On Pointe (5 page)

I slept in,

and I'm exhausted.

The scale says 131.

I can work that pound off in class,

if I barely eat before I go in.

Sleeping through breakfast helped.

That just leaves lunch.

Orange juice

and dry toast

is all I deserve.

I'm off to a good start today.

Even if

I'm sluggish.

A cup of Grandpa's instant coffee

should zoom me up.

I grimace it down.

The City Ballet audition announcement

is tacked to the bulletin board.

It's on Saturday!

Four days away!

Mom was right about posting it close to the day.

They do like to pop it on us.

Everyone's excitement

bings around the dressing room.

The girls actually talk to each other.

Rosella's not here yet.

I pull on my slippers

and get caught up in the chatter.

“Are you going to—” asks Devin.

“For sure,” I cut her off.

“Aren't you?”

“Of course.

That's why I'm taking classes here.”

“I heard Willow's not,” says Michaela.

“No way,” three of us say at once.

“Yeah. Her mother's flown the prima

to New York

to audition for the ABT school.”

“Get out! American Ballet Theatre?”

squeals Devin.

“For real. My cousin lives next door to her

and had to hear all about it.”

“Well, that's less competition for us,” I add.

“I'd be totally happy

to just make it into City Ballet,” says Ellen.

“Me too,” agrees Devin.

“But I have to get down

to a hundred pounds.” Ellen

tugs on some rubber pants.

“I'm shooting for ninety-five.” Devin

sucks in her stomach.

Dia comes in,

and everyone hushes.

We watch as she reads

the audition announcement.

There's no way she can make it

with her body.

She turns away and changes,

cowering in the corner

till she gets all her floppy bulges

covered up completely.

None of us can talk about the audition now.

And definitely

not to Dia.

Everyone pushes out the door

to the barre room.

Rosella bumps through them.

“Hi, Clare.”

“Look.” I point to the audition notice.

“Yes!” She punches her palm.

“Finally we'll be dancers

in City Ballet.”

Her excitement makes me grin.

Maybe she's right.

We are both really good.

Maybe other tall girls around the city

will try out too.

I could be average for all I know!

Rosella stuffs everything under a chair

and grabs her shoes. “Come on!”

Dia can't find a place

at the barre.

No one wants to be next to her.

Like her freakishness

could rub off onto them

or something.

“Here,

Dia.

Here's a space,” I say,

and make room.

She almost smiles.

“Thanks, Clare.”

I start to smile back

until Rosella gives me a look.

“What?” I mouth.

She shakes her head

and looks away.

Some days

barre work

flies past

fast

with hardly any pain.

And then

other days

it's one long pain.

Today it's fast.

My mind

is thinking of Saturday's audition,

and my body exercises

itself.

The boys are as psyched

as the girls.

Everyone is pouring sweat.

Tommy is completely focused for once.

Elton tremors to keep his leg raised high.

I try to meet his extension

and almost do.

The guys are going to be fighting just as hard

as the girls for spots in City Ballet.

I give it my all to lift my leg a bit more . . .

and I do!

Look out. I'm fighting too.

“Dia, I'd like to

speak to you privately

before floor exercises begin,”

says Madame. “Continue to stretch, class.”

We all stop moving.

Only our sweat

plops to the floor.

We watch

Madame and Dia

go into the office.

One of the ladies

from the adult class dashes back in.

It's the red-headed one

from my dream.

“Forgot my towel.”

She giggles.

“Have a good dance,” she calls to us and leaves.

“Like, who was she talking to?”

Rosella humphs.

The office door opens.

Madame glides to the front of the room.

She clicks out a combination.

During fouettés,

while I spin

round and round on pointe,

I see Dia rush out.

She is a blur.

But I see her go.

I'm sure

it's for good.

The rumors are already

buzzing.

“I heard her crying!” says Ellen.

“Madame told her she was too fat!”

Michaela adds.

“She said, ‘Don't ever come back!' ” Devin says.

I shove my stuff

into my bag.

I bang the stall door

and raise my voice over Rosella's stupid retching.

“Bye.”

“Wait, Clare—”

But I don't.

I hurry away

from their fascination

of someone's dream dying.

It's like it fills them up,

or maybe it's their relief

bubbling out

that they haven't been cut too.

I run out of the conservatory,

away from my fear

of becoming Dia.

Today Grandpa's hedge

seems to reach out and smother me.

I hurry through the gate

and toss my bag in the house.

I grab a diet soda from the fridge

and sneak out to the backyard deck

without running into Grandpa.

How will Dia

stop ballet lessons?

Ten years of training

wasted.

What will she tell her parents?

The soda can sweats

in my hand.

What do you do

if they don't let you

learn to dance?

Grandpa comes around the house

with his wheelbarrow.

“How was dancing today?”

he asks without looking at me.

“Fine,” I answer.

“Good.” He dumps everything

into the recycle bin.

“They posted the audition

for City Ballet,” I say,

and pull a splinter

out of the deck step.

Grandpa stretches his back.

“That's nice.”

“It's on Saturday,” I add.

“So you'll be auditioning?”

He turns and looks at me.

