On Pointe

On Pointe

Dedicated to my grandfather,

Reuel Grant Garber,

who always said I felt the music;

and my husband,

David Warren Grover,

who saw the trees dancing.

Special thanks to

my mother, Karine Leary,

for driving me to ballet for ten years and waiting through all those classes;

my brothers, Dale and Kevin Leary,

who had to come along and wait as well;

and my editor, Emma Dryden,

who dances with me now from one end of the manuscript to the other.

Willow

I dance because Mother says I'm her prima ballerina. City Ballet Company? Please. I'm going to New York. Soon I'll be the youngest professional dancer in American Ballet Theatre. Mother says so.

Rosella

I dance because money won't buy my spot in City Ballet. I want this so bad I'll do anything. I get whatever I want.

Dia

I dance to feel beautiful. But all of a sudden I've grown. Not taller or fatter. But now I need a big bra and my hips are huge. I have to cover up and hide everything. Otherwise they won't let me dance anymore. I know it.

Margot

I dance because I always have. What else would I ever do?

Elton

Most guys don't dance, but I like to. None of my friends get it. Who cares? Ballet makes me strong. Besides, I like hanging out with so many girls.

Clare

I work half an hour at the barre and an hour on the floor, six days a week. I stretch every sinew and sweat from every pore, proving I'm in control. This is our dream: me, my mom, dad, and grandpa's. We dream that I'll be a dancer in City Ballet.

I let go of the barre,

press my salty lips

to my towel,

and breathe in my sweat.

Willow pitty pats her face dry.

Elton wipes up

where he dripped.

“Here, Clare.”

Rosella hands me my toe shoes.

“Thanks.”

“And now move to the floor room,”

says Madame.

Little girls

pour out of the dressing room,

racing for the barres

we've stepped away from.

We hurry with our class

down the hall

to the floor room

and watch the adult class end.

“How sad,” whispers Rosella.

The men and women are like

twenty years old.

A few could be thirty or forty.

Who knows?

They don't use pointe shoes.

Their bodies sag.

Bits of fat

bounce on their bones.

Their tights and leotards

blare color.

Half of them can barely stumble

through combinations.

Their instructor with the little goatee

must be sick to his stomach

after trying to teach them.

Why are they even here?

Why do they smile?

I shrink back

as they brush by

to leave.

The guys get extra time to stretch

while we girls

drop down against the back wall.

Without our flat shoes on,

we are

a row of feet,

bulging in tights

spotted red and brown with blood.

The holes we cut

let us peel the fabric

back from our toes.

The tights tug up

loose skin and coagulated blood.

“Huhhhhh!”

We grind our teeth and blink back

the stinging pain.

Blisters pop.

Clear liquid runs.

Fresh blood oozes.

Gauze,

tape,

moleskin,

and spongy pink toe caps

hold the skin

and blood in place.

“Hppp!”

We hold our breath

and stretch

the tights

back over our toes.

Our feet slip

into satin shoes

with stiff shanks,

hard boxing,

tight elastic,

and slippery ribbons

that wrap and end

in hard knots.

The frayed edges

are crammed

out of sight.

We stand.

A row of bound feet

rises

to its toes.

“I'm looking

for a four/four piece,”

Madame says to the pianist,

the old guy

that's here everyday,

that no one ever talks to

or really looks at.

“No, not that one,” says Madame.

She shuffles through his music.

Rosella and I

lean against the window.

A breeze tickles a couple stray hairs

against my cheek.

I press them back into place

and look outside.

The Cascade foothills

snug up close against my grandpa's town

sitting low in the valley.

Mount Rainier is peeking out

of the top of the clouds

hovering above us.

It looks huge.

“I'm definitely fat today, Clare,” says Rosella.

“You are not,” I whisper,

and look away from the window.

She turns sideways

and stares at herself in the mirrors

that cover the wall.

They show the truth

every second we are in this room.

But even so,

some girls can't see themselves

for real.

“Yes, I am,” she says. “Fat.”

I shake my head.

Even her neck

looks skinnier today.

“Okay, class.”

Madame claps,

and we walk out to the floor.

None of us is fat.

Or

we wouldn't be here.

There are only

sixteen positions

in City Ballet.

Sixteen positions

make the company.

How many in my class?

