On Pointe (4 page)

my eye.

“Good extension, Willow,”

Madame croons.

My leg shakes violently

while I stare

at Willow's short, still leg

poised at shoulder height.

“And end,”

says Madame.

I try to control my long leg

as it comes crashing down.

Only a moment

to rub the cramp.

“Other side,”

Madame demands.

Endless

left,

right,

up,

down,

turn,

again,

to warm up

and get ready

to learn to dance

in the floor room.

“Want to get a soda

after class, Clare?”

“Sure.”

I follow Rosella

and drag my hand

on the long hallway windowsill.

I guess she's totally over my confronting her

about puking.

Since we both heard Margot,

I'll act like it's no big deal too.

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

“Great.” She stops outside the floor room.

“My mom's going to be half an hour late

because of a salon appointment.”

“Okay.”

We stand aside for the adult class

to leave.

The last woman, with fuzzy red hair,

finally gets her stuff together.

She says hello to our class

gathered by the door.

I look down and away,

not wanting to be linked to a loser.

No one answers but Elton.

“Hey, Janet,” he says back.

How does he know her name?

I peek as she walks away,

dragging her hand on the sill

all the way down

the hall.

In this room

we can

search

for fat.

Our eyes

move over

our outlines

as we turn,

pose,

stretch a leg,

lift an arm.

Then, slyly,

we look for fat

on each other.

I crunch

a chunk

of golden rosin.

The pine scent

circles me

with confidence.

Crunch, crunch.

The ball of my foot

pulverizes

the yellow crystal

into white powder.

I rock the magic

onto my toe,

then do my heel.

I step out

and put the other toe in.

This stickiness will hold me

to the floor.

It will grip the wood

when I come flying down.

I can't believe my feet

have outgrown the rosin box.

I hurry away

before anyone sees.

Sliding down

into a split.

Rocking a bit

to let my thigh

open.

Leaning forward.

Forehead to knee.

Chest pressing

into my thigh.

Pushing up.

Lifting and shifting

to split in the middle.

Walking my hands

forward.

My breath condenses

into a mist

on the cool floor.

My chest touches

with each inhale.

Walking my hands

up again.

Lifting and shifting.

Splitting the other leg.

Wiping the sweat off

with my damp towel

while sitting,

sitting,

sitting

in my split.

Run, run, run, grand jeté.

Run, run, run, grand jeté.

My turn.

Run, run, run, grand jeté,

and time stops.

I'm at the highest point,

doing a split in the air

above everyone.

I hold it,

defying time and gravity.

“Look at me!” I want to yell.

My heart thumps,

and I glide to the floor.

I step to the back of the line.

Elton turns and whispers,

“Beautiful!”

I can't stop myself

from smiling up at him.

Which feels doubly great.

He
is
way taller than me.

I turn off Rosella's cell phone.

Grandpa said no problem

to me hanging out at the coffee shop.

“Good class.” Rosella sips her diet soda.

I dunk my tea bag.

“It was. My calves are still burning.”

“That last combination was a killer,” she says.

“Yeah.”

“Did you see Nathan fall out of his pirouette?”

“Totally.”

“I thought Madame

was going to beat him with her cane.”

“While he was down,” I add.

“Elton sure looked good.”

“Really?” I tuck my ballet bag

under my chair.

“He was totally checking you out

while we were stretching.” She smiles.

“Nuh uh.” I nudge her foot,

and she nudges me back.

The latte machine hisses.

We both look out the window.

Dia's mom's car pulls over

and picks her up

outside the conservatory.

“Man, I can't imagine being Dia,” says Rosella.

“I know.” I squeeze my tea bag

until it stops dripping

and wipe my fingers

on a napkin. “There's no way

she'll be able

to take pas de deux classes in the fall.”

Rosella laughs. “Right!

No guy would ever be able to lift her.”

I nod.

Will Elton be able to lift me?

He is really buff.

“Dia's studied for like ten years.” Rosella

bites her straw.

“Same as us,” I add.

“How could anyone have known

her body'd change like that. Her mom's a stick.”

“She is small.”

“Dia must weigh

a hundred twenty-five pounds,” says Rosella.

The tea burns my mouth. “Ouch!”

I dab my lips. “Well, I weigh

one thirty, you know.”

Rosella looks up quick.

“Oh, yeah. But that's because—”

“I'm so tall.” I cross my legs

and try to tuck them

under the little bistro table.

My knee bangs the edge

and rocks everything.

“Lots of companies have taller girls,” says Rosella.

“Mmm hmm.”

“Like Pacific Northwest Ballet.”

“Right. PNB. I've heard that.”

“Don't worry, Clare.”

“No, I'm not.”

Oh, sure.

“My my, Clare.” Rosella's mom

looks over the top of her designer sunglasses.

“You really have shot up.”

I step back.

“Your father is tall, isn't he?”

“Yeah.”

“Tt, tt.” She shakes her head.

“See you tomorrow.” Rosella gets in the car

and shuts her mom up.

“Bye.”

They pull away.

I bypass the sidewalk

and turn down the deserted alley

to get out of sight.