An image of Dia

rushing out

goes through my mind.

“Of course, Grandpa.

I want to become a dancer.”

“Clare . . . ”

A waxwing bird

swoops down into the bath,

ruffles his feathers,

and flies off.

“I wish you could believe me,” he says quietly.

“You already
are
a dancer.

You have the same passion

your grandmother had

when she stepped out onto the floor.

You feel the music.

I've sat in on plenty of your classes

over the years

to see your dancing spirit.

You have to dance

when the piano—”

“Grandpa . . . ” I get up and go inside.

My stomach rolls.

I dump my soda

down the sink

and smash the can flat.

“Auditions are on Saturday, Mom.”

“Oh, sweetheart.

How exciting!

I know you'll do wonderfully.

Our dream is about to come true, isn't it?”

I bite a hangnail on my pinkie

and spit out the skin.

Mija winds around my ankles.

“I hope.”

“Well, I'm certain it's all about to happen.

How's your grandpa?

Is he doing okay?

Is he feeling fine?”

“Yes.” He walks by the kitchen window

with a rake. “He's been doing the usual.

He works in his garden

and goes to his Bible studies.

But sometimes . . . ”

“What?

Clare,

tell me what you were going to say.”

“Well, he talks on and on.”

“Oh, Clare. Is that all?

Be patient with him.

He's lonely.”

“I know. But it can drive me crazy.”

“Clare—”

“Yeah, I know.” I turn around

and lean against the counter.

Mija sits and washes her face.

“Has he been taking his medicine?

Regularly?”

“I think so.

Uh huh. Morning and night.”

“Good. Now, are you really okay

with your dad and me

going to this booksellers' convention?

We won't be nearby

for the audition.”

“Sure, Mom.”

“Promise to call the cell phone

and let us know

the minute you finish.”

“Okay.”

“And be patient with Grandpa.”

“I will.”

“I need to go now, honey.”

“Um.”

“Is there something else, Clare?

Something on your mind?”

“Can I talk to Dad, Mom?”

“Well, he's busy with a customer right now.

But I could—”

“Oh, never mind. Love you, Mom. Bye.”

“Love you too.”

Click
.

Bzzzzz
.

“It's just that

Dia got kicked out

and won't ever be a dancer,

and what if that happens to me?

Would you ask Dad that for me, Mom?”

Bzzzzz.

“What if I'm too tall to make it?

Will everyone

still love me if I fail

at our dream?”

Bzzzzz.

I hang up the phone.

Mija stares up at me.

“Even though I'm trying hard,

failure

could be

my future.”

Grandpa

flicks through the channels.

I switch my split

from my right leg forward

to my left.

With the audition on Saturday,

a little extra stretching

won't hurt.

Even in pajamas.

“Be all that you can be,”

sings the commercial.

Grandpa waits for the soldier

to salute the flag

before he changes the channel.

Every now and then

he does something like that

that reminds me he was a soldier

in the Army once.

Before he worked for and retired

from Boeing Aerospace.

He carried the radio for his unit

in the Korean war.

Ages ago.

Not that he ever talks about it.

But his medals are displayed in the glass cabinet.

The jingle keeps going

in my brain.

Be all that you can be.

What's the best I can be?

Grandpa stops a second on PBS.

“Oh, Clare. This used to be your favorite show.”

I split in the middle and grimace.

A big hairy monster

is telling a little yellow ball

she can grow up and do anything

she dreams of

if

she believes and tries hard enough.

“Grandpa,” I complain.

“Okay, okay.” He chuckles.

“So grown up now.”

He starts channel surfing again.

I wonder if Dia

ever watched that show

when she was little?

“Do they hurt, Clare?”

“What?”

“Your feet.”

I pull my knees up

and spread my toes on the braided rug.

“Well . . . ”

One nail is black.

I didn't cut it short enough,

so the skin bruised underneath.

Three toes have open blisters.

The big callus on my right foot is really red.

“Yeah. I guess if I think about it, they hurt.”

Grandpa's lips pinch into a line.

“It doesn't seem right.”

“Grandpa, it's part

of learning ballet.”

He shakes his head.

“All that dancing on your tiptoes.

Most people get arthritis when they're old.

But what will your feet feel like

after this much damage?”

I shrug.

He slips his feet out of his leather house shoes.

His nails are thick and yellowish.

His toes are knobby and bent like his hands.

“I ballroom danced, remember,

and you know I still love to ski.

But neither of those

equals the foot strain of ballet.

And now my feet hurt

on all our rainy days.”

“Huh.”

“I wish there was another way for you, Clare.”

“Another way for what?”

“Well,” he says as he slips his shoe back on,

“another way to dance

without damaging your feet.”

“Yeah.” I pick at some hanging blister skin.

“It would be great

if I could be a dancer

without this part.”

I touch his shoe with my foot.

“But it's worth it.”

The glass shelves

bounce the light

into my eyes.

I squint in the dark hall

and sip my water.

Army medals

rest on red velvet.

Old ski racing ribbons

line a whole shelf.

Most are first place.

A picture of Grandpa

dancing with Grandma.

Her gauzy turquoise dress floats