On Pointe (10 page)

he begs.

Drip, drip.

“One more bag, Clare.”

The nurse adjusts the flow.

A woman wails,

“My baby!”

She brushes my curtain open

racing down the hall.

Grandpa pulls it closed.

How can stupid dehydration

compare to this stuff?

So much pain!

Why doesn't the doctor tell me

to go home already?

Shame heats my skin.

Because,

deep down,

it feels like my dream dying

does
compare to all of this.

It's as bad as poking out your eye,

or your back hurting,

or your baby getting taken away.

My dream was like a baby to me.

I'm totally selfish.

How sickening.

“I have to use the bathroom.”

“Let me get the nurse, Clare.”

Grandpa hurries off.

I sit up, swing my legs

over the side,

and the Goofy picture spins.

“Hold it there.”

The nurse catches me.

“Now try.”

I stand on wobbly ankles.

And I'm not even on pointe!

She pushes the IV stand

into the hall.

“Excellent,” she says.

“Good job,” says Grandpa.

Applause for walking

to the bathroom

wasn't what I was aiming for

today.

“And make sure she continues drinking.

Bye-bye, now.”

The attendant waves

as Grandpa pulls the car away

into the night.

The dashboard clock says 8:26.

The day is gone.

The awful day

is over.

I swallow the last of the sports drink

and hand Grandpa the bottle.

“There, now. You rest, Clare.

I'll call and give your parents an update.

Before you know it

they'll be here.”

I roll over.

He tucks the sheet.

“Call me if you need anything,”

he says from the doorway.

“Okay.”

How about a new life?

In my dream,

I'm dancing alone

on a stage

when things start turning to paper.

The backdrop,

curtains, and floor

ruffle in the wind,

then tear apart and spin away

into the air.

“From the top,” Madame's voice

blares over an intercom.

“From the top.”

But there's no place left

to dance.

A last gust tips me over

and wafts me through the emptiness.

The sun creeps under

the edge of my blind

and spears my eyelid.

I squint.

My ballet bag

is sitting on my dresser.

A toe shoe pokes out of the opening.

I fling my pillow across the room.

It hits the dresser mirror, which

knocks my bag to the floor.

Clud, thud.

I sit up and stare at myself.

I'm pale.

Bobby pins dangle

in my hair,

out of place and useless.

I yank them out,

deserving the pain.

“I don't see that potential

in your work,” she said.

I'm not good enough

to be a superstar.

Not

good

enough.

Not only too tall.

I didn't try hard enough.

I tilt the mirror down

so I don't have

to look

at myself.

“There you are, love.”

I sit at the kitchen table.

Shivers spread across my back.

Grandpa reaches over

and rubs my arm.

The heat from his firm hand feels good.

“It's almost noon.

How about some green tea?” he asks.

“Sure.”

He gets up and pours the hot water

into a mug with a bag.

“I was expecting you

to be up and around soon.” He smiles,

passes me the tea

and the honey bear.

I warm my hands around the mug.

The bear shimmies when I try to squeeze him.

“Let me help you.” Grandpa gets the honey out.

I stir it and take a sip.

“We have to double up on your drinking today.”

“Yeah.”

“Otherwise, you'll be back in the hospital

before you know it.”

“I'll try to drink a lot, Grandpa.”

“I can always count on you to try, Clare.”

I kick the dance bag

out of sight under the dresser

and pull on shorts and a T-shirt.

Hey, it's Sunday.

Grandpa gave up church this morning.

One more sacrifice for me.

Maybe he can still go tonight.

I yank the brush through my hair.

So many tangles.

This is a rat's nest, Mom would say.

I pull harder to get the bristles through.

My hand slips and bangs on the edge of the dresser.

Ow!

I rub the red spot,

then pull my hair into a ponytail

without finishing.

All the tangled knots are lumpy.

Who cares?

I nudge the porch swing with my toe.

The cool afternoon air

nudges me back.

Maybe a summer storm is moving in?

That can make the temperature drop fast.

Mija leaps up

and curls in my lap on the blanket

Grandpa made me bring out.

How long till the blisters on my feet heal?

How long till, “You aren't fit for ballet,”

stops chanting in my head.

I pet Mija's fur

backward.

She purrs.

How long till Mom and Dad get here?

What will I say?

At least I didn't have to talk to them

this morning.

Grandpa told them it'd be better to chat

when they got here.

Definitely.

I wish I could get out of it then too.

I pick the newspaper up off the swing

and pull it out of the plastic.

I flip through the sections.

I'm sure it's in here.

Do I want to look?

My hands keep searching.

Entertainment.

My stomach flips.

I open the section.

“City Ballet Selected.”

My hands sweat and stick

to the newsprint.

I scan down the list.

Rosella.

Elton.

Margot.

Ellen.

Devin.

Nathan.

Tommy.

I recognize names of other kids in my class.

Of course they'd almost all make it.

The conservatory is the best instruction

in western Washington.

Back to the list.

No Clare.

I rub the list of last names starting with M.

Mine doesn't appear.

The ink smears.

I let out a big shaky breath.

The picture is of that girl

on the floor crying.

I feel a chill

and turn the page to see the rest of the report.

