If we throw our anger at Willow,
we can pretend we didn’t argue yesterday.
“I didn’t eat yet.” Rosella dumps her stuff
and peels open a yogurt container.
I fight my smile
because she’s making an effort to eat.
I retie my skirt.
She gulps the pink stuff down until
we hear Margot retching in the bathroom.
“See, I’m not the only one.” Rosella smirks.
“Whatever.” I hope she’ll eat more.
The toilet flushes,
and Margot walks by us
straightening her leotard.
Her pale face
stretches over her
sharp cheekbones.
Rosella tosses her half-eaten yogurt
into the garbage.
Thunk.
We both
follow Margot
out of the dressing room.
The barre
is cool
under my hot fingertips.
I choose a place
to stand.
Point hard, and harder.
I crunch the top of my toes
under.
One foot
and then the other.
First position,
turned out from the hip
as far as I can go
without my feet rolling inward.
My turn-out is
better than Rosella’s,
but not as good as Margot’s.
We haven’t even begun,
and I know how I measure up.
I have to work harder.
I slide my hand forward
to a cooler spot.
We each feel it.
Without mirrors in the barre room,
we can’t check ourselves.
Even the girls who don’t believe what they see
want to look in a mirror.
I twist and check out my rear.
My leotard’s creeping.
I snap the elastic.
Dia stretches
to be sure her short chest sweater
stays down.
Willow examines her plié
and adjusts her turn-out.
Rosella reties her skirt.
She’s measuring to see if her waist
is bigger.
All of us wonder if
we look okay
without mirrors
saying so.
We for sure can’t ask
each other.
Black leotard—
V neck,
square back,
high-cut legs;
pink tights—
not too pink,
not too white;
no underwear
but a thin bra;
chiffon skirt—
cut from one piece
of cloth;
optional leg warmers
with a foot strap;
rubber pants or short sweaters
if you’ve gained a pound;
flat ballet slippers
for barre work;
European custom toe shoes
for floor exercise;
a bun;
no bangs;
no jewelry;
no identity.
No one
breaks the silence
until
Tommy and Elton come out
of the boys’ dressing room.
“You are kidding!” says Tommy.
“Nope.” Elton grins.
They bust up laughing
and join the other boys at the barre.
“What?” asks Nathan.
Tommy fills him and the other guys in.
I wonder what it’s like
in their dressing room.
They obviously talk and have fun.
There’s so much less competition
for guys.
A company needs every good male
it can find.
I bet
no one vomits,
and their feet never bleed
since they don’t work on pointe.
It’s so much easier
for them.
Even if people wonder if they are gay.
That’s probably why Tommy
hits on every new girl—
to prove he’s straight.
He acted so into Devin last week,
he nearly got kicked out of class
for whispering.
Devin never did look interested.
All the girls have dealt with Tommy.
Except me.
I’m so much taller,
he never looks my way.
No one has gone out with him.
We all would have heard if someone had.
Even girls who don’t talk to each other
would have whispered about that.
It would have been too juicy to resist.
Going out
makes studying dance too complicated.
There’s no way to focus
when you’re so into each other.
Willow’s mother was all over her
when she caught Willow flirting with Nathan.
The way she was bending over so close to him,
pretending to retie her ribbons.
Willow shrunk in the dressing room
while her mother ranted.
She doesn’t even stand near Nathan now.
I look over at Elton.
He never chases anyone, girls or guys.
Only seems sure of himself,
like now,
stretching at the barre.
He turns my way and smiles.
I super quick
look away.
Madame sweeps
into the room.
Her thin legs glide
in a permanent turn-out.
Her thinner cane
raps the floor
in four/four time,
even without music.
One penciled eyebrow rises.
“Pliés,” she commands.
The barre room pianist
is a big younger woman.
So different from the floor room
old guy.
But the music sounds the same,
and no one notices her much either.
She pings out the tune
as we grow taller
in preparation
for pliés
for Madame.
Sinking down
in an open knee bend,
then standing up.
Plié, first,
second,
fourth,
fifth.