How many in the conservatory?

How many in western Washington

dream

like me

to be

one

in sixteen?

We stand

perfectly still.

Madame chants the combination.

“Demi-plié, pas de chat, changement, relevé.”

I try to mark the steps

by barely moving my hands.

We catch the words

being fired out

of her red-lined lips.

My mind is frantic

to gather each sound.

“Begin,” she says.

The pianist plays an intro.

I dip down and leap, switch feet and rise

on pointe.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

And then flow into the steps

we memorized last class.

The choreography is graceful, then strong.

It's like I'm melting,

then getting zapped with electricity,

then flowing across the floor.

To the final plié.

I got it.

Every single step.

I hold my arabesque.

Madame weaves through the class

making adjustments to form.

I'm at least four whole inches

taller than all the girls,

and a couple inches taller than all the boys,

except Elton.

He's still taller than me, at least.

Why didn't I inherit Mom's shortness

instead of Dad's tallness?

And why the spastic growth spurt

this summer?

My ankle wobbles,

and sweat outlines my eye.

Madame raises my foot.

Her eyes measure every edge of me.

Please, don't notice the four inches.

She moves on.

Her cane taps along the floor.

“Good, Margot.”

I peek at her in the mirror.

Margot's only five-foot-two.

I lose my balance

and drop the arabesque.

We're

sliced and divided

into little groups.

If we're performing,

it's as a group

of individuals,

each dying to be noticed for something good.

I land my triple pirouette.

Madame doesn't see it.

If we're waiting our turn,

we're watching

to see if anyone

fails in any little way.

Willow misses a tendue.

Madame doesn't see it.

We're sliced and divided.

Dust.

Steamy sweat,

like a pot

of chicken soup.

Oak floors.

Pine rosin.

Sour breath

from deep inside.

We breathe it all

in rhythm.

Here is the moment

when the music flows into my bones,

and I don't have to

think of the steps,

and I don't have to count the movements,

and it really feels

like I might actually be

dancing

for a few seconds.

I'm a pale dust mote

swirling on a warm

sunbeam.

I leap and float,

land deep and rise

to step and spin in the shaft of light,

showing everyone

who I really am.

It's like

I'm turned

inside out.

With a great sweeping bow,

we thank Madame,

silently,

but for the brush of shoes on wood,

and then we bow

to ourselves in the mirrors.

Even if we failed most everything today,

at least these bows

let us pretend

we're real dancers.

Madame once was.

A dancer.

We all know she was great.

Her black-and-white photos line the back wall.

She was a soloist,

then a principal dancer

in a European company.

She lived it,

every person's dream in this room.

So even though

she's the typical ballet instructor—

tough,

harsh,

and scary—

we respect her

for what she was

and

what she can do for us

now.

I snatch my flat shoes

from the row against the wall.

It's easy to find

the biggest pair.

“Can you come over today, Rosella?”

She works at landing

a triple pirouette

and nails it.

“Rosella?”

“Oh, sorry.

No, not today.

My mom says this Saturday is hers.

She wants to go shopping with me.”

“Okay.”

Leaving the floor room,

I look back.

Dia is comparing herself

to Rosella

in the mirror.

Dia grew big breasts and hips

this spring.

She's tried to

shrink back to normal,

wearing sweaters

and rubber pants.

But nothing has worked.

Her body's out of control.

Everyone can see it.

Madame will speak

to her soon.

“It's pointless to think

you can achieve,” she'll say.

Rumor is,

that's her standard line

before you get kicked out.

I clutch my shoes

and rush down the hall.

I can't keep growing

taller.

I've got to stop.

I can't lose control

and be pointless

like poor Dia.

Everyone bustles

around the dressing room.

Chiffon skirts,

shoes,

and ribbons

flutter

as we metamorphosize

back into girls

and cover up

our leotards and tights

with jeans and T-shirts.

“Rosella!”

I bang on the stall.

The toilet flushes.

She comes out

wiping her lips

on toilet paper.

“You don't

have to puke—” I say.

“Yes. I do.”

I cross my arms and block her way.

“You don't, Rosella.”

“Knock it off.” She shoves by,

and I follow.

“You saw how fat I was in there, Clare.

It broke my whole entire line.”

“Give me a break.”

“No, give
me
one.