Authors: Stasia Ward Kehoe

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

Audition (26 page)

BOOK: Audition

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“No!” I almost shout against
His don’t-interrupt-me-with-childishness eyes.
Desperate to have him see my worth as mind, not matter,
Muse, not obstacle.
“When you first learn to dance.
When you are little,
Four years old.”
I stumble for meaning.
Words cluster in my head:
Beginnings, births,
Sunrises, starts.
“First position.”
I stand up. Toes pointed outward.

“I started ballet later. I was nine.
Before that, I did theatre,” Rem says.

The length of his sentence takes my breath away.
Our relationship built more on movement
Than conversation. I do not know the story
Of how he learned ballet.
Nor does he know mine,

Though I can hardly separate ballet
From all my beginnings—
First memories, first performances.
“Sometimes I feel I’ve just begun to dance,
Since coming here.
I still don’t know why they dared try me.
I’m really too old
To begin,” I confess.

Rem grins,
Exasperation fading from his eyes.
Takes ten steps across the floor,
Uncrosses my arms,
Spreads apart the plackets of his
Worn shirt.
Studies the front of me.

“No, not too old.”
Lifts me up,
Guides me back to his bed,

Beginnings forgotten.

Back at the Medranos

I put the college brochures under my bed
After I brush my teeth.
Pull the hairnet off my bun with care,
Tuck the bobby pins into their white box.

I vow to be more like Lisette,
To warm up longer in the studio
Before the teacher comes in,
Work through my arches,
Perfect my ports de bras
Instead of just dropping into easy splits.

Take more time afterwards,
Repeat any step
At which I failed during class.

Look for approving glances
From Yevgeny or Señor,

Whose touches are not electric,
Who want me only to be
A ballerina.

I wake up facedown

In my math notebook,
Damp from drool
That smudges the penciled equations
Solving for the area under the curve.
Most of my notations are incomplete;
Curves are mystifying from any angle.

Slide out of bed
Curtsy to my mirror
Raise my left leg back in arabesque
Promenade slowly
Holding my leg
Up.

Lisette, Lisette, Lisette,
Who dances my dance
Better than I ever could.

Grab my backpack and
The sealed, white envelope from Upton Academy
For the academic conference today.

My report card is half good:

The English grade is excellent
History okay
Math kind of tragic.

Dad’s tone of sorrowful disappointment,
The angry threat of tutors from Mom,
Echo through the unpleasant telephone call
With my confused Upton adviser,
Who points out that my PSAT scores show clearly
That I can do better.

At the ballet school,
Despite my new push toward perfection,
My ears hear much the same,
Though I try to make my brain ignore it
Like I ignore Jane’s flaming glances.

Rem calls me on the cell.
“Be at the studio later.”

“Okay.”

I do not ask him
Where he is

Nor why
He gave my steps
To Lisette.

He offers no words of comfort,
Just some standard missing-you stuff
I allow myself to believe little more
Than my adviser’s unsurprising counsel,
Than Yevgeny’s incisive critique
That my technique is improving
But my performance seems halfhearted.

It seems I am living
Believing
Doing
Most everything
In halves.

In English, we are on to
Heartbreak House
,

A play title that resonates through the hollow
Of my bones,
Though I put it aside to reread
The Thorn Birds
.
Despite my anger, fantasize
About Rem’s massive body
Enveloping mine
In a shroud of delirious protection.

Professor O’Malley assigns
An essay on the notion of reality
In Shaw’s great play.
He looks at me
Quite directly
As he gives the due date.

What is reality

Anymore?

I whisper my own name
As I get dressed for school.

I speak so little all the time.
My words mostly touch paper
Or spill out through my arms and legs and fingertips.
My voice feels raspy,
An unflexed muscle.

Señor Medrano makes my name exotic.
Professor O’Malley turns it beautiful.
Perhaps I should invent a step, a sign,
Since when I say it, it sounds like an echo.

A half memory
Of a summer’s day.
When I was a number
That caught Yevgeny’s eye.

Am I a number still?
Attached to a body,
Finite technique.

I barely speak to Remington,
Yet in his bedroom we make dances
He can give away.

Does it matter that people and things
Have words,
Have names?

If not,
Why read any book?
A litany of useless letters
Detached from bone, muscle.

Or are words the only things
That make the muscle, bone, memory, movement,
Person
Real?

“Sara!”

Señora Medrano’s husky alto calls my name
As if she knew
I needed to hear it
To be.

“Dinner! It ees getting cold.”

Señora Medrano is such a terrible cook
I almost crave the meat-laced peanut butter sandwiches
I have thrown away most weekdays since last August.

At the table, Julio,
Returned from his music retreat,
Scowls at the dry steak,
Pokes the burned tortilla with his fork.
Sneaks me a grin.
Watches as I try to be invisible,
A quality with value at this dinner table.

Señora asks Julio about his guitar practice.

“I’ve been playing nonstop for a week.
Thought I’d take the evening off.”
That raises Señora’s eyebrows.

A weak giggle escapes my throat.
Julio adds his musical, deep chuckle.
Suddenly Señor is laughing, too.

“That steak is very bad,” Señora admits.

“Uh-huh!”
Julio pushes his plate away.

“Dancers should never cook.”
Her eyes flash at Señor.
“Teachers can cook.”

Four laughs vibrate in harmony,
Warm
Delicious
Real.