On Pointe (9 page)

Madame concludes.

Breathe in through my nose

and out through my mouth.

Again.

The old man pianist plays an intro.

His music immediately snaps me into place.

I'm braced on all sides of my body

by the rhythm.

I can do this

totally alone,

as long as I have the piano music.

So far so good.

I wipe down

and watch Margot's group

move through the complicated

combination.

She's definitely the best.

Her line is perfect

from her fingertips to her toes.

The judges have to see that.

Even the girl who cracked her knee

is moving well.

I saw her wrap it before she took the floor.

Where'd she get the bandage at the last minute?

Doesn't look like her knee's bothering her a bit.

Sweat drips into my eyes.

I rub the acidy burn away.

The judges' pencils

scratch along with

our quiet panting,

gritty shoe leather

brushing the wood floor,

and someone cracking their back.

I hand Rosella her towel.

“Thanks,” she mouths.

I smile.

“Group One,”

calls a judge with fake eyelashes

that curl up to her brows.

Yuck.

I hurry out

to the floor

for my turn.

What will they each scratch

about me?

The fifteen guys are grouped together.

It's weird to see

so many in one place.

Tommy is doing well

despite all the new girls around.

Nathan nailed his tour en l'air,

spinning high in the air

and landing in the same spot

he started from.

But Elton moves to the music

like no one else.

Those judges have to see his power

and grace.

He loves what he's doing.

Absolutely.

We line up for grands jetés

across the room.

I twist to stretch my sides

and catch Elton giving me a thumbs-up.

I smile, turn back,

take a huge breath,

run, and take off

in the highest, clearest leap

I've ever done.

I'm flying across the room

like the deer I saw with Grandpa!

The judges have to notice.

I've left everyone else behind.

I'm turned inside out.

This is me!

Beautiful!

The girls in the second group

are like small twigs

twirling in the wind.

I feel a bit faint.

Must be the tension

and not enough water.

I get a sip at the fountain,

then slide down in a corner

and close my eyes.

Satin pointe shoes squeaking

on wood,

rapping,

clunking,

thudding

over the creaking floorboards.

I open my eyes and feel

the girls land hard,

even when it looks like

they haven't landed at all.

Rap, rap, thud.

I've heard through

the illusion.

We all take the floor

and bow to the judges,

and then to ourselves

in the mirror.

I danced in here.

I rocked this place.

No one is going to tell me different.

We rise.

“High-five, Rosella.”

She smacks my palm. “Yes!”

It's over.

All the work

I've done for ten years

made me ready

for this audition.

And now it's over.

My dream is beginning.

We untie and unwind

our pointe shoes

the same way.

We fold in the heel

and wind the ribbons

around the shank.

Doing the same thing alike,

we are one dancer

scattered into pieces,

waiting to be put together

as the corps

of City Ballet Company.

That one girl

unwraps her knee

and there's a huge goose egg

sticking up.

She hops to the wall to balance.

Man. That's tough.

“Please wait in the barre room.”

Madame rolls her cane between her palms.

“The judges will post the City members

in half an hour.”

We flow out the door

and through the hall

like a real ballet corp.

Cameras flash

in the barre room,

and we pull apart.

Newspaper reporters

want interviews.

I move away to the window

as they speak to Rosella.

She doesn't seem to mind.

“R-O-S-E-L-L-A,” she spells.

Each journalist has found someone

to interview.

I'm safe for now.

Introverted and left alone.

Just the way I like it.

But a little lonely.

Elton's talking to Tommy

and Margot.

How do they think they did?

I could go ask.

I start to make my way toward them,

but the reporters push me aside

and gather in a tight circle.

What's going on?

I get a look through their legs

at a girl on the floor

huddled in a ball,

crying.

“I'll never make it!” she bawls.

“I'm not good enough.”

How humiliating!

“Clare.”

I look up.

Madame is calling me

from the doorway.

“Would you join me in my office?”

I clasp my hands

to still the shaking.

“Sit down, Clare,” says Madame.

I sit on the very edge of the chair.

My pelvis

nails the wood.

Madame slides into her seat

behind her big oak desk.

She opens a file.

My name is on the edge.

“Clare,” she says.

My skin creeps.

“Clare, you are a fine dancer.”

Yes!

“You are qualified

to be a member

of City Ballet Company.”

I'm busting open,

my smile is so huge.

Tingles race

over my goosebumped skin.

“But . . . ”

What?

“But . . . ” She flicks through my paperwork.

The air whooshes out of me.

I'm like a paper doll

about to drift

off the chair.

“Your body is not well designed

for the ballet.”

“But—”

“You are too tall,

and I speculate you haven't finished growing.

Clare, I hate for you

to devote yourself

at this level

to an art

you will never be suited for professionally.”

The sweat on my back

freezes.

“But, Madame, I danced as well as anyone

at the audition.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I did really well.”

“Yes.”

“My développé was above hip level.

My, my—” My throat closes.

At least it stops my pathetic begging.

