On Pointe (3 page)

in my new tights.

Snip, snip.

Perfect.

Just the right size.

And the tights aren't running.

At least something on me

is perfect today.

Even if

nobody will see.

Yeah.

It'll be fun to spend the school year

at Grandpa's.

I like the little town,

and I've always loved this house.

The same one Mom grew up in.

It has a rich full smell

with smooth wood floors.

The small window panes

make things look ripply

because the glass is curvy,

from 1926,

when the house was built.

I love all Grandpa's family's antiques

that were passed down to him,

like the iron bed

and antique dresser in here.

And now this room,

which used to be the guest one,

looks like mine:

clothes on the floor,

bed unmade,

stuffed animals

lining the wide baseboard,

books overflowing the shelves,

and the giant poster of Mikhail Baryshnikov,

the perfect dancer of all time—

and drop-dead gorgeous, Rosella and I say.

This room feels like mine

already.

By the time I double stitch

a torn ribbon on my toe shoe

and snip the loose threads,

Grandpa's calling me to eat lunch.

The protein bar

should hold me through class.

“You sure that's enough food, Clare?”

“Yes,” I say with my mouth full.

If he only knew what Rosella gets by on.

Grandpa pats my back

as I head out the door.

“Bye, Clare.

Have a good time.”

I turn and wave until he goes inside.

The air is still cool.

My clogs crunch the fir needles,

sending a Christmas smell

out into the summer air.

I weave through the garden.

I piqué and glissade

where no one can see me.

I jeté around the giant sunflowers.

A chickadee

hops in the birdbath.

One last double pirouette,

and I'm out the gate,

onto the sidewalk.

Nothing is better

than Grandpa's garden.

I dig out the dill pickle

I stashed in my bag earlier,

unwrap it,

and take a big bite.

Mmmm.

Not many calories and delicious!

I munch and cut through the alley

behind the bakery and gift shops

to avoid the window shoppers.

I try not to kick up dirt

onto my tights.

I run across Main

when the traffic breaks.

The last bite of pickle

makes me burp garlic.

Up the front staircase,

I pull hard

on one of the heavy wooden doors

and step into the brick conservatory

that pulses with music

and movement.

The door thuds closed.

My heart skips a beat

and is out of sync

with everything around me.

In the foyer

I smooth my hair

and mash my bun

until I feel the bobby pins

jab into my scalp.

Hairspray sticks to my fingers.

I press one stray pin

back into the center.

It pops halfway out again.

I press it in,

but it won't stay.

I shoulder my bag,

pull the bobby pin all the way out,

pry it open with my teeth,

and shove it into the other side

of my bun.

Sometimes

things don't stay

how you want them.

With a deep breath,

I step into the barre room,

where the adult class teeters

to keep their balance.

The instructor looks over at me.

“And hold it, hold it,”

he directs them.

I cast my eyes down

and rush along the opposite wall

to get to the dressing room.

This place has a lousy design.

People are always coming through

at the end of someone else's session

to change and get ready for their class.

Everyone knows to scurry by silently.

Even if it is

just the adults.

In the dressing room,

I glance sidelong at Ellen;

she's looking at Margot,

who's sneaking a peek at that new girl, Devin.

Rosella's not here yet.

Except for me and her,

no one's really friends

with anyone else.

Ballet students at the conservatory

don't hang out at each other's houses

or even call to chat.

The only time we speak

is to ask

to borrow a bandage

or to say, “Excuse me,”

before pushing past.

Everyone is someone

trying to be better

than you.

It's risky to make friends.

Or to care.

Rosella and I met

back in kindergarten.

My mom drove me across town

to an uppity preschool.

The only really good thing about it

was Rosella.

We've been friends

since the first day.

We both drew ballerinas

in the art corner.

We took classes together for years

at our old ballet school.

Sharing the same dream when you're kids

is fun.

But here,

everyone is completely serious.

Each person at the conservatory

shares our dream.

Each is a threat,

trying to be one in sixteen.

If sixteen of them

make it,

my dream dies.

I slip off my jeans and T-shirt

and tie on my black chiffon miniskirt.

I kick off my clunky clogs

for thin, leather, flat shoes

that glove my feet.

My bones and muscles

poke out all over.

Here

everything has to be uncovered.

Margot walks by

in the dressing room,

wearing nothing

but a dangling tampon string.

Is she so used

to people staring

at her body,

correcting and directing,

that she believes

it doesn't matter

if anyone looks anymore?

Is she so confident

of her body

that anyone can look

at everything?

Why am I the only one

blushing?

Willow never gets ready alone.

Her mother swoops into the dressing room

for final touches,

like a splash of rose water.

We are bumped aside

for Willow's completion.

“There.” Her mother sighs.

“Now go dance,

my prima ballerina.”

Willow parades out to the barre room,

wearing the only smile around.

Yeah, my mom might call me

her little ballerina,

but at least she doesn't smother me

like Willow's mom.

