On Pointe (7 page)

My head is above his.

“Now get back in bed,” he tells me,

“and I'll bring you some water.

You must be dehydrated.

I'm so sorry I didn't bring more water

for the hike.”

“It's okay.”

I crawl under the sheet

and rub my foot.

My toes aren't pulled apart

like a wishbone anymore.

Grandpa brings the water.

I gulp it down.

He slides both windows closed.

“Don't want you getting chilled.

Good night, love,” he says.

“Good night, Grandpa.”

Prunes again this morning.

I stare at the

bloated blobs

floating

in Grandpa's bowl.

He slurps them down.

I gobble up my low-fat breakfast bar.

My foot is a little sore

from the charley horse last night.

I massage it while I sit at the table.

“Thursday Bible study for me this morning,”

Grandpa says.

“Oh.”

“We have such a good group,

and the study is very intriguing about—”

I zone out until I hear,

“You know you are welcome to come

and worship with me on Sundays.”

“Yeah. But it's just not for me, Grandpa.”

He straightens the place mat.

I'll tell him how I feel.

That's not talking back.

“Since Mom and Dad have never gone to church,

it would be really weird for me.

Remember we talked about it before?”

“Oh, yes. But I thought you might have

changed your mind.”

I shake my head.

“Well, I guess I'll be going then,” he says.

“Would you load the dishwasher?”

“Sure.” I smile to make it up to him.

He pats me on the back.

“Have a good class.”

“You too,” I say.

I push the dishwasher closed.

I don't have to go to church,

and he's not going to make me

feel guilty or anything.

I wipe the counter with the sponge

and squeeze the water into the sink.

Not one bit of guilt in me, Grandpa.

Liar.

I avoid Rosella while she changes

and go early to the empty barre room.

I rest my ankle on the top rung

and slide it

until I'm in a split.

I close my eyes,

and the stretch warms the back of my thigh.

“Hi, Clare.”

It's Elton.

“Hi.” I pull back up.

He stretches on the other side of the barre.

His leg slides clear to the end.

“You ready for auditions?” he asks.

I shrug. “I'm a little nervous.”

“You'll do great.” He slides back up.

I bend at the waist and hug my head

to my knees to hide my blushing.

“Thanks,” I finally answer,

and straighten.

“I was in City Ballet last year

with Margot,” he says.

“I know.”

“So, believe me.

You'll make it.”

I smile back at him.

We reach for the barre

and brush hands,

his dark,

mine pale.

I quickly straighten my skirt.

Plié, down and up.

The guys in class

seem nice enough.

Especially to each other.

This must be one place they can make friends.

Kids at their schools must be brutal

when they find out

the guys take ballet lessons.

I'm sure a lot are hassled about being gay.

Plié, down and up.

Tommy's the only irritating guy here.

He's actually eyeing Devin again.

Plié, down and up.

Nathan seems really sweet.

He's driven and focused to get better.

But Elton is by far the best.

In ballet and friendliness.

Overall, the guys are like the girls,

in that we are all here to do the same thing.

To learn to dance.

Maybe because the competition isn't so intense

for them,

they can be more relaxed.

Could I make friends with one of them

sometime?

Plié, down and up.

“And turn,” says Madame.

The rhythm of the music.

The rhythm of the traffic outside.

The rhythm of our feet

brushing the floor.

It feels good

to be in rhythm.

I wait behind Rosella

at the water fountain.

Her backbone pokes out each notch

like a row of tiny fists.

She wipes her lips and steps away.

“Hi,” I say.

She barely nods,

then joins her group on the floor.

I bend over the fountain

and drink deeply.

The cold contracts my chest

into a knot.

I sputter out the mouthful

and step away.

It's my group's turn.

I take the spot Rosella stood in

a second ago.

There's still a twist

in my chest.

I shoulder my bag

and cross the street

to the coffee shop.

I wait in the noisy line

and order a cup of tea.

The other customers' chatter

and the latte machine's hissing

cover me up

while I sit at the little table.

So Rosella ignored me the whole time,

but it feels so good

that Elton believes I'll make it

into the company.

I squeeze

the honey bear

tight around the waist

and swirl the gold stream

into my cup.

That's a sweet thought.

“Hi,” she says.

I don't breathe.

Dia sits down

across from me.

My wood stirrer

slips from my fingers

and sticks to the table.

“Hi,” pops out of me.

She looks so different

in street clothes

with her hair

down loose.

“I was walking

by the conservatory

and saw you come in here.”

“Oh,” I say.

“So, how was class?”

“Normal.”

We sit.

“Not like yesterday,

when Madame actually smiled,” I add.

“No way!” says Dia.

Now we both smile.

It feels great.

“So, how are you?” I finally ask.

“I don't know. Okay?”

She bites her thumbnail.

“You know what she said to me?”

“What?” I lean forward.

Dia looks at the ceiling.

“She said

I don't have a dancer's body.

That I should

redirect my efforts.

That I would be welcome

in the adult class.”

I gasp. “How humiliating!”

“Tell me about it.

Most of them are so lame,

they can hardly move across the floor.”