“Clare, I am sorry.

You
are
a dancer.

Which is why

I wanted to give you a chance at this audition

in case a taller group of girls turned out.

But it's not the case.

We have to face that you're not shaped

for classical ballet.

Before long

you'll be too tall

even for Pacific Northwest Ballet.

And in New York,

you would need to be a superstar

to succeed.

I don't see that potential in your work.”

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

“I have to remove you

from your class, Clare.

The group is going to consist

only of City members now.

They will be dancing far more

with their additional commitment,

and you will be left behind.

Several other girls will be shifted

to alternate classes.

You in particular,

because of your height,

are welcome to join the adults.”

“The adults?” I squeak.

“The adult class.

There you could continue to dance

for your own enjoyment.”

“I need to go now, Madame,” I whisper,

and stand.

“I am truly sorry, Clare.”

She closes my file.

Everything inside me

wants out.

I retch into the toilet

again

and again

until nothing else comes up,

but my guts keep trying

to crawl out

of my throat.

I heave sharp air,

then wipe the last dribble of vomit

off my lips

with a wad of toilet paper

and flush.

Everything swirls away.

I passed people

when I ran from the office

to the bathroom.

The reporters were still in the barre room

with a bunch of girls.

The dressing room

was full too.

But I don't remember any faces.

I'm not coming out of this stall

till everyone is gone.

Someone actually knocks.

“Are you okay?” she asks,

but gives up when I don't answer.

“We made it! We made it! We made it!”

two girls yell.

“I completely blew it,” says another.

“My father's going to kill me.”

I sit on the cold toilet cover

and wait till all the excitement, disappointment,

rustlings, and zippers disappear.

Rosella never found me.

Did she look?

I lean against the wall

and taste my thick, sour tongue.

I can't stop shivering.

The stall door creaks

when I come out.

Everyone's gone

from the dressing room.

Shaking,

I pull on my jeans,

clogs,

gather my stuff,

and cram it into my bag.

I run out.

The barre room's empty.

At least I don't have to look

at anyone.

Rosella.

Or Elton.

I race out onto the wet street.

It's like the conservatory

vomits me

out of its belly.

It's still sprinkling.

I step off the curb.

A car screeches, honks,

and swerves around me.

I rush across the street.

I feel so dizzy

stumbling past the shops.

I breathe faster and faster.

Sidewalk squares shift.

I splash through puddles.

Lights pierce my eyes.

There's Grandpa's hedge,

the porch swing,

Grandpa asking me something.

I'm falling.

Darkness.

Finally.

Lying in the backseat.

I don't have my seatbelt on.

“It's okay, love,” says Grandpa. “It's okay.”

Grandpa helps me out of the car.

Wheelchair

squeaking.

Thermometer

beeping.

Blood pressure cuff

tightening.

Stretcher

zooming.

Rubber strip

squeezing.

Needle

jabbing.

IV

taped down

to the pale hairs

on my arm.

Dehydrated.

That's all.

Dehydrated.

I twirl the armband on my wrist

and stare at the needle

submerged in my skin

dripping clear liquid into me.

How embarrassing.

I can't even keep enough water down

so I don't faint,

let alone dance.

The ER corner's empty

except for a picture of Goofy in Disneyland

and the Space Needle taped to the wall.

Neither one is enough to distract me

from the IV

and the mysterious machines.

This must be the kids' cubicle.

The two curtains shift as someone walks by.

I shudder

and pull the warm blanket

to my chin.

The cold IV

is chilling me

inside out.

Grandpa comes in.

He tugs the drapes closed behind him.

“You gave me a scare, love.”

I bite my lip.

He smoothes my stray hairs

back toward my squashed bun.

“It'll be all right.”

I shake my head no.

Tears pop out.

“I'm sorry,” I whisper.

“No harm done.”

“I'm sorry.

“Clare, we only need to make sure

you drink more.”

“I mean about not making the company.”

“Sh. Stop. I know all about it.

Madame called me

right after the audition.”

“Everyone knows

I'm not a dancer—”

“Yes you are, Clare.”

My lips start blubbering.

Grandpa still

doesn't get it.

“I called your mom and dad.”

“Oh, no,” I groan.

“Clare, they needed to know.”

I kick at the blanket,

which hurts my feet,

but I don't care.

Grandpa straightens it out.

“They are on their way home.

They'll make it back tomorrow.”

Our dream's dead,

and it's all my fault.

I shut my eyes.

Drip, drip.

Grandpa holds my free hand.

“Owwwww!” yells a little boy.

“The stick went into his eye!”

squeals a woman.

The screams are right on the other side

of my curtain.

I watch a group of feet

shuffle beside gurney wheels

out of sight and earshot.

I loosen my grip on Grandpa.

His eyes are closed.

Is he praying for them?

Drip, drip.

“Here, suck on some ice,” Grandpa tells me.

Next there's a man who's hurt his back

and can't walk.

“Please, please give me more pain killer,”