On Pointe (12 page)

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Call me

if either of you

need me.”

“Okay,” we say.

“I can't believe

you are doing this to me, Clare.”

Mom starts crying.

“This
was
mine, too.

I wanted it.”

“For me or yourself?” I hiss.

“For you,” she sobs.

I turn to her dark shape.

“What do I have

if it wasn't my dream?

What, Clare?

Nothing.

I have nothing without this.”

“Maybe you've never had

anything, then, Mom.”

“No, I did.

I had this dream for you.”

“For me?

Prove it.

Say dancing was my dream.

Say it.”

“Dancing was . . . ”

“See? You can't even do that for me.

You want to fix this, Mom?

Admit dancing was mine.”

I blow out air

and lean back against the wall.

She's hopeless.

She's so wrapped up in what I do

she can't separate herself.

She is

as bad as Willow's mother.

Who is

my mom?

It's like she wants to be me,

or us,

not herself.

What kind of weird psycho head game

is this?

She keeps crying.

Mumbling.

I sit there.

My clock flips by

sixteen minutes.

Long ones.

“Dancing

was . . .

your dream . . .

Clare,”

Mom sputters.

She crumbles to her knees

and crawls over to me.

“I'm so sorry, honey,” she cries.

“For real, Mom?”

She hugs me tightly.

I let her,

then hug her back

a little.

“Your dream,

your dream,” Mom keeps whispering

in my ear.

Rocking me back and forth.

“I did do nothing.

But watch

and root

and pay.

You are the one

who worked as hard as possible.

You

are

the dancer, Clare.

Not me.”

Well,

not a dancer.

But it sounds like she heard me.

Un-be-lievable.

She lets go,

gets up,

and flicks on the light.

We blink hard,

look down and away

from each other.

We sit on opposite ends

of my bed.

“Really, Mom?”

She nods.

“You get it?”

“Yes.”

“But why all of a sudden—”

“I'm your mother.

You're my baby.

It's taken your entire life

for me to see you separately.

I always knew you were independent,

but never faced

that you are an individual.

Till tonight. It's so hard, Clare.

Maybe you'll understand

if you have a child.

The drive is incredibly strong

to keep your baby

tight and close

so she stays a part of you.

How she started out.”

Big tears run down her face,

but she doesn't wipe them off.

“It's hard to understand.

Isn't it?” she says.

“Yeah.”

It's like we survived a tornado.

Everything feels blown to pieces,

but there's peace.

Quiet peace

between me

and my mom.

“Now that that is over,

and a long time coming, I imagine,

you have to promise to

tell me

about this kind of thing

sooner, Clare.”

Oh, fun.

“So then,

can you please

tell me about the audition, honey?”

“Ugh!”

She's incredible.

Right back to the dead horse.

“Mom,” I whine.

“No, I really want to hear.

I missed out.

I want to know what you went through

every second.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you, Clare.”

No answer to that.

So, after dragging out the stall

as long as possible,

I tell her how the audition went,

step by step.

She listens,

and glows with the excitement

and moans at the end

when I'm puking

after talking to Madame.

She listens to everything

about the hospital, too.

I can't believe it.

This is like talking to Rosella.

My mom wants every detail,

and she really does root for me

every second.

And there's no competition between us.

Weird.

Knock.

Dad opens the door and looks in.

Grandpa is peeking over his arm.

“Everything okay in here, ladies?” asks Dad.

“Fine,” I say.

“Are you behaving yourself, Martha?” Grandpa

pushes into the room.

“Dad!” says Mom.

“Can I take that as a yes, then?”

She throws a pillow at him.

He catches it,

tosses it back to me,

and rubs his hands together.

“Well, how about some ice cream, then?”

“Yeah, how about it?” Dad grins.

“We'll be right there,” says Mom.

The four of us look at each other.

It's so intense,

the feeling of okay,

I get goosebumps.

Mom's right there

to rub my arms.

I wash off my face

in the bathroom.

Is it for real?

Does Mom really believe

dancing was my dream?

That I'm a separate person?

How do you ever know

what someone's

thinking deep down?

They

might not even know.

Maybe she only wants

her peaceful,

everyone-happy

family.

So,

is it for real?

I can kind of see,

in a little tiny way,

she had a dream

for me.

Her dream

was that my dream

would come true.

Neither of ours

did.

At the table

we dig into our French vanilla ice cream.

Dad gave me a couple of giant scoops.

“So, what do you want to do now, Clare?”

Mom asks.

“Martha,” Dad and Grandpa say.

“What?”

“It's okay.” I let the coolness slip down my throat

before I go on.

“I don't know.”

Grandpa looks over the top of his glasses at me.

“Madame told me Clare is a dancer.

She told Clare that herself.”

“Huh. I really don't remember that.”

I take another big bite. “It's strange now.”

“How?” asks Dad.

“Well,

it's like I don't even know who I am

without ballet lessons.”

Our spoons clink in the bowls.

“We've—” Mom starts.

I look at her.

