Stripped (2 page)

She waves her hand. “Yes, yes. From the top. Let me see it.”

I slide my gear bag to the edge of the room with my foot, and then take position in the center of the room. I’d do better with my song playing, but that’s not how Mrs. LeRoux works. She expects you to know the steps and the moves cold, with or without the music. She says the music should add soul and expression to the piece, but it shouldn’t be a crutch.

I pause for a few beats, sinking into the mental place where I can call up the rhythm and let it move through me. I bend at the knees, extending my arms to either side, then sweep my hands around in a circle, sliding one foot out and putting my balance on the other foot. My extended leg rises, my arms slicing forward to put me into a flat-footed arabesque. I hold it, rise up on to my toes, and then bend at the waist and point my toes skyward, letting momentum pull me into a head-toe-head-toe diagonal spin. At the end of three rotations, I plant my palms on the floor and let the energy of the spin carry me over into a handstand. My feet droop slowly, and I arch my back until I’m doing the bridge, feet planted, hands planted, spine arched, head between my arms. I lower myself to the floor and twist onto my stomach, crawling forward, trying to express desperation. This is a piece that is meant to speak of my desperate need for freedom, my sense of confinement. Parts of the piece are wild and energetic, arm-flung spins, floating across the floor. Other parts are contained, limbs close to the body, gliding across the floor in tripping steps. I near the end of the piece, coming to the place where my choreography is stuck.
 

I’m in the center of the room, upright, coming off a pirouette, arms clutched against my chest. My palms turn out and push as if against a wall, an invisible barrier in front of me. The barrier gives way suddenly and I topple forward, stumbling as if taken by surprise.
 

“This is where I’m stuck,” I say, huffing for breath in the middle of the dance floor. “Originally, I’d intended to fall forward, but it just doesn’t feel right.”

“Show me the original move, please.”
 

I do the pirouette again, the pushing against the wall, the deliberate stumble forward, and let myself fall forward. I stand up and wipe the sweat off my upper lip. “See? It just…it doesn’t work.”

Mrs. LeRoux shakes her head, scratching the back of her neck. “No, your instincts are correct. It’s not quite right.” She peers at me as if seeing me moving, though I’m still. I can tell she’s working through the choreography in her head.

“Ah, I have it. Instead of falling forward, stumble, sway, and spin in place, but off balance. Like this, yes?” She demonstrates what she wants me to do. “Through the rest of the piece, you’re battling the forces containing you, struggling to find your equilibrium and your freedom. So here, at the end, you must be victorious. It is the purpose of this piece, yes? It’s an expression of your sense of entrapment. I see this. So now, you must break through. The wall gives way. So, when you end the pirouette, which is beautifully done by the way, instead of just pushing against it, act as if you’re beating it down. Smash and flail against it. Let your anger bleed through. You’re holding back at the end, Grey. You’re ending weak. This must finish strongly. You must feel the power in yourself, yes? This could be a breakthrough. Not just in your dance, but in your head. In your soul. In yourself. Batter against the wall.
 

“I think I understand some of your struggles in your life. I fought them, too. My father was very demanding. He put me into ballet when I was only four years old. I danced every single day for my entire life. I had few friends and fewer social activities. There was only ballet. Only ballet. Then I met Luc. He swept me away. He was a dancer, too. He was so fluid, so strong. Every thing he did was beautiful. We met in a vineyard in
le Midi
. I don’t remember exactly where. Near Toulouse, perhaps.” She gazes into the middle distance, remembering. She shakes herself. “No matter. I understand. You must break free, in yourself. In this dance.”
 

She waves her hand in the gesture that means
again, again
.

I run through the piece from the top, and this time I think of each rule I have to follow, each party my school friends go to that I can’t, each time I’m told that a pair of jeans is too tight, a top too low-cut, that I’m wearing too much makeup. I think of the expectations of me to be a perfect little southern belle, the perfect little pastor’s daughter, the expectation that I’ll marry a godly man headed for the seminary, some boring young man with no aspirations beyond the pulpit and the flock.
 

