On Pointe (2 page)

You're supposed to be my friend.”

I raise my voice, “I am.”

The other girls stare at us.

I glare at Rosella,

but she doesn't notice.

She crams her stuff in her bag

and leaves without looking back.

Rosella's mom waves to me

as Rosella climbs into their convertible.

They pull out into traffic,

so neither one sees me

wave back.

The crosswalk light

takes forever to change.

I stare at the red hand.

Finally it turns

to the walking person.

I jog across Main Street,

hurrying by the yellow daffodil silhouette

spray painted on the asphalt.

The flowers mark every intersection in town.

The crosswalk light changes

before I get to the curb,

like always.

I reach the sidewalk

as the cars roll over the painted flower.

Nearly all the nearby farms grow daffs.

Grandpa says once everyone grew hops

till disease took the crops.

I can't imagine beer mugs

painted at all the corners.

I brush gently against the heart-shaped leaves

trailing from the streetlight hanging baskets.

I smile at the judge watering his begonias

outside the Hammermaster Law Office.

He's the only judge in town,

so everyone recognizes him.

Even me,

just from visiting Grandpa so much.

“Hello,” he says as water

splatters down onto the cement.

“Hi.”

I walk past.

The splashing water sound reminds me of Rosella.

Yuck.

I could never puke like she does.

Even if I was overweight,

I'd eat less or something.

She eats less and vomits.

Where does she get energy

to get through class?

What am I supposed to do?

She's definitely getting worse.

Other girls do it every now and then,

but Rosella is puking

after every class.

What about at home?

Should I tell her mom

or mine?

My grandpa, since I'm living with him

this summer?

Madame?

I'm Rosella's friend.

She should listen to me.

I slip by the skinny tendrils dangling

from the last flower basket.

Or maybe I should listen to Rosella

and shut up?

She does have to stay thin . . . .

Grandpa's house and garden

are surrounded by

a tall laurel hedge.

Sometimes, before I walk through

the little iron gate,

the shrubs look mean,

like they are trying to keep me out.

But other times,

the shrubs are like big arms

waiting to hug me into Grandpa's house.

Today I step through the gate

easily.

The garden flowers sway

in the late afternoon wind.

Even the house's sloping Tudor roof

looks like a lopsided smile.

I race up the porch steps

and open the storm door.

Classical music

plays softly

for Mija,

his sixteen-year-old black cat.

Today the hedge and house

seem just right.

“I'm home, Grandpa!”

“Hello, love,” he calls from the back porch.

I pour a big glass of orange juice

and nuke a bag of fat-free popcorn.

I stretch out on the couch.

Mija manages to leap up,

nibbles a piece I dropped,

then stretches and arches her back.

She slinks down

and disappears around the corner

with perfect grace,

despite her crickety old self.

Grandpa comes in and sits

in his small velvet chair.

“How was dancing today, Clare?”

“Class

was fine,” I answer.

“Did you express yourself

with those fast spins on one leg?”

“Fouettés. Yeah.”

“Excellent. There's nothing like dance.

When your grandmother was alive,

she and I ruled

the ballroom.”

I zone out.

I've heard this a thousand times.

I barely remember my grandma.

She died when I was little.

Finally he finishes.

He smiles and crosses his legs.

“Pass the popcorn, please.”

I do.

Only a couple kernels

roll around on the bottom of the bowl.

“You are a scoundrel,” he says.

“My couch, my juice, and all my popcorn.”

“But I'm your granddaughter.” I grin.

“That you are, Clare.”

He runs his bumpy finger

around the bowl.

“You don't need that salt, Grandpa.”

He raises an eyebrow above his glasses

and licks his finger clean.

“You're right,” he says. “One more lick.”

I dump our empty microwave dinner plates

into the garbage.

Enough time left for a bath.

“Night, Grandpa.” I kiss him

on the forehead.

“Night, Clare.” He slips back to sleep

in his chair.

In the pink-and-black bathroom,

I peel off my cold leotard and tights

like a layer of skin.

While the soaking powder dissolves in the water,

I sit on the chilly toilet lid

and pick the tape off my toes.

I step into the tub.

Yikes! It burns, burns, burns

the open sores

on my feet.

Then it stops.

Hey.

The tub seems shorter

than ours at home.

I shiver

in the hot water.

Everyone is sacrificing

so my dream to dance

with City Ballet

comes true.

Mom and Dad pay for shoes, clothes, and lessons.

Grandpa helps pay for them too,

and lets me live here for the summer.

So much money is spent on me,

I have to sacrifice

my whole body.

I can't waste a dime.

I dial,

tug the sheet

up between my legs,

and leave my throbbing feet poking out.

The cool night air slips around the room,

but I'm too beat to get up and close the windows.

I don't know if I have enough energy

to even talk to Mom.

But here goes.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Mom.”

“Clare! How was class?

Was it fun and energizing?

Did you do well?”

“It was fine.”

“Great! And

is everything going smoothly

with your grandfather?

Are you two still getting along?

No problems now, I hope.”

“No, we're doing okay.

It's still easier staying here

than taking the bus every day

from our apartment.”

“That was the plan.

A good plan.

I knew it would be.