Relevé.
Turn.
Plié, first,
second,
fourth,
fifth.
It takes total control
to sink down all the way
and come up again.
My développé begins to shake;
the tiniest tremor
crawls up my outstretched leg
raised to hip level.
Madame strikes her cane on the barre.
Snap!
I jerk.
She barely missed my fingers.
“Higher, Clare,” she demands.
My mouth is pasty.
A tendon cramps
along my groin
as I lift my leg
one-fourth of an inch
higher.
But Madame has passed.
Hasn’t even waited to see.
The sweat sears
my eye.
“Good extension, Willow,”
Madame croons.
My leg shakes violently
while I stare
at Willow’s short, still leg
poised at shoulder height.
“And end,”
says Madame.
I try to control my long leg
as it comes crashing down.
Only a
moment
to rub the cramp.
“Other side,”
Madame demands.
Endless
left,
right,
up,
down,
turn,
again,
to warm up
and get ready
to learn to dance
in the floor room.
“Want to get a soda
after class, Clare?”
“Sure.”
I follow Rosella
and drag my hand
on the long hallway windowsill.
I guess she’s totally over my confronting her
about puking.
Since we both heard Margot,
I’ll act like it’s no big deal too.
“Yeah, that sounds good.”
“Great.” She stops outside the floor room.
“My mom’s going to be half an hour late
because of a salon appointment.”
“Okay.”
We stand aside for the adult class
to leave.
The last woman, with fuzzy red hair,
finally gets her stuff together.
She says hello to our class
gathered by the door.
I look down and away,
not wanting to be linked to a loser.
No one answers but Elton.
“Hey, Janet,” he says back.
How does he know her name?
I peek as she walks away,
dragging her hand on the sill
all the way down
the hall.
In this room
we can
search
for fat.
Our eyes
move over
as we turn,
pose,
stretch a leg,
lift an arm.
Then, slyly,
we look for fat
on each other.
I crunch
a chunk
of golden rosin.
The pine scent
circles me
with confidence.
Crunch, crunch.
The ball of my foot
pulverizes
the yellow crystal
into white powder.
I rock the magic
onto my toe,
then do my heel.
I step out
and put the other toe in.
This stickiness will hold me
to the floor.
It will grip the wood
when I come flying down.
I can’t believe my feet
have outgrown the rosin box.
I hurry away
before anyone sees.
Sliding down
into a split.
Rocking a bit
to let my thigh
open.
Leaning forward.
Forehead to knee.
Chest pressing
into my thigh.
Pushing up.
Lifting and shifting
to split in the middle.
Walking my hands
forward.
My breath condenses
into a mist
on the cool floor.
My chest touches
with each inhale.
Walking my hands
up again.
Lifting and shifting.
Splitting the other leg.
Wiping the sweat off
with my damp towel
while sitting,
sitting,
sitting
in my split.
Run, run, run, grand jeté.
Run, run, run, grand jeté.
My turn.
Run, run, run, grand jeté,
and time stops.
I’m at the highest point,
doing a split in the air
above everyone.
I hold it,
defying time and gravity.
“Look at me!” I want to yell.
My heart thumps,
and I glide to the floor.
I step to the back of the line.
Elton turns and whispers,
“Beautiful!”
I can’t stop myself
from smiling up at him.
Which feels doubly great.
He is way taller than me.
I turn off Rosella’s cell phone.
Grandpa said no problem
to me hanging out at the coffee shop.
“Good class.” Rosella sips her diet soda.
I dunk my tea bag.
“It was. My calves are still burning.”
“That last combination was a killer,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“Did you see Nathan fall out of his pirouette?”
“Totally.”
“I thought Madame
was going to beat him with her cane.”
“While he was down,” I add.
“Elton sure looked good.”
“Really?” I tuck my ballet bag
under my chair.
“He was totally checking you out
while we were stretching.” She smiles.
“Nuh uh.” I nudge her foot,
and she nudges me back.
The latte machine hisses.
We both look out the window.