Shoving in,

telling me what to do

and how to get better.

That's got to be a ton of pressure for Willow.

Her mom needs a life.

At least mine's got the bookstore with Dad.

She has something other than me.

Doesn't she?

Willow's mom scuttles out

while Rosella charges in.

“I guess Prima

is ready for class,” she mutters.

“Mommy made her smell like a rose today.”

Rosella snorts.

If we throw our anger at Willow,

we can pretend we didn't argue yesterday.

“I didn't eat yet.” Rosella dumps her stuff

and peels open a yogurt container.

I fight my smile

because she's making an effort to eat.

I retie my skirt.

She gulps the pink stuff down until

we hear Margot retching in the bathroom.

“See, I'm not the only one.” Rosella smirks.

“Whatever.” I hope she'll eat more.

The toilet flushes,

and Margot walks by us

straightening her leotard.

Her pale face

stretches over her

sharp cheekbones.

Rosella tosses her half-eaten yogurt

into the garbage.

Thunk.

We both

follow Margot

out of the dressing room.

The barre

is cool

under my hot fingertips.

I choose a place

to stand.

Point hard, and harder.

I crunch the top of my toes

under.

One foot

and then the other.

First position,

turned out from the hip

as far as I can go

without my feet rolling inward.

My turn-out is

better than Rosella's,

but not as good as Margot's.

We haven't even begun,

and I know how I measure up.

I have to work harder.

I slide my hand forward

to a cooler spot.

We each feel it.

Without mirrors in the barre room,

we can't check ourselves.

Even the girls who don't believe what they see

want to look in a mirror.

I twist and check out my rear.

My leotard's creeping.

I snap the elastic.

Dia stretches

to be sure her short chest sweater

stays down.

Willow examines her plié

and adjusts her turn-out.

Rosella reties her skirt.

She's measuring to see if her waist

is bigger.

All of us wonder if

we look okay

without mirrors

saying so.

We for sure can't ask

each other.

Black leotard—

V neck,

square back,

high-cut legs;

pink tights—

not too pink,

not too white;

no underwear

but a thin bra;

chiffon skirt—

cut from one piece

of cloth;

optional leg warmers

with a foot strap;

rubber pants or short sweaters

if you've gained a pound;

flat ballet slippers

for barre work;

European custom toe shoes

for floor exercise;

a bun;

no bangs;

no jewelry;

no identity.

No one

breaks the silence

until

Tommy and Elton come out

of the boys' dressing room.

“You are kidding!” says Tommy.

“Nope.” Elton grins.

They bust up laughing

and join the other boys at the barre.

“What?” asks Nathan.

Tommy fills him and the other guys in.

I wonder what it's like

in their dressing room.

They obviously talk and have fun.

There's so much less competition

for guys.

A company needs every good male

it can find.

I bet

no one vomits,

and their feet never bleed

since they don't work on pointe.

It's so much easier

for them.

Even if people wonder if they are gay.

That's probably why Tommy

hits on every new girl—

to prove he's straight.

He acted so into Devin last week,

he nearly got kicked out of class

for whispering.

Devin never did look interested.

All the girls have dealt with Tommy.

Except me.

I'm so much taller,

he never looks my way.

No one has gone out with him.

We all would have heard if someone had.

Even girls who don't talk to each other

would have whispered about that.

It would have been too juicy to resist.

Going out

makes studying dance too complicated.

There's no way to focus

when you're so into each other.

Willow's mother was all over her

when she caught Willow flirting with Nathan.

The way she was bending over so close to him,

pretending to retie her ribbons.

Willow shrunk in the dressing room

while her mother ranted.

She doesn't even stand near Nathan now.

I look over at Elton.

He never chases anyone, girls or guys.

Only seems sure of himself,

like now,

stretching at the barre.

He turns my way and smiles.

I super quick

look away.

Madame sweeps

into the room.

Her thin legs glide

in a permanent turn-out.

Her thinner cane

raps the floor

in four/four time,

even without music.

One penciled eyebrow rises.

“Pliés,” she commands.

The barre room pianist

is a big younger woman.

So different from the floor room

old guy.

But the music sounds the same,

and no one notices her much either.

She pings out the tune

as we grow taller

in preparation

for pliés

for Madame.

Sinking down

in an open knee bend,

then standing up.

Plié, first,

second,

fourth,

fifth.

Relevé.

Turn.

Plié, first,

second,

fourth,

fifth.

It takes total control

to sink down all the way

and come up again.

My développé begins to shake;

the tiniest tremor

crawls up my outstretched leg

raised to hip level.

Madame strikes her cane on the barre.

Snap!

I jerk.

She barely missed my fingers.

“Higher, Clare,” she demands.

My mouth is pasty.

A tendon cramps

along my groin

as I lift my leg

one-fourth of an inch

higher.

But Madame has passed.

Hasn't even waited to see.

The sweat sears