicemail.
“Elena,” she said when I answered. “We need to talk.”
“About what?”
“You’re making this ugly.”
“I didn’t write the article.”
“You could stop the whole thing.”
“How?”
“Withdraw the claim. Say there was a misunderstanding. We can work
something out.”
I looked at the window.
“You mean you can pay me.”
“I mean we can both move on.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“Then what do you want? The credit? The applause? You had your chance.”
“My mother was dying.”
Celeste’s voice sharpened.
“And I had to keep my career alive. Do you know what it was like after
you left? Everyone expected me to fail. I had to prove I could carry the
routine.”
“You could have made your own.”
“I did make it my own.”
“You performed my choreography.”
“I made it better.”
I felt the old anger rise, but I kept my voice level.
“Then you won’t mind the original recording being reviewed.”
She went quiet.
“You don’t understand what you’re doing,” she said.
“I understand exactly.”
I ended the call.
That evening, Alex sent a short message.
I have asked the foundation to suspend Celeste’s ambassador role until
the review is complete. I did not make the decision alone, and I will
not interfere with the findings.
I replied with one word.
Thank you.
It was not forgiveness.
It was an acknowledgment that he had finally stopped treating the
problem as a private disagreement between two women.
The next day, the academy director agreed to an interview with the
independent reviewer. He claimed the release had been submitted by
Celeste’s former agent. He also said he had not personally verified the
signature.
The reviewer asked him why the academy had continued to print Celeste’s
name as choreographer after receiving Margaret’s objection.
He had no clear answer.
The report was not finished, but the direction was becoming obvious.
That night, I went to my father’s apartment and placed my mother’s
letter back in its envelope.
He watched me.
“Are you going to dance at the showcase?”
“I don’t know.”
“You used to love performing.”
“I loved dancing. Performing became something else.”
He nodded.
“Your mother would want you to choose for yourself.”
I looked at the handwriting on the envelope.
For four years, I had thought the choice was between returning to the
stage and betraying the memory of my mother.
Now I understood that I had never needed to choose between them.
May you like
I could carry her with me.
And I could decide what came next.