“So, what are you going to do?”

Dia shrugs. “I guess I kind of knew

this was going to happen.

I started imagining it awhile ago.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmm hmm. I had time to get used to the idea.”

She tucks her bra strap back under her shirt.

“Mostly I'm going to hang out,

take it easy the rest of the summer.

Then maybe I'll try out for lacrosse.”

“That'd be fun,” I make myself say.

“Yeah. 'Cause there's no way I'd ever

go to that adult class.

What a bunch of losers.”

“Right.” I smooth my napkin.

“But won't you miss ballet?”

Dia flips her hair behind her shoulder.

“Maybe. But I'm ready to try other stuff.

I don't have

a choice.”

She pulls her chair closer.

“You know one thing?” she asks.

“What?”

“I still felt beautiful

when I danced.

All the way up to the last class.

Maybe I didn't look that great,

but I felt like I did.

Way down

deep inside.

You know what I mean?”

“Maybe,” I whisper.

Maybe that's another name

for being turned inside out.

Beautiful.

“Would you believe this is a

double tall mocha latte

with whole milk and whipped cream?”

“You are kidding.” I laugh. “That's a sin!”

“It's delicious!” She takes a big sip.

“Well, I better go.

I'm meeting my mom at the used bookstore.”

“I grew up in a bookstore,” I say.

“What do you mean?”

“My parents own the In Print bookstore

in Tacoma.”

“Cool.” She stands and pushes her chair in.

I wrap my hands around my teacup.

“Dia?”

“Yeah?”

“What did your mom say

after you worked so hard,

and it cost all that money—oh, never mind.

It's none of my business. Sorry.”

“No, it's okay.” She flips her hair again.

“We had a super long cry,

then talked about stuff

I've supposedly learned.

That kind of thing.

She really understood.”

“Oh.”

“It helped a little.

I mean,

everything

doesn't feel completely wasted.”

She stares out the window.

“Most of the time.

Well, I gotta go, Clare.

Good luck on Saturday.”

“Thanks.”

She pushes out the door.

I swallow the rest of my cool tea

and follow her.

I bet her mom

never used to say

dancing

was their dream.

“Bye,” I call

to Dia and her mom

on the opposite street corner.

They wave back.

I turn away

and hurry to Grandpa's.

He shouldn't be home yet

from his Bible study.

But just in case,

I don't want to worry him,

since I didn't call

and leave a message about staying later.

Oh. Dia's phone number.

I should get it

and call her sometime.

I sprint back to the corner,

but they're gone.

I shiver in the warm sun.

Oh, well.

Maybe it would have been weird

to ask for her number.

But it does seem like

if we aren't in class

we can talk.

Outside the conservatory

we are on the same side.

We could be friends

or something.

I beat Grandpa home.

My stomach is too jumpy for a snack,

so I yank my covers up on the bed

and stretch out

with some magazines.

I flip through the pages of ballet pictures.

Everyone looks the same.

The corps dancers

are a unit.

They are like one dancer,

each holding the exact same pose.

Same hair,

costumes,

height.

Same, same, same.

I flip the page.

A close-up of a soloist.

I cover her nose and mouth with my thumb

and look at her eyes.

There's too much makeup

to see how she really feels.

Beautiful?

Happy?

Does she love to dance?

She must.

The pain

has to be worth it.

I toss the magazine

and pick up the teen one

I checked out at Grandpa's little library.

“Cleavage: How to Get It”

“Dramatic Eye Shadow”

“Does He Think You're Seventeen?”

I flip through to the end.

Total obsession with breast size.

Page after page of fashion.

How weird that most girls

want to look older

every way possible.

Wow. How different can you get?

They want big breasts.

They want cleavage

and want to show it.

Why does it matter so much?

Because that's what guys notice?

Please.

What a load of garbage.

I have the opposite pressure.

I need to stay flat.

Nothing can interrupt your line in ballet.

Like a C-cup size.

Poor Dia.

She definitely looked different

from everyone else.

But is that so bad?

Why do we all have to look

like we're eleven?

Most of the time,

we look like little boys

partnered with men.

Why does it have to be like that?

Is the line so important?

Why can't we be the way we are,

not how a magazine or dance company says?

Am I believing a load of garbage too?

My poster is curling up again.

I reach and press

the corner of Baryshnikov to the wall.

It sticks for a few seconds,

then pops up again.

“Stay.” I push harder.

This time it does.

But for how long?

The sticky stuff isn't worth much.

Maybe some tape

right across the edge would work.

I'll get some later.

“Hello?”

“In the kitchen, Grandpa.”

I take the bags of groceries from him.

“I was getting worried about you.”

“I'm sorry. I needed to do some shopping.”

He rummages through the medicine cupboard

and pulls down his pills.

I pack the freezer with our dinners.

He swallows his medicine

with some water.

“And I stopped at the clinic.”

I shut the freezer. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes.” He sets his empty glass in the sink.

“They wanted to check my blood pressure.”

“Oh.”

“And how is
your
blood pressure, love,

considering auditions are a day away?”

“All right. I haven't been very hungry though.”

“Nerves.”