I put all that into the dance. When I leap, I fling myself into it. When I spin in place, I let all my muscles pull me into the spin with all my energy. When I crawl across the floor, I claw at the polished wood planks as if pleading for my life. When I begin to batter at the walls surrounding me, I see my father’s face, hear his voice and his harsh criticism, and his strict, dictatorial ways demanding perfection, I pound and pound and pound at it. Finally, I feel the walls give way and stumble forward, spinning in place, flailing, intentionally off-balance, wobbling, spinning around the floor as if finding joy in the unscripted dance of free steps. I end standing with my head hanging, hands loose at my sides, chest heaving, breathless.

I look up to gauge Mrs. LeRoux’s reaction. She’s leaning against the wall, hand covering her mouth, eyes wet.
 

“Perfect, Grey. Just…perfect. I felt it all. Perfect.”

Her gaze flicks over my shoulder, and I turn in place to see my mother watching from the doorway to the foyer area. Her eyes reflect her emotions, and I know she’s seen it all. I know she saw what I felt in that dance.

The corners of her eyes are tight, her forehead wrinkled. I turn away from her, back to Mrs. LeRoux.

“You think it was good?” I ask.

She nods. “I think it was an example of your potential. You can be a magnificent dancer, Grey. You must keep putting all of your emotions into your dance. Don’t allow yourself to hold back.”

I bend to grab my bag, rummaging through it for a towel. I join my mother at the door, wiping at my face with the rough white cotton. We leave and neither of us speaks as Mom drives us through Macon and out to our house in the suburbs,. I turn to glance at her, confused by her uncharacteristic silence. Usually she’s chatty as a blue jay after dance class. She was a dancer, too, until she met Daddy and had me. She likes to talk about what I’m learning, the various techniques and such. Talking shop, reliving her days as a dancer. Now, however, she’s slumped toward the window and she’s driving with one hand. Her other hand is pressed to her forehead. Her eyes are narrowed, her features screwed up tight.

“Are you okay, Mom?” I ask.

She shoots me a faint attempt at a reassuring smile. “I’m fine, honey. I just have a headache.”

I shrug and let the silence hang.

“Your dance was beautiful, Grey.” Her voice is quiet, as if to speak too loud would cause further pain.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“What did it mean?”

I don’t answer right away; I’m not sure how to. I shrug. “Just…sometimes I feel…trapped.”

Mom is the one to hesitate this time. “I know, honey. He just wants the best for you.”

“
His
best. Not necessarily
my
best.”

“He’s your father.”

“That doesn’t mean what he thinks is right for me is always the only option.”

Mom rubs at her forehead again with her knuckle, then holds out her hand, shaking it as if it’s asleep. “I don’t want to get into this right now, Grey. He’s your father. He loves you, and he’s just doing what he thinks is right. You need to be respectful.”

“He’s not respectful to me.”

She shoots me a sharp, warning glare. “Don’t, Grey.” She winces, and then turns her eyes back to the road, blinking hard. “Goodness, this is the worst one yet,” she mutters, more to herself than out loud.

“Worst one?” I stare at her in worry. “You’ve been having a lot of these headaches?”

“Here and there. Nothing too bad. They hit me in the morning, and they usually go away on their own.” She clenches her hand into a fist and releases it, shakes it again.

I’m not sure what to say. Mom is tough. She’s never sick, and the few times she is, she rarely complains and never takes the time to rest. She just powers through it until she’s better. For her to visibly be in pain isn’t a good sign. She must really be hurting.

“Should you see a doctor?” I ask.

She waves her hand in dismissal. “It’s just a headache.”
   

“What’s wrong with your hand, then?”

“I don’t know. It just…it feels numb. It’s fine now.”

We’re home at this point, and she pulls the BMW into the garage and is out her door and into the house before I’ve even hauled my bag out of the back seat. I wave at Daddy as I pass his study on my way up the stairs. After I’ve showered, I head down to the kitchen, expecting to find Mom making dinner, but the kitchen is empty.

Daddy is still in his study, typing away at his computer, preparing for Sunday’s sermon.
 

“Where’s Mom?” I ask.

He looks up over the rim of his narrow reading glasses. “She’s lying down. She’s got a migraine, I guess.”

“Is she okay? She said she’s been having headaches.”

He leans back in his chair. “I know. If they don’t stop soon, I’m going to take her in to see a doctor whether she wants to or not.”

