Amen.”
I stare across the table at him.
He stares back at me
until I look down.
Talking back to my grandfather
is not allowed.
Maybe a German-Swiss thing.
No matter
if he’s completely wrong.
I ball my napkin on my lap
and rip little shreds off
where he can’t see.
Grandpa and I
eat our mac and cheese
in silence.
Our spoons clack
against the frozen food plastic divider
keeping our peas separate.
Margot and Rosella would never eat the fat
on this plate.
Maybe a salad, no dressing or extras.
Lettuce and a carrot.
Or a skinless chicken breast, broiled.
Then they’d live it up
with fat-free Jell-O.
But right now
I don’t even care.
This tastes good.
That’s one thing about being taller.
Extra weight doesn’t show as fast on me
as it does on the rest of them.
My spoon scrapes the black plastic plate
clean.
Ugh.
The ice cream did it.
In front of the mirror in my room,
my stomach
pooches out.
Like Mom’s.
Fat. Fat. Fat.
What was I thinking?
Mac and cheese and ice cream?
Call me lard butt.
I kneel
and tuck my hair behind my ear.
My reflection wobbles in the toilet water.
I can do this.
Margot does it.
Rosella does it.
I knew not to tell anyone about her
because there’s nothing wrong with it.
Right?
Plus, fewer calories
could mean I’d grow slower.
Couldn’t it?
I can get rid of the ice cream, at least.
My fingernail scrapes the roof of my mouth
and pushes into the back of my throat.
Uckgh.
Rap, rap.
I drop the lid. Bam.
“Clare?”
“Yes.” I swallow
and quick, dry my finger on my T-shirt.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, Grandpa.” I flush the clean water
and open the door.
“I’m fine.”
I couldn’t do it.
Even if Grandpa hadn’t come to the door.
I sucked in twenty-four grams of fat.
Then I couldn’t even puke it out.
What kind of dancer could I ever be?
Mija curls
at the foot of my bed.
Her breathing is rattly tonight,
but her weight and warmth
on my calves
seep through the sheet.
My feet ache
a little less.
I take a deep, relaxing breath
and let it out slowly.
Cats
equal comfort.
Running from the barre room
to the floor room
to the barre room
to the floor room
and back.
I can’t find my class.
Only the fuzzy red-headed woman is there.
I keep passing her in the hallway.
And she is trying to tell me something,
but I won’t listen to her.
I run and look for my class
all through my dream.
“I’m off to my theology book club, Clare.”
“Okay, Grandpa.”
“Eat a good brunch before you leave to dance.”
“I will.”
“See you later.”
“Okay.”
His shoes clud across the wood floor
to the front door.
He locks the deadbolt for me.
I roll over in bed
and bury my head
under my pillow.
I slept in,
and I’m exhausted.
The scale says 131.
I can work that pound off in class,
if I barely eat before I go in.
Sleeping through breakfast helped.
That just leaves lunch.
Orange juice
and dry toast
is all I deserve.
I’m off to a good start today.
Even if
I’m sluggish.
A cup of Grandpa’s instant coffee
should zoom me up.
I grimace it down.
is tacked to the bulletin board.
It’s on Saturday!
Four days away!
Mom was right about posting it close to the day.
They do like to pop it on us.
Everyone’s excitement
bings around the dressing room.
The girls actually talk to each other.
Rosella’s not here yet.
I pull on my slippers
and get caught up in the chatter.
“Are you going to—” asks Devin.
“For sure,” I cut her off.
“Aren’t you?”
“Of course.
That’s why I’m taking classes here.”
“I heard Willow’s not,” says Michaela.
“No way,” three of us say at once.
“Yeah. Her mother’s flown the prima
to New York
to audition for the ABT school.”
“Get out! American Ballet Theatre?”
squeals Devin.
“For real. My cousin lives next door to her
and had to hear all about it.”
“Well, that’s less competition for us,” I add.
“I’d be totally happy
to just make it into City Ballet,” says Ellen.
“Me too,” agrees Devin.
“But I have to get down
to a hundred pounds.” Ellen
tugs on some rubber pants.
“I’m shooting for ninety-five.” Devin
sucks in her stomach.
Dia comes in,
and everyone hushes.
We watch as she reads
the audition announcement.
There’s no way she can make it
with her body.
She turns away and changes,
cowering in the corner
till she gets all her floppy bulges
covered up completely.
None of us can talk about the audition now.
And definitely
not to Dia.
Everyone pushes out the door
to the barre room.
Rosella bumps through them.
“Hi, Clare.”
“Look.” I point to the audition notice.
“Yes!” She punches her palm.
“Finally we’ll be dancers
in City Ballet.”
Her excitement makes me grin.
Maybe she’s right.
We are both really good.
Maybe other tall girls around the city
will try out too.
I could be average for all I know!
Rosella stuffs everything under a chair
and grabs her shoes. “Come on!”
Dia can’t find a place
at the barre.
No one wants to be next to her.
Like her freakishness
could rub off onto them
or something.
“Here,
Dia.
Here’s a space,” I say,
and make room.
She almost smiles.
“Thanks, Clare.”
I start to smile back
until Rosella gives me a look.
“What?” I mouth.
She shakes her head
and looks away.
Some days
barre work
flies past
fast
with hardly any pain.
And then
other days
it’s one long pain.
Today it’s fast.
My mind
is thinking of Saturday’s audition,
and my body exercises
itself.