I kick a stone.

It smacks a trash can.

Ping!

What does it matter

how a person looks

if she wants to

be a dancer?

I'm nearly as good

as everyone else in class.

I wipe my nose on my shoulder.

Down the road Grandpa's huge fir trees

jab into the sky.

I jab the air with my fist.

I do chaîné turns

and kick grands battements.

Pow, pow, pow!

My bag swings wild.

My right clog flies off.

Clunk.

It rolls across the pavement

into the weeds.

I hop over to get it

and cram it on.

Ouch!

I hobble down the alley.

It shouldn't matter what you look like

if you really want to dance.

I

want

to.

“Why the frown?”

Grandpa turns off the hose.

“No reason.” I flop onto the porch swing

and kick my bag toward the front door.

He tamps the dirt around the daisies

with his foot

and gathers the hose.

The green coil tries to twist its own way,

but he carefully bends it

to make a pile of circles.

“There.” He stretches his back

and wipes his hands on a rag.

“Tell me what's the matter, love.”

He comes over behind me and rocks the swing.

“What if, for some reason,

I don't get to be a dancer?”

He doesn't say anything.

“I know Mom says

everything is going to work out,

and Dad says work hard

and failure's not in my future. But

stuff changes sometimes.”

Creak
.

Creak.

“It does. But in your case—” he starts.

“Grandpa, I've grown so—”

“Clare,

you already

are a dancer.”

Creak
.

Creak
.

Creak
.

I sigh out the sorrow

so the shaky tears don't come.

“Think about it,” he says,

and walks away

without saying

anything else.

I pick the pins

out of my bun

and tug out the elastic.

My brown hair

tumbles down

past my shoulders.

My scalp throbs.

I hunch a bit to look at myself

in the antique dresser mirror.

I've got

the little head,

the long neck,

the long arms,

and the little bust.

But my hips

are getting wider,

no question.

I squeeze them

between my hands.

“Stop growing!” I hiss.

And when I stand up straight,

I can't even see

my face anymore

in this mirror.

I have to tilt the mirror up far.

It's not just my hips.

The worst part is

my whole stupid body

is growing.

I'm totally out of control.

I flop on the bed.

I'm sickening.

Grandpa doesn't know anything.

Already a dancer?

Yeah. Right.

“For this food

we give thanks.

Let it nourish our bodies

and make us continue to grow

in stature, health, and grace.

Amen.”

I stare across the table at him.

He stares back at me

until I look down.

Talking back to my grandfather

is not allowed.

Maybe a German-Swiss thing.

No matter

if he's completely wrong.

I ball my napkin on my lap

and rip little shreds off

where he can't see.

Grandpa and I

eat our mac and cheese

in silence.

Our spoons clack

against the frozen food plastic divider

keeping our peas separate.

Margot and Rosella would never eat the fat

on this plate.

Maybe a salad, no dressing or extras.

Lettuce and a carrot.

Or a skinless chicken breast, broiled.

Then they'd live it up

with fat-free Jell-O.

But right now

I don't even care.

This tastes good.

That's one thing about being taller.

Extra weight doesn't show as fast on me

as it does on the rest of them.

My spoon scrapes the black plastic plate

clean.

Ugh.

The ice cream did it.

In front of the mirror in my room,

my stomach

pooches out.

Like Mom's.

Fat. Fat. Fat.

What was I thinking?

Mac and cheese and ice cream?

Call me lard butt.

I kneel

and tuck my hair behind my ear.

My reflection wobbles in the toilet water.

I can do this.

Margot does it.

Rosella does it.

I knew not to tell anyone about her

because there's nothing wrong with it.

Right?

Plus, fewer calories

could mean I'd grow slower.

Couldn't it?

I can get rid of the ice cream, at least.

My fingernail scrapes the roof of my mouth

and pushes into the back of my throat.

Uckgh
.

Rap, rap.

I drop the lid.
Bam.

“Clare?”

“Yes.” I swallow

and quick, dry my finger on my T-shirt.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, Grandpa.” I flush the clean water

and open the door.

“I'm fine.”

I couldn't do it.

Even if Grandpa hadn't come to the door.

I sucked in twenty-four grams of fat.

Then I couldn't even puke it out.

What kind of dancer could I ever be?

Mija curls

at the foot of my bed.

Her breathing is rattly tonight,

but her weight and warmth

on my calves

seep through the sheet.

My feet ache

a little less.

I take a deep, relaxing breath

and let it out slowly.

Cats

equal comfort.

Running from the barre room

to the floor room

to the barre room

to the floor room

and back.

I can't find my class.

Only the fuzzy red-headed woman is there.

I keep passing her in the hallway.

And she is trying to tell me something,

but I won't listen to her.

I run and look for my class

all through my dream.

“I'm off to my theology book club, Clare.”

“Okay, Grandpa.”

“Eat a good brunch before you leave to dance.”

“I will.”

“See you later.”

“Okay.”

His shoes clud across the wood floor

to the front door.

He locks the deadbolt for me.

I roll over in bed

and bury my head

under my pillow.