On Pointe (6 page)

above the floor.

She was really beautiful.

Grandpa's treasures

are safe behind glass.

I flip off the light

and go to bed.

I kick my leg

as high as it can go.

Grands battements:

front,

side,

back,

side.

This is something

I can do with power.

Madame

presses her cold cane

against my hip.

“Control.

Control.

Control,” she insists.

I have to lower my kick

so I don't jar

against her cane.

“Better.” She walks past

tapping the rhythm.

But now

I'm only kicking

as high as everyone else,

and my grands battements

don't seem so special

anymore.

Rosella's on the other side of the barre.

The spot in front of me is empty.

It's Dia.

That's who's missing.

How can I miss Dia

when I didn't even know her?

But she was

one of us,

one of this class,

trying just as hard

as everyone else.

Now

there's an empty spot.

Elton

usually has to wipe the floor

during barre exercise.

He sweats so much.

His dark skin shines.

I need to sweat that much

to show I'm trying my best.

I'm going to work harder.

Today Tommy grips the barre

behind me.

I move up closer to Nathan.

I'll never feel comfortable around Tommy,

the way he flirts with all the other girls.

I don't like how his long hair clumps with sweat

by the end of the class.

Nathan's crew cut always looks neat.

So does Elton's short Afro.

I smooth my stray hairs back.

The pianist plays an intro,

and we sweep through the motions

Madame instructed.

Perfect synchrony

among near strangers.

Margot places one foot

on the little barre in the floor room

and slides.

A perfect split.

Rosella bends at the waist,

puts her hands

on the floor,

presses one heel

to the floor molding,

and runs her other leg

up the wall behind her.

A perfect split.

Elton sits facing the wall.

With his legs spread apart,

he scootches himself

closer and closer

until he touches

every inch of the inside of his legs

to the molding.

A perfect split.

I lie on my back

and lift one straight leg.

I pull it down against my chest

until my toes

touch the floor behind my head.

A perfect split.

Whatever way,

it has to be perfect.

Madame's sipping from her water bottle.

We have a couple more minutes to stretch.

“Isn't it weird she's gone?” I whisper to Rosella.

“What? Who?” She checks herself in the mirrors.

“You know. Dia.”

“You're kidding.”

“No, I feel like—”

“Oh please, Clare.” She laughs.

“It's good she's gone.

She looked awful

with those big boobs

bouncing around.

She flopped all around the room.

It's good Madame took care of it.

We need the space,

and it was horrible to have to look at her.

Especially that big butt jiggling behind it all!”

What?!

Rosella tosses her towel on a chair.

“Come on,” she says.

I don't move.

She keeps walking.

We bourrée—

little tiny steps

on pointe—

from one corner

to the other.

In one long line.

It's the worst time to see

how much I stick out.

My head is way above all the other girls.

My feet flick baby steps

almost as fast as my heart beats.

“Auditions will be held here, on Saturday.

10:00
A.M
. sharp,” says Madame.

She runs her cane through her fingertips.

“Students from

all over the Seattle-Tacoma area

will come to compete

for the sixteen City Ballet positions.

If you were a member last year,

you must audition again this year.

Nothing is guaranteed.

I expect your absolute best

as you represent the conservatory.”

I'm amazed

her slick, tight bun

actually lets her smile.

I tug on my jeans.

“What you said

was pretty awful, Rosella.”

“What?”

“About Dia.”

“Oh, come on, Clare.

It's no big deal.

I only said what everyone's thinking.”

I bend to get my stuff together.

The room feels more crowded than usual.

I'm bumping into rear ends,

elbows, and knees.

“I need to use the bathroom.

Wait to walk out with me, Clare.”

I grab her arm. “You have to stop doing that.”

“Clare, I have to pee.”

“Oh, right.”

“I do. What is with you today?”

She pulls away.

I step around a pile of clothes

and Margot changing her shoes on the floor.

I follow Rosella to the stall.

She does go.

But when she flushes

I hear her vomit.

I knew it.

This can't be right,

no matter what I was thinking before.

She's got to be losing strength.

It's dangerous.

Rosella comes out and crosses her arms.

“What?” she asks.

“I'm going to tell your mom

if you don't quit it.”

“Big deal.” She pushes by me.

“My mom's the one who tells me to do it.

Grow up.”

She slips between the other girls

and disappears.

I stomp,

stomp,

stomp

around the window shoppers

looking into the gift stores.

The sidewalk is extra crowded.

I want to get away from everyone

and back to Grandpa's.

I should have cut through the alley.

Sure, my mom is like a cheerleader

about our dream,

and my dad says I can't fail,

but her mother

tells her

to vomit?

Rosella's mom has always

been into clothes

and cool cars.

Going through three husbands

and getting tons of alimony,

she is used to having whatever she wants.

Maybe Rosella has to be

the daughter that fits her style.

The perfectly thin ballerina

to accent her vogue life.

Vomiting

to make her mother happy.

It makes me

want to puke.

Grandpa pulls his little car

up to the curb.

“Come on, Clare.”

I duck by the hanging basket and get in.

“Where are we going?”

“It's a nice day for a short hike.”

