On Pointe (8 page)

“Yeah.” I cram the grocery bags

into the recycle bin.

“Nerves.”

I dump our microwave dinner dishes.

“Want to go for a walk, Grandpa?”

“I'm not really up for it, Clare.”

“Okay. I guess I'll go to bed early then.”

“Good night.”

“Night.”

I take a quick shower,

crack my windows for some fresh air,

and climb into bed.

The fir trees shush outside.

My mind is stuffed with

Rosella saying those awful things,

Elton saying such a sweet thing,

Dia saying she's ready to move on,

and my mom saying it's our dream.

Why hasn't that bothered me before?

Why now?

Have Dad and Grandpa

ever really used those words?

Nope.

Dad's always saying I won't fail if I try hard,

and Grandpa says I'm already a dancer.

Even though that bothers me,

it's not like what Mom says:

our dream.

It makes the pressure twice as much.

Ugh.

I cover my head with my pillow

and try to suffocate my mind.

Grandpa's note says he's off to the library.

SEE YOU LATER,

I write across the bottom.

I clean up the kitchen

and toss a load of whites in the washer.

I shove up my covers

so the bed looks mostly made.

Where's my bag?

There, under the dresser.

I grab it and hurry out the front door.

“Hey, Mija.”

Her black fur warms my fingertips.

She stretches and purrs,

then curls back into a ball on the stair.

Mmm. I'd love to curl up in the sun.

My bag slips from my shoulder.

Class!

I hurry out of the garden

and race down the sidewalk.

Tension zings around

the dressing room.

Bobby pins are shoved into buns.

Elastic is snapped at the waist.

Bags are kicked under chairs.

If the tension

is this bad today,

what will it be like

tomorrow?

I tug my tights up.

Rosella tries to slip past,

thin as a garden snake.

“Rosella—”

“Hey, forget it.”

“But—”

“We're fine,

if you stay off my back

about my weight.

Come on.” She drags me

by the wrist to the barre room.

It wasn't about your weight, Rosella.

It was about puking

and how rude you were about Dia.

And I wasn't apologizing.

But if you want to think so,

I don't care.

I have enough to worry about.

“Can you believe auditions

are tomorrow?” she asks.

I shake my head.

Everyone is waiting for Madame.

Rosella and I

end up on opposite sides of the barre.

“Again.”

“Higher.”

“Faster.”

“Control.”

“Taller.”

“Stretch.”

“Lean.”

“Reach.”

“Bend.”

Translation:

Be

better

than

you

are

or

you

will

be

nothing.

We grasp the barre

while we balance

on one foot.

One leg is bent and lifted

to the front.

I love holding the attitude pose.

Everyone is solid.

“And release the barre,” says Madame.

We do

and stay balanced.

Rosella

and Tommy

drop out of form.

They mutter under their breath.

Then everyone else collapses.

Margot, Elton, and I

are left balancing.

Madame walks slowly around us

looking down her nose.

“Other side,” she snaps.

We come down and turn.

Margot glances at me.

I risk a smile.

She doesn't return it.

But Elton winks.

The adult class

laughs and chats

as they head

to the dressing room.

Everyone

wears something different.

They're like a circus troupe.

We pass them

silently

and go into the floor room.

I'm last in line.

“Good luck tomorrow,”

someone says.

I turn and see

the red-headed lady

looking right at me.

“Thanks,” I answer

by accident.

I spin away

fast.

We piqué turn across the floor.

Snapping our heads,

we spot

one speck

on the wall

we are moving toward.

The room blurs,

but the spot

is in focus.

Everyone moves

across the floor

toward their spot.

Waiting for my turn,

I look outside.

Mount Rainier is hidden today.

It's hard to believe it's really

still there.

Something so huge,

but you can't even see it.

Below, cars rush past.

Hurrying to other places.

I take a deep breath.

I'm right where

I'm supposed to be.

Being the best I can be.

I can definitely see it.

We escape the dressing room

as fast as possible.

Rosella didn't even puke today.

She and I

run into Elton going out the front door.

He holds it open for us.

“Thanks,” we say.

“Sure. See you tomorrow!”

“Okay.” I grin.

Rosella yanks me down the stairs.

“Come on,” she giggles. “Be cool, girl.”

I hurry away with her

even though Elton is still waving.

“See you, Clare.” Rosella climbs

into their car.

“Later,” I call, and then walk home

the straightest way possible.

The crosswalk light is green.

Grandpa's widening the pansy bed.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“It'll be beautiful!”

I fix tomato soup and grilled cheese

for dinner

and don't burn the bread.

“It's ready, Grandpa,” I call out the storm door.

“Go ahead without me, Clare.

I want to finish up out here.”

“Okay.”

I try to eat

but end up dumping nearly all of mine

since my stomach's crampy.

When Grandpa comes in,

he says his is delicious.

We play Scrabble till bedtime.

I win by two points.

I run the perfect temperature bath

and get out before it cools off.

