Authors: Stasia Ward Kehoe

Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Stories in Verse, #Love & Romance, #Performing Arts, #Dance

Audition (17 page)

BOOK: Audition

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Rem turns up a narrow road,
Stops at a house as big as mine in Vermont.
Dark wood and stucco decorate the front.
A dusty chandelier lights the grand entry hall
Bedecked with a tattered Persian rug.
Bamboo shades slant over the windows.

Rem saunters through a crowd of faces
To a kitchen with dingy tile floors,
A glass-and-iron table with mismatched chairs,
A dark gold refrigerator.

He takes out a beer,
Lights a cigarette,
Deftly twists the flame toward his palm,
Offers it to me, saying,
“You shouldn’t smoke.”

I take the thing.
Hold it in my hand a while.
Hope that I look sophisticated.
Remember the myriad cancer threats
Spoken like mantras by Mom to Dad,
A constant refrain of my childhood.
Draw the smoking tumor to my lips.
Hold it there long enough to look courageous.
Satisfy myself by striking a studied pose,
Left arm across waist
Right elbow balanced on left knuckles
Right palm up, cigarette pointed coolly,
Safely
Away.

The party is crowded.
Rem nods at people,
Taps his foot to the pulse of the room.
The music is loud.
Ballerinas look all wrong

Bouncing and thrusting
To beats driven by drums
Instead of the sweeping bows of violins.

I think of Variations class
Just hours ago,
Safe under the eyes of Yevgeny and Señor Medrano
Trying to meld my body
To Tchaikovsky’s lilting tune.
I could not hear the music quite right,
Felt like Señor wanted me to take the first step
A moment before each measure began.
Felt my solid, even strong, fouetté turns end
Always a moment too late.

Now I resist
Spinning a circle of fouettés
To try to see if I could do them
To this music,
So loud it pounds into my gut.
How could I fail to follow?

The snaking cigarette ash
Threatens
To fall onto the carpet.

I wander,
Open a door looking for the bathroom—
A place to flush away the cigarette,
Try to repair my ravaged tresses—
Only to find a bedroom,
Paul and Don
Kissing.

I am jealous of the dance they do.
Steps already learned.
Timing right.
No test to pass.
Audition over.

With Remington
I am back at the studio in Boston—
Sun glinting sharp
Against giant mirrors,
Turning my reflection
To a harsh, uncertain glare—
Wondering how I came to this place.
If Remington has given Jane’s part
To me.

Rem’s giant palm

Cupping the back of my neck
Erases my fleeting urge
To remind him of my plans.

“Still wanna see a movie?”
He surprises me.

I nod, grateful.
Pull my phone from my pocket.
Bonnie has texted
A time and title.

“We’ll have to hurry.”

“Why?”
Rem swirls his denim jacket
Around his shoulders,
Pushes his arms through both sleeves
In one gesture.

“The movie starts in ten minutes.”
I hold up the phone.

“Not at the mall.” He laughs.

“Let’s stay here, okay?
So we can talk.”
His fingers walk
Down the knobs of my spine.

I follow him.
To a giant porch sprawled across the back of the house.
Along one side, a yellow sheet hangs—
A makeshift movie screen.

People loll on wicker chaises
Wrapped in blankets.
The laughter gets loud.

Rem draws me down
To an oversized wooden chair
A little bit behind the group,
Which does not stop someone
From passing back a joint
Nor Rem from inhaling deep,
Right arm across my shoulders,
Hand dangling over my breast.

He offers it to me
But I shake my head,

Watching
For the inevitable policeman
To catch us all,
To change me from good girl to bad.
I have no idea what is playing on the screen.

“R U coming?”

Bonnie texts.

“Can’t get there in time,”
I send back.

Put the phone on vibrate,
In my pocket,

Away.

Even without smoking,

My head grows cloudy
From the waves of sweet-smelling smoke all around.

Rem gives me a silly grin,
Rolls his head back.
His straight brown hair
Makes half a halo over his eyes.
Grabs my thighs with big, hot paws.

“You’re so beautiful,” he mumbles.

Now I hear the music

Scratching through dusty speakers
Beside the back door.
I was never very tuneful,
Don’t have Lisette’s lyrical ear.

I choke down dry mouthfuls
Of salty, yellow popcorn.
Rem’s words sink slowly
Into my addled brain.
Beautiful?

Wish for Paul and Don
With their tender domesticity
To take me home,
Because here there is chaos
Inside and outside my mind.

On the screen a vampire
In black and white,
A screaming girl
In stiff satin.
I dive into Rem’s hungry arms,
Let his sliding fingers
Bury all my fears.

When the credits roll
I am drunk with touch and kisses.

“Take me home,”
I whisper.

Rem steers me quickly past clumps of people,
Cluttered furniture,
Out the door.

On the motorcycle behind him,
Arms wrapped around his muscled waist,
I am not certain to what home Rem thought
I had asked to be delivered.

Rem’s apartment is three flights up,

The paint in the hallway
Chipped and grim.

He bounds up the stairs,
Holding my hand.

My other hand fingers
The cell phone in my pocket.
Should I call Señor Medrano?
And what would I say
If he answered the phone?

“What is it, Sara?”

He is all quiet concern
As I hesitate in his doorway.

I look round at the art museum posters
Thumbtacked to the walls,
The couch draped with a tie-dyed blanket,
Two wooden armchairs with orange seats.
All so much more inviting
Than slippery poppies
And damp-smelling rug.

“Why were you so cold to me
Before class today?”
Maybe the lingering pot
Has made me brave.

He grimaces, then grins.
“Do you think Señor would approve?
I’m older than you
And you’re one of Yevgeny’s precious scholarship girls.”

I do not stay in the doorway long enough
To ask myself

Or Remington whether
Señor’s or Yevgeny’s disapproval
Is worth a second’s thought.

All I hear is precious.