“I’ll make dinner then.”

“Thank you, Grey. When you’re finished, see if Mom wants something. She may not.” He turns back to the computer. “I’ll eat in here.”

I retreat to the kitchen and start making dinner. I’m not as fancy a cook as Mom, but I can make a few good dishes. I rummage in the fridge and see that she’d gathered the ingredients to make chicken cordon bleu, so I make that, bringing Daddy his plate and can of Diet Coke. I head upstairs to check on Mom but she is asleep with the curtains drawn against the evening light. Even in sleep, her forehead is wrinkled and tight with pain.

Worry shoots through me, but I dismiss it. I leave the plate of food in case Mom wants it later, taking my plate and Coke into my room to eat as I finish my homework. Except for Mom’s headaches, life is good.

So why do I feel a gnawing sense of unease?

Chapter 2

The last of the school year passes without incident. Mom’s headaches have subsided or she hides them. I’ve danced in several recitals, with Mom and Daddy in attendance. Daddy still doesn’t quite approve, and he definitely glares during the other girls’ more overtly sensual solos. He knows I’m talented, though, and this pleases him. I dance over the summer, and I get to know Devin and Lisa and a few other girls from the studio. Daddy lets me go out with them as long as I check in regularly. For the most part, we don’t do anything except hang out at the mall and watch girly TV at Devin’s house. Boys come over a few times, but none of us says anything to the adults. Devin is a pixie, barely five-one and not even a hundred pounds soaking wet. She’s got auburn hair and brown eyes and she’s a spitfire, energetic and fiery and outspoken. She pretty much has the run of her house since her parents work all the time. As far as Daddy knows, it’s just me and Devin and Lisa and cheesy ’80s movies like
Flashdance
and
Footloose
and
Girls Just Wanna Have Fun
.
 

He doesn’t know about the occasional party Devin throws on the weekends while her parents are in Atlanta or elsewhere for business. Compared to the stories I hear at Central High School, these parties are usually pretty tame, It’s mostly the same twenty or so people, a few girls from Mrs. LeRoux’s studio, some guys from the football team, and some girls from the dance program at Central. The others sip beer and do shots of whiskey someone brings, but I don’t. Daddy would smell alcohol on me before I even got into the house. I tried beer once, but it’s nasty. I took a tiny sip of whiskey and nearly choked. I stick to Coke and have fun watching the others act like idiots.
 

At one of these parties, near the end of the summer, I find myself sitting on the deck behind Devin’s house, watching as six or seven drunk boys play a rowdy pickup game of football, girls cheering and getting in the way. One of the Central dance girls has her shirt off, her pink bra bright in the late evening darkness. I’m embarrassed for her. How she could be okay like that, half-naked, knowing every single guy at the party is watching her? I want to cover her. Several guys hit on her, try to get her to go inside with them, but she seems to effortlessly fend them off without hurting any feelings. She’s clearly intoxicated, dancing to the music playing from Devin’s portable iPod speakers. She’s got her hands in her hair, bunching it up at the back of her head. She’s writhing her hips to the beat of the music, turning in place slowly, hips gyrating, skin flashing tan under the light of the moon and the pale yellow glow from the house. Everyone is watching her. Everyone. She’s a dancer; she knows what she’s doing. She knows she’s got their attention. She glides her hands over her belly, over her hips, pushing at the waistband of her skintight blue jeans. Her dance has taken on a life of its own, spinning in place, flinging her hair around, pushing out and shaking her hips. Each move is provocative. The guys are frozen, and I watch as one affected guy adjusts himself. Even though I’m in the darkness of the deck, I blush hard.

A low, husky voice comes from my left. “Can you dance like that?”
 

I jump, startled. I peer into the shadows and see a boy frequently at Devin’s parties, a football player named Craig. “No,” I say, shaking my head. “Definitely not.”

He laughs, leaning on the railing of the deck. “Sure you can.” His finger brushes over my shoulder, and I shiver, edge away. “You should try. You’d be hot. She’s okay-looking, but you? You’re fine as hell, girl.”

I blush so hard my face is hot. I giggle nervously. “You’re crazy.”

“No, I’m not. I just know what I like.” His tone indicates he’s referring to me.