You're getting the best instruction

right in my old hometown.

I'll never figure out

how Ballet Conservatory

ended up there.

Someone liked the setting,

I suppose,

at some point.

So there you have it.

And it's all worked out for us.

Tell me,

how are your new shoes holding up?”

“They're okay.

Mostly.

I, um, I'll need another pair

in a couple weeks.”

“I'll put in the order, Clare.

Happy to do it for you.”

“Sorry I'm wearing them out so quickly.”

“Now, now. None of that.

Anything for our dream.

Any word on the audition, sweetheart?

You must be so excited.

I bet it's only days away.

I understand

they wait to post the announcement

till just before the tryouts,

to keep nerves at bay.

So, Clare,

have you heard yet?”

“Not yet, Mom.” I scrinch the sheet

into my fist.

She talks a hundred miles a second

through every minute.

“Well, when all goes as planned,

are you ready to spend the school year

with Grandpa?

It would be a perfect location for you.

Think about—”

“Definitely. I'd like to stay here.

It's close to the conservatory.

Rosella is psyched that I'd be in her school.

And it's not like I'd be leaving

a ton of friends behind.”

“No,

ballet study hasn't left time

for friendships, has it?

But then, that's completely understandable,

and you do have Rosella.

She's such a dear.”

“Yeah. But, Mom?”

“Yes?”

“I would miss working at the bookstore

with you and Dad.”

“That's nice of you to say, Clare.

But like we discussed,

you could come home after class

occasionally,

on Saturdays,

and earn some money.”

“That'd be good.”

“I drove by your and Rosella's

old dance school today.

You both have certainly outgrown

their little yearly performances for parents.”

“Definitely.”

“And now you are at the conservatory,

ready to audition

for City Ballet Company.

Next it will be Pacific Northwest Ballet,

or even New York City, Clare!

Our dream is about to come true, honey!”

“Mom, you sound like a sappy commercial.”

“Well, I'm so proud!

But since it's late, I'll let you go.

You need to get your rest.”

I let go of the sheet

and try to smooth it out.

“Oh, and Dad sends his love, Clare.”

“Love to him too.”

“And he says to remind you, ‘Work hard.

Failure is not in your future.' ”

“Yeah. Right.” Dad's favorite line. “Night, Mom.”

“Good night, my little ballerina.”

Click.

Little?

Ballerina?

Why can't Mom focus

on one thing?

Why can't I think about City Ballet

without the pressure of PNB

or some New York company

in the way far-off future?

City Ballet is what I'm working for.

Isn't that enough, Mom?

“Clare,” Grandpa calls

through my bedroom door

in the morning.

“Clare.”

I don't answer

and wait for him to give up.

He cracks the door

and peeks in.

I close my eyes and lie

perfectly still.

He closes the door

and heads out to church.

Every week he tries this.

I take class six days out of seven.

Let me at least chill out on Sunday!

Even Mom said I didn't have to go to church.

Everyone agreed to that

before I moved in.

We've never gone.

Why should I start

because I'm staying with Grandpa?

I snuggle down

under my covers.

After I wake and eat lunch,

I go out and weed

in Grandpa's garden.

I rip out the clover enthusiastically

to make up for not going with him.

“Hi.” I wave as Grandpa pulls in.

“What're you doing there, Clare?”

“Some weeding.” I beam,

ready for sure praise.

“Oh.” He shuts the car door.

“Want to help me?”

“No. But thanks. I don't work

on the Lord's Day.”

The trowel slips from my muddy hand.

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

“Why don't you come in,

and we'll have a simple lunch.”

“I—I already ate.”

He nods and goes inside.

Ugh. I stab the dandelion roots

with the weeder stick

and yank the plant out of the dirt.

I heave it at the wheelbarrow.

Why can't I ever seem to do the right thing

to please Grandpa?

He naps

then goes back to church at night.

For evening service

he doesn't bother knocking on my door.

Just leaves me a note saying

he'll eat dinner with his friends

afterward,

and I can find something

in the freezer.

I hide out in my room

through the afternoon.

Reading and napping to avoid him

till he leaves again.

Come on.

Everyone needs a down day.

Right?

“Morning.”

“Morning, love.”

Since Sunday's over,

everything will be normal again between us.

Not weirdo stressed.

It's been the pattern since I moved in.

Grandpa's smiling,

which helps me smile back.

I kiss his cheek

and smell warm prune juice.

Yuck.

He dabs his mouth. “Aha!”

“What?”

He fills in the last squares

on his crossword.

“Not in unison is
discordant.”

I stir my breakfast drink.

This is it for me.

Rosella vomiting makes me feel too guilty

to eat anything else.

“D-i-s-c-o-r-d-a-n-t,” he spells.

“When something doesn't fit in

with the rest. Like a note in music.”

He looks up at me.

“Right,” I say.

Discordant.

Like one girl who's taller

than the rest.

The skin on my back

crawls against my T-shirt.

My tights squeeze my legs.

My leotard encases my body.

I wind my ponytail tighter and tighter

and pin it to my head.

I'm a ballet student

who feels like a lean linked

sausage.

I shove over the covers,

sit on my bed,

and cut foot holes