Dia’s mom’s car pulls over
and picks her up
outside the conservatory.
“Man, I can’t imagine being Dia,” says Rosella.
“I know.” I squeeze my tea bag
until it stops dripping
and wipe my fingers
on a napkin. “There’s no way
she’ll be able
to take pas de deux classes in the fall.”
Rosella laughs. “Right!
No guy would ever be able to lift her.”
I nod.
Will Elton be able to lift me?
He is really buff.
“Dia’s studied for like ten years.” Rosella
bites her straw.
“Same as us,” I add.
“How could anyone have known
her body’d change like that. Her mom’s a stick.”
“She is small.”
“Dia must weigh
a hundred twenty-five pounds,” says Rosella.
The tea burns my mouth. “Ouch!”
I dab my lips. “Well, I weigh
one thirty, you know.”
Rosella looks up quick.
“Oh, yeah. But that’s because—”
“I’m so tall.” I cross my legs
and try to tuck them
under the little bistro table.
and rocks everything.
“Lots of companies have taller girls,” says Rosella.
“Mmm hmm.”
“Like Pacific Northwest Ballet.”
“Right. PNB. I’ve heard that.”
“Don’t worry, Clare.”
“No, I’m not.”
Oh, sure.
“My my, Clare.” Rosella’s mom
looks over the top of her designer sunglasses.
“You really have shot up.”
I step back.
“Your father is tall, isn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
“Tt, tt.” She shakes her head.
“See you tomorrow.” Rosella gets in the car
and shuts her mom up.
“Bye.”
They pull away.
I bypass the sidewalk
and turn down the deserted alley
to get out of sight.
I kick a stone.
It smacks a trash can.
Ping!
What does it matter
how a person looks
if she wants to
be a dancer?
I’m nearly as good
as everyone el
se in class.
I wipe my nose on my shoulder.
Down the road Grandpa’s huge fir trees
jab into the sky.
I jab the air with my fist.
I do chaîné turns
and kick grands battements.
Pow, pow, pow!
My bag swings wild.
My right clog flies off.
Clunk.
It rolls across the pavement
into the weeds.
I hop over to get it
and cram it on.
Ouch!
I hobble down the alley.
It shouldn’t matter what you look like
if you really want to dance.
I
want
to.
“Why the frown?”
Grandpa turns off the hose.
“No reason.” I flop onto the porch swing
and kick my bag toward the front door.
He tamps the dirt around the daisies
with his foot
and gathers the hose.
The green coil tries to twist its own way,
but he carefully bends it
to make a pile of circles.
“There.” He stretches his back
and wipes his hands on a rag.
“Tell me what’s the matter, love.”
He comes over behind me and rocks the swing.
“What if, for some reason,
I don’t get to be a dancer?”
He doesn’t say anything.
“I know Mom says
everything is going to work out,
and Dad says work hard
and failure’s not in my future. But
stuff changes sometimes.”
Creak.
Creak.
“It does. But in your case—” he starts.
“Grandpa, I’ve grown so—”
“Clare,
you already
are a dancer.”
Creak.
Creak.
Creak.
I sigh out the sorrow
so the shaky tears don’t come.
“Think about it,” he says,
and walks away
without saying
anything else.
I pick the pins
out of my bun
and tug out the elastic.
My brown hair
tumbles down
past my shoulders.
My scalp throbs.
I hunch a bit to look at myself
in the antique dresser mirror.
I’ve got
the little head,
the long neck,
the long arms,
and the little bust.
But my hips
are getting wider,
no question.
I squeeze them
between my hands.
“Stop growing!” I hiss.
And when I stand up straight,
I can’t even see
my face anymore
in this mirror.
I have to tilt the mirror up far.
It’s not just my hips.
The worst part is
my whole stupid body
is growing.
I’m totally out of control.
I flop on the bed.
I’m sickening.
Grandpa doesn’t know anything.
Already a dancer?
Yeah. Right.
“For this food
we give thanks.
Let it nourish our bodies
and make us continue to grow
in stature, health, and grace.