“But Grandpa,

I haven't changed.”

“You'll be fine.”

He pulls out onto the street,

turns on Main,

and heads up toward the Cascade Mountains.

“But I need a snack.”

“I packed some goodies.

Relax, Clare.”

“But I'm wearing clogs.”

“Your hiking boots and socks are in the trunk.

Before you know it,

ski season will be here,

and I want to be in shape for some downhill

on Crystal Mountain.”

I shake my head.

Grandpa has skied

since forever.

It drives Mom nuts with worry.

I sink back against the seat

and watch the traffic disappear,

until we are alone on the road

weaving up into the foothills.

Grandpa flips on the radio.

I close my eyes,

shut Rosella out of my mind,

and choreograph a dance

to the classical music.

The gravel crunches.

Grandpa parks the car.

He gets my boots and socks,

and I pull them on.

“Ready.” I grab the pack from the backseat

and hand him his walking stick.

We lock up.

“Here's the trail.” He starts off

through the bushes.

I follow.

Ferns stretch over the path.

Sun shafts slice between the firs.

I breathe in the sweet

growing, decaying smell.

The moss is spongy under my feet.

Grandpa leads the way.

I follow.

“Wow. Look at those roots

on that fallen tree, Grandpa.

They must be twelve feet across.”

“Looks like an old cedar.”

The trail switches back,

and we walk the length of the downed tree.

“Sure the forest is beautiful.

But don't you think

this rotting tree is awesome too?”

Grandpa says, “Definitely.”

He puts his arm

around my shoulder. “Look at all the life

that can grow on it now.”

Moss, baby ferns, even a couple little trees

are springing from its side.

“Amazing,” I whisper.

I pull back my tights

and dip my feet in the river.

“Ahhhh.”

Grandpa laughs at me.

“What? It feels great!” I say.

“I'm sure.” He gathers up our trash

and tucks it into the pack.

The water burbles around my ankles.

The cold prickles and needles my skin.

I yank my feet out.

Mmmmm.

The rock is warm,

and my wet footprints

evaporate in seconds.

A ladybug creeps onto my hand,

then flies off.

The alpine meadow rustles around us.

“Hear that?” asks Grandpa.

“The marmots?”

“We always called them whistling pigs.”

I laugh.

The whistles drift away.

“So you're really getting ready

for ski season, Grandpa?”

“Wouldn't miss it for anything.”

“But you'll wear the helmet Mom got you?”

“Yes, I will.

And no backcountry without a buddy.”

“Great. That sounds a little safer.”

“You can join me if you want,” he jibes.

“Yeah, right.

You know I hate heights, cold, and speed.”

“That about describes the entire ski experience.”

“Exactly. The only time I like speed

is when I'm spinning on pointe.”

“Fair is fair. You speed across the floor

on your tiptoes,

and I'll
shoosh
down the slopes.”

“Deal.” I grin.

He stretches and gets up.

“Time to go, Clare.”

I pull on my socks and boots.

We hike down the dimming trail

side by side.

“Whoa!”

“Grandpa!” I catch his arm.

He regains his balance.

Little pebbles

tumble over the side of the hill.

He squeezes my hand. “Thanks, love.”

“Sure. This switchback is steep.”

“And I'm old. I'd actually

do better on a pair of skis.”

“I bet!”

He gives me a shaky laugh

and grips his walking stick

for the next step.

I keep close by.

Grandpa steers the car

down the dark dirt road.

I tilt up his old Army canteen.

Nothing. “I'm so thirsty.”

“I'm sorry I didn't bring more water.

I forget how much you drink after class.”

“That's okay. Thanks for sharing yours.”

“We should always bring tablets to purify

the river water.”

“Yeah.” I screw the cap back on.

We pass a deer crossing sign.

I suck in some air through my teeth.

“What?” asks Grandpa.

“Oh, the deer sign makes me nervous

that one is going to jump out in front of us.”

“I'm watching. You help.”

The car bumps along,

its headlights bouncing and jarring.

“There!” I yelp.

Grandpa slows the car.

A doe is running up the hill

away from the road.

She leaps gracefully

over the rocky ridge

and disappears in the dark.

“Beautiful,” we say together.

Thousands of tiny ladybugs

pour out of my heart

and rush over my body.

I'm covered head to toe,

and they begin to glow.

I dance in front of the black sky

perfectly.

Faster and higher.

Spinning and jumping

until

my foot cramps.

The ladybugs turn black

and fall off,

clattering to the floor.

The sky shatters,

and shards crash to the earth.

I wake up.

Oh, man!

A charley horse!

The pain bites

and grinds the muscle in my arch

up into the bone.

The muscle

is twisting, trying to flip over.

I jump out of bed

and crash around the room.

Grandpa comes in.

“Put your weight on it,” he says,

and loops his arm

around my waist.

“I can't!”

“Do it,” he says.

“Ow, ow, ouch.”

He helps me walk off the cramp.

There.

“How can it hurt so bad,

but when you finally stand on it,

it eases away with tingles?”

“It just does,” he says.

“And why's it called a charley horse, Grandpa?”

“I've never heard.”

“Me either.”

I give him a hug

and notice

he feels so small.