Audition (4 page)

My heart beats faster
Every mile we drive.

 

 

Syncopated beats pound between
Excitement and
Yearning
To paste the falling brown leaves
Back on the trees,
Turn the burgeoning fall
Back to summer,
When I could loft my nose into the sun-drenched air,
Announce
My scholarship to the Jersey Ballet
Four states south
Of my country home
Without actually
Having
Togo.

Dad’s fingers drum the steering wheel
Like they always do
When he doesn’t have a cigarette in hand.
His car stinks of stale smoke
Despite constant attempts to quit.
Still, I can’t stand
To open the windows,
The pressure in my ears, the mess of my hair,
The scary sense that something from these city streets
Will fly through the window
And hurt me.

 

 

He turns onto a wide avenue.

 

 

“Red light,” I yelp.
“Shit!” Dad slams the brake.
Right hand slices across my gut.
Seat belt tightens against my neck.
His eyes telegraph a thousand apologies,
Ever afraid to mar what he sees
As flawless.

The ball of my foot presses
Against the car mat.

 

 

Half in the intersection,
The light still red,
I scan left and right,
Terrified an inattentive driver
Will fail to swerve around us.

 

 

At last,
Green.
Forward into the safely moving lane.

 

 

“You really want this, right?”
Dad’s voice is soft as country soil.
I am not like the seasons, the seeds he knows
How to grow.

 

 

“Want what?” I taunt,
Like I would never taunt a boy my age.

 

 

A silence longer than a metronome beat.
Another.
A third.

I remember signing my name on the paper in Boston,

 

 

Mom’s frantic packing.

 

 

Dad’s systematic mapping of the route to Jersey
Has become my inevitable course,
So what difference would it make for me to say
That it is complicated?
That I am both excited
And afraid.

 

 

“Because you can come home anytime.
We can turn around
Right now.”

 

 

Now I bleat,
“I want this.”

 

 

I feel queasy
Though Dad’s sudden stop
Is long past.

 

 

While my fears and wishes
Frantically duel,

Tugging my stomach and my heart
In a thousand directions,
The car drives
Straight
Toward my destination.

From his cement stoop.

 

 

The celebrated Chilean ballet master
Has agreed to house me for the year,
But I had not imagined
His dark, oiled hair, firm waist,
Wild eyes
Living in this bland, middle-class lane.

 

 

The split-level house, pinkish-beige,
Sits between a dozen like-painted, split-level houses.
Every fifth sidewalk square
Sports a tired-looking birch tree straggling upward
From a hole in its center.

 

 

Dad takes my big suitcase and small duffel.
I grab my ballet bag and follow him
Up the chipped stairs, through the front hall.

 

 

“So, Sah-ra.”
Señor’s accent makes my name all sighs.
“Here you are
, sí
?”
He leads us upstairs to my new room
With red shag carpet, smelling faintly of mildew,

A closet with sliding doors,
Twin bed with a shiny, synthetic spread
Splattered with bright poppies.

 

 

“My wife”—the teacher struggles
To find English words—
“Think you might like de flowers on de bed.
She be back next week.
When de dancing tour finish in
Vah-len-ciah.” (Like Sah-ra,
All sighs.)

 

 

I am glad Señora Medrano,
The famous flamenco dancer,
Isn’t here to meet me today,
Because I don’t like the quilt.
But I tweak my lips up into a smile.
“Very nice.”

 

 

“How ’bout we let Sara unpack a little?”
Dad says.
He and Señor
Head back downstairs.

 

 

My breath rushes out
So loud it feels like words.
I stare at the big suitcase
Beneath the one, high window.
Sit, alone
On the slippery bedspread with its giant flowers.
I am really here.
This is happening.

 

 

Tomorrow,
Will there be stairs to descend
Into the ballet school?
Will everyone know
I am the girl chosen
From the Boston audition?
Will I still be
Special enough
To stay?

Steps slow,
Gaze firmly planted
On the abstract paintings along the wall.

 

 

Pretend I don’t see Dad
Put his checkbook back into his breast pocket,
Señor Medrano fold the check for my room and board.
I want to be so wonderful no one would make me pay
To live in their house.

 

 

Señor pours a small cup of coffee,
Sets a tiny cookie and a spoon in the saucer.
The hot, brown smell
Comforts.
My smile becomes real.

 

 

A dark-haired boy
Saunters down the stairs.

 

 

“Julio. My son.”

 

 

Flashing me a curious glance,
The boy takes a handful of cookies
From the tray.

I duck my head,
Breath quick.
Like every boy I have seen
Since June and Billy Allegra,
This one sends a curious thrill of terror
Down my spine.

 

 

Señor Medrano lets loose in Spanish phrases,
A waterfall to his
Leaky drops
Of English words.

 

 

“Yeah, Papa, I know,”
Julio returns in perfect English.

 

 

“Julio play classical guitar,”
Señor puffs.
“He need to be practicing much more
So he keep his scholarship.
Back to practicing now.”
Julio helps himself to the rest of the cookies.
Turns away.

 

 

“He no work hard enough.
But he a big shot.
Does not like to practice when he can go outside,
Play basketball with friend from school.

 

 

“Sah-ra. She going to work hard
For de scholarship.
Stay here near ballet school.
Good idea.”

 

 

Dad hides
Behind giant sips of coffee.

 

 

I sit, pink
And lonely.
Crumble the cookie in the saucer,
Listen to the conversation dribble
Into a vacuum of uncertainty.

 

 

In the sunshine of Boston,
It was easy to say yes
To the chance to become a real ballerina.
Now my bags lie piled
On a floor lacking hardwoods or braided rugs in dull hues,

Breathing coffee-scented air unrelieved
By the sooty comfort
Of a kitchen woodstove.

Dad jangles his keys
In his jeans pocket.
“Got a long drive.”

 

 

I follow him
To the shadowy front hall.
Wetness stings the backs
Of my eyes.
I fight my rigid throat.
Release two words:
“Um, okay.”

 

 

“We’re proud of you, your mom and I.”

 

 

“I know.”

 

 

“And we love you.”

 

 

“I love you, too.”

 

 

Lines
Scripted,
Repeated like mantras.

Preparatory phrases
For a conversation never spoken,
A port de bras
Before
An undanced dance.

 

 

His arms encircle me.
His heart thumps into my chest
A thousand more beats
Than the syllables that escape his lips,

 

 

As afraid of conversation
As I am of boys,
Of men,
Of wind blasting through
Open car windows.