“You've

done it so long,

I can see why.” She scoops her last bite

and swallows it.

“It's going to be hard

to separate yourself

from ballet, Clare.

It's what you've always done.”

I shrug and lick my spoon clean.

She sticks out her tongue

and licks her bowl spotless.

Grandpa and Dad do too.

I crack up.

Sometimes the unexpected

makes you laugh.

The guys tidy up the kitchen.

Mom leans her elbows on the table.

“Maybe I took your dream, Clare,

because I never had one of my own,”

she whispers.

She gets up and goes to the kitchen

before I can say

anything.

Get to sleep.

I flip over.

Not fit for classical ballet

is what I remember Madame saying.

Not good enough for New York.

Go to sleep.

I turn over.

Not have lessons

ever again?

Sleep!

I tug at the twisted sheets.

What am I

if I don't take ballet classes?

Who am I?

If I don't learn to dance,

will another dream come?

Do I want another?

Maybe it's like falling asleep.

You can't make yourself do it,

but it happens.

And then

you dream.

“Clare.”

Someone's shaking my arm.

“Clare.” Dad sits on the edge

of my bed.

“What?” I sit up. “What's wrong?”

“I'm sorry to wake you,

but your mother said

you called yourself a failure tonight.”

“Uh, yeah.

City Ballet, Dad?”

“Clare, whenever I said

failure's not in your future,

I didn't mean

not getting what you want

makes you a failure.”

I rub my eyes. “What?”

“I meant as long as you're trying,

you're succeeding.

If someone else says you don't make

City Ballet,

that doesn't mean

you're a failure.”

Did Dia's mom try this one on her?

“All that hard work will yield something,

even if

it's not what you expected.”

I scoot down under my sheets.

“I don't know, Dad.

I should have tried more.”

“That's not what this was about.

It was about your height, Clare.

You can't control that.”

“I wish.”

“There's so little we can control, Clare.

The best we can do

is accept the situation,

learn from it,

and go on.

I mean it.”

“Dad, can I go back to sleep?”

“All right.” He kisses my forehead.

“But think about what I said. Okay?”

“Sure.”

Did he make all that stuff up

so I wouldn't feel so bad?

But if I had tried harder

I could have been a superstar,

and my stupid height

wouldn't have mattered.

I squint in the dark

and pull the sheet to my nose.

Face it.

I tried as hard as I could.

I don't have

enough talent

inside me.

Mija

jumps onto

my bed

and curls

against

my neck.

I hiccup

into her old warm fur,

until

I fall

back

to sleep.

I follow Grandpa to the front door.

“Your folks said they'd be back around 5:00.

What are your plans today, Clare?”

“I'm going to walk down to the used bookstore.

I thought it would be nice

to get lost in a good, thick fantasy.”

“Excellent idea.”

“Don't tell Dad.

He always says he can get whatever book I want.

But it's fun to find something on my own.”

“Understandable.”

Grandpa gets his walking stick and a book. “You

want to meet for tea

at the coffee shop at 3:00?”

“Sure. I'll meet you there.”

“Perfect.” He opens the front door.

“You going for a hike, Grandpa?”

“No. A walk on the trail

around Bonney Lake after my book club.”

“Have fun.”

“You too.” He kisses my cheek

and pulls the door closed behind him.

In A Good Book used bookstore,

I sit on my knees and

pull an old dance magazine

from the bottom of the pile.

This thing is ancient,

with Deirdre Carberry on the cover.

I promised myself I'd come in here

to get a fantasy novel to read.

But I can at least

look

at the dance magazines.

I flip through the pages

and Carberry performs a pas de deux

with Baryshnikov

from one picture to the next.

Perfectly.

Before I know it,

I'm bawling.

It feels like my ribs

are squeezing so tight,

my heart is going to be punctured.

I hold the magazine to my chest

and lean against the cold metal rack.

I cry and sway

without a sound.

I'm turned inside out

and there's nothing there

to show.

Keeping my face down,

I step up to the counter

with my book

and dance magazine.

At least this place is empty.

Maybe no one saw me losing it.

I smooth out the book cover

and clunk my money down.

“Clare?”

Elton's walking toward me

behind the counter!

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“It's my summer job.”

“Cool,” I answer. “My parents own

the In Print bookstore.”

“Now
that's
cool.”

I smile, then remember

how absolutely embarrassed I am

about my life.

It gushes to my face.

I look down.

“Sorry about you not making the company,”

Elton says.

“I thought for sure you would.”

“Thanks,” I mumble. “Congratulations

for making it.”

“Thanks.”

He rings up my total on the cash register

and takes my money.

“I waited around for you, Clare,

after the audition,

to talk to you about it.

But I never saw you.”

“Yeah, it took me awhile

to, you know,

get it together.”

“Sure.”

He hands me my change.

His warm palm

brushes against my weak hand.

I pick up my stuff

and turn to go.

“Do you want a bag?”

“Um, no thanks.”

“Don't stop, Clare,” he says.