“No. No!”

There's a photo of everyone gathered around

the posted list.

And one girl in the background is running

to the dressing room.

One girl holding her stomach.

Me.

Grandpa's still inside.

I cram the section of the paper

into the trashcan

and cover it with other bits of garbage.

Damp, cold coffee grounds,

limp tea bags,

tomato slime,

wadded tissues.

I put the lid back on,

and the metal rattles

like my bones are shaking.

I drag my hands on the grass

till all the ick comes off.

No one is going to see that picture.

Except

the rest of the city.

“Clare!”

Mom jumps out of the car

before Dad completely stops.

She rushes over to me.

I set Mija aside

and get up too quickly from the swing.

My eyes see spots and I fight the dizziness.

She pulls me close in a hug

and my head clears.

“Oh, sweetheart. Are you okay?

How are you feeling?

Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” I answer.

“There's my girl!” Dad steps up,

and it's a group hug.

At least this way

I don't have to look them

in the face.

And Dad didn't say,

“There's

my failure.”

“There, now.” Dad gets me settled

on the swing.

It's so good to see him.

We haven't talked on the phone lately.

He drapes the blanket over my legs.

Mom hovers behind him.

I can't see anything but her little feet

because he's so tall.

Why did I end up like him?

Why?

He squeezes my shoulder.

“Are you comfortable, Clare?”

“Yeah.” I smile

and clench my teeth

to keep

my bubbling anger

in.

It's not his fault

I'm huge.

Really, it's not.

Besides,

he's my dad!

“I'm sorry you guys

had to leave your convention early.”

“Clare. Don't even bother to think about it,”

says Mom.

“Not another thought.”

“Exactly,” Dad agrees. “You

are what's important to us.”

Grandpa brings out biscotti

and fresh coffee on the teacart.

Mom pulls her chair closer to the swing.

“Now, are you sure she's okay, Dad?

Is that what the doctor said?”

“If she keeps drinking, she'll be fine.”

Grandpa passes a cup to my father.

He takes a sip. “Well, she looks great to me.”

I smile and drain my water bottle.

“Let me get you more.

I'll be right back.” Mom hurries inside.

The storm door bangs behind her.

Dad shakes his head.

“She's really wound up, Clare.”

“That's Mom.”

“True.”

Grandpa crunches the dry biscotti.

Little crumbs tumble down his shirt front.

He doesn't brush them off.

“Here you go,” says Mom.

She stands over me until I drink.

“Everything, every little thing,

is going to be fine now,” she says.

“Inside,” Mom announces. “I don't want you

getting chilled.”

“But it will keep getting warmer

till 2:00,

the hottest hour of summer.”

“She's right, Martha,” says Dad.

“Yes, she is.” Grandpa pours himself more coffee.

“Well, I heard a storm may blow in,

so it may not warm up at all,” Mom argues.

I roll my eyes at Grandpa.

He shrugs.

“Inside, Clare,” she says,

putting an arm around me

and pulling me up.

Life with Mom

is back.

She stares at the snarls

in my hair.

“This is a rat's nest.”

“I know.” I flinch.

“I'm sorry. It's going to hurt, honey.”

“That's okay.”

I watch her in the dresser mirror.

She's biting her lip,

and her forehead is bunched

into tight little lines

between her eyebrows.

She tugs the brush

through my hair.

“Your grandpa told us

about the audition.”

I close my eyes.

She brushes some more.

“I'm sorry, Clare.

Let's talk about it.

Get it out into the open.”

“No,” I whisper.

She hits a huge knot.

I squeeze the tears in.

She's not touching me.

I look.

Mom's staring at my dance bag

peeking out from under the dresser.

A ribbon is under my foot.

“I'm sorry, Mom.”

She puts her cheek

on the top of my head

and cries.

“We tried so hard,” she says.

“Mom, can we talk about it later?

I need to rest.”

“But don't you want to discuss

exactly what happened?

Who did what,

and how it felt to audition?

What everyone else said and did?

Your time in the hospital?”

I lift an eyebrow.

“All right, I can wait.

We have time.

And you are regaining your strength.”

She sets the brush down

and wipes her eyes

on the back of her hand.

“We can talk later. Plenty of time.

Plenty.” She tries to smile.

I climb back into my unmade bed.

She pulls the covers up.

“There. You rest now.

Get some deep relaxing rest.”

“Okay.”

She drops the blinds.

“Hear that rain?

I knew it was going to blow in.

That air was very cool—”

She shuts the door and cuts herself off.

“What will we do now?”

my mom asks.

“There's not anything for
us

to do, Martha.”

Dad's voice is a little harsh.

I lean against the bathroom door

and listen to them talk

in the living room.

“It's just that we've worked so long.

So hard.

So many lessons.

The hours and hours we've invested.

Clare has such potential, Dwight.”

“And Clare has potential

for other areas.

Give it a rest, Martha.

For once in her life.”

I flush the toilet

and go back to my room.

I work on my hair.

Slowly

I untangle every single knot.

By myself.

The brush runs smoothly

from the roots

to the ends.

I weave a clean, tight braid

and toss it over my shoulder.

After Grandpa gets back from church,

we sit down to dinner.