I set my folded clean tights and leotard

on the dresser with my bag.

I check my toe shoes.

The boxing is a bit soft,

but the shank is still stiff.

Should be fine.

Everything is perfect

for tomorrow.

Willow

I think their little audition is today. I wouldn't know for sure; I lose track of time since my schedule is so packed with classes. City Ballet? Please. I'm mother's prima ballerina. She says New York is mine.

Rosella

I'm ready. I've done everything. New tights, new leotard, new shoes. I'm at my lowest weight. I will be one of the sixteen!

Dia

Today's the audition. I stuck my tongue out at the stupid kitchen calendar. So I'm childish. Who cares? What a relief I'm not under that audition pressure. Sheesh. Why did I ever want to dance anyway? Stop crying already!

Margot

Oh, right. The audition.

Elton

I am pumped for this audition. I lifted weights and drank a double protein drink this morning. Let me at those judges.

Clare

This is the dream I've sacrificed for. I've tried as hard as possible. Failure's not in my future. I'm going to go for that moment when
I feel turned inside out. I'll show everyone who I really am: the perfect choice for City Ballet Company.

My eyes are puffed

from not sleeping so well.

I tossed through the night,

visualizing every ballet step

I know.

Now I can't get my toast

to go down.

Or my orange juice, either.

My heart is fluttering double time.

I want to get this over with.

Please,

give me the chance

to dance.

Grandpa takes my face

in his hands.

His lilac aftershave is sweet.

“Remember,” he says.

“I know. Do my best.”

“No, Clare.”

“What then?”

“Remember you are a dancer.”

He kisses me on the forehead.

“We'll see,” I say,

and pull away.

I can't take a long story or lecture

this morning.

I can't.

The front door clicks closed

behind me.

I hurry through the steady drizzle.

The clouds are so heavy

the morning is more like dusk.

The sidewalk's slippery with damp moss

that seems to have grown overnight.

At the intersection

I wait under a huge spruce tree

for the light to change.

The car lights reflecting on the asphalt

make the road look like a stage.

A semi truck honks,

and I hurry across

to the conservatory.

The dressing room is packed

with girls from all over the area.

Total strangers.

I don't see anyone yet

that I recognize.

Knees and elbows clash

for space to change.

I stash my stuff

and hurry out

so I don't have to fight

for air to breathe.

I step up to the registration table.

“Name?” asks the small woman

over her clipboard.

“Clare Moller.”

Scratch, scratch.

“Slip this over your head

and tie the sides.

You're number one.”

“One?” I gulp.

She grins.

I take the crinkly bib

and turn around.

No one else

has a number yet.

They're all stretching

at the barre.

I'm the fool

who registered first.

Now I'll be the first.

The first in every lineup.

The first for every combination.

The first to fail.

I move through the crowd

with my shoulders back

and my head up.

I can at least convince everyone

I wanted to be number one.

Squeezing the barre,

I bend and stretch,

covering my face

as much as possible.

Against my knees

or under an arm.

Any position to hide my eyes

threatening to spill tears.

There's Margot.

And Elton.

And Rosella.

Way in the back

with high numbers.

My heart bangs my ribs

like the pianist warming up the keys.

The same lady as usual at least.

One more face I know.

Or at least have seen a lot.

The last girls and guys drift

like numbered notes

to the barres.

I stand at the head

of the first group

and peek again

over my shoulder.

They are all shorter than me.

Every single one

but Elton.

I tug my bib straight

and face forward.

The judges line

the front of the room.

They're crouched behind a table

cluttered with notepads,

pencils, and water bottles.

Who knows who these people are?

Maybe teachers from PNB?

Oh, there's the one guy with the goatee

who teaches the adult class.

He must like judging

better than teaching that group.

But he looks grumpy,

like all the rest of them. Great.

Madame's tapping cane

brings my focus back.

She leads us through

our barre work

like it's an ordinary day.

For once,

looking at her

helps me to relax.

I turn all my thoughts

inward

and move like I've been trained.

It helps to have

a thick iron barre

to hold on to.

Tendue, point, and close.

I feel every bone in my left foot

brush the floor.

Tendue, point, and close.

A blister is growing

on my big toe.

Tendue, point, and close.

The callus

on the ball of my right foot

is burning hot.

Tendue, point, and close.

Still,

every bone moves exactly right.

The herd of us

moves down the hall,

following the judges

to the floor room.

We are moving through this narrow space,

but no one is touching.

A girl carrying her toe shoes

trips on her ribbons

right in front of me.

She stumbles

and goes down on one knee.

Crack.

Everyone bends away from her.

She gets up on her own

and hobbles forward.

Is she hurt?

She favors the knee

but makes it into the floor room.

Anything can take a person down

right before

success.

With extra care,

I put on my pointe shoes

and tuck the ribbons deep.

Madame walks Group One

through the tricky combination.

I mark it with my hands like usual,

but the floor feels shifty.

I'm out in the open with this small group,

rather than being supported

with my classmates close by.