The boys are as psyched
as the girls.
Everyone is pouring sweat.
Tommy is completely focused for once.
Elton tremors to keep his leg raised high.
I try to meet his extension
and almost do.
The guys are going to be fighting just as hard
as the girls for spots in City Ballet.
I give it my all to lift my leg a bit more …
and I do!
Look out. I’m fighting too.
“Dia, I’d like to
speak to you privately
before floor exercises begin,”
says Madame. “Continue to stretch, class.”
We all stop moving.
Only our sweat
plops to the floor.
We watch
Madame and Dia
go into the office.
One of the ladies
from the adult class dashes back in.
It’s the red-headed one
from my dream.
“Forgot my towel.”
She giggles.
“Have a good dance,” she calls to us and leaves.
“Like, who was she talking to?”
Rosella humphs.
The office door opens.
Madame glides to the front of the room.
She clicks out a combination.
During fouettés,
while I spin
round and round on pointe,
I see Dia rush out.
She is a blur.
But I see her go.
I’m sure
it’s for good.
The rumors are already
buzzing.
“I heard her crying!” says Ellen.
“Madame told her she was too fat!”
Michaela adds.
“She said, ‘Don’t ever come back!’ ” Devin says.
I shove my stuff
into my bag.
I bang the stall door
and raise my voice over Rosella’s stupid retching.
“Bye.”
“Wait, Clare—”
But I don’t.
I hurry away
from their fascination
of someone’s dream dying.
It’s like it fills them up,
or maybe it’s their relief
bubbling out
that they haven’t been cut too.
I run out of the conservatory,
away from my fear
of becoming Dia.
Today Grandpa’s hedge
seems to reach out and smother me.
I hurry through the gate
and toss my bag in the house.
I grab a diet soda from the fridge
and sneak out to the backyard deck
without running into Grandpa.
How will Dia
stop ballet lessons?
Ten years of training
wasted.
What will she tell her parents?
The soda can sweats
in my hand.
What do you do
if they don’t let you
learn to dance?
Grandpa comes around the house
with his wheelbarrow.
“How was dancing today?”
he asks without looking at me.
“Fine,” I answer.
“Good.” He dumps everything
into the recycle bin.
“They posted the audition
for City Ballet,” I say,
and pull a splinter
out of the deck step.
Grandpa stretches his back.
“That’s nice.”
“It’s on Saturday,” I add.
“So you’ll be auditioning?”
He turns and looks at me.
An image of Dia
rushing out
goes through my mind.
“Of course, Grandpa.
I want to become a dancer.”
“Clare … ”
A waxwing bird
swoops down into the bath,
ruffles his feathers,
and flies off.
“I wish you could believe me,” he says quietly.
“You already are a dancer.
You have the same passion
your grandmother had
when she stepped out onto the floor.
You feel the music.
I’ve sat in on plenty of your classes
over the years
to see your dancing spirit.
You have to dance
when the piano—”
“Grandpa … ” I get up and go inside.
My stomach rolls.
I dump my soda
down the sink
and smash the can flat.
“Auditions are on Saturday, Mom.”
“Oh, sweetheart.
How exciting!
I know you’ll do wonderfully.
Our dream is about to come true, isn’t it?”
I bite a hangnail on my pinkie
and spit out the skin.
Mija winds around my ankles.
“I hope.”
“Well, I’m certain it’s all about to happen.
How’s your grandpa?
Is he doing okay?
Is he feeling fine?”
“Yes.” He walks by the kitchen window
with a rake. “He’s been doing the usual.
He works in his garden
and goes to his Bible studies.
But sometimes … ”
“What?
Clare,
tell me what you were going to say.”
“Well, he talks on and on.”
“Oh, Clare. Is that all?
Be patient with him.
He’s lonely.”
“I know. But it can drive me crazy.”
“Clare—”
“Yeah, I know.” I turn around
and lean against the counter.
Mija sits and washes her face.
“Has he been taking his medicine?
Regularly?”
“I think so.
Uh huh. Morning and night.”
“Good. Now, are you really okay
with your dad and me
going to this booksellers’ convention?
We won’t be nearby
for the audition.”
“Sure, Mom.”
“Promise to call the cell phone
and let us know
the minute you finish.”
“Okay.”
“And be patient with Grandpa.”
“I will.”
“I need to go now, honey.”
“Um.”
“Is there something else, Clare?
Something on your mind?”
“Can I talk to Dad, Mom?”
“Well, he’s busy with a customer right now.
But I could—”
“Oh, never mind. Love you, Mom. Bye.”
“Love you too.”
Click.
Bzzzzz.
“It’s just that
Dia got kicked out
and won’t ever be a dancer,
and what if that happens to me?
Would you ask Dad that for me, Mom?”
Bzzzzz.
“What if I’m too tall to make it?
Will everyone
still love me if I fail
at our dream?”
Bzzzzz.
I hang up the phone.
Mija stares up at me.
“Even though I’m trying hard,
failure
could be
my future.”
Grandpa
flicks through the channels.
I switch my split
from my right leg forward
to my left.
With the audition on Saturday,
a little extra stretching
won’t hurt.
Even in pajamas.
“Be all that you can be,”
sings the commercial.
Grandpa waits for the soldier
to salute the flag
before he changes the channel.
Every now and then
he does something like that
that reminds me he was a soldier
in the Army once.
Before he worked for and retired
from Boeing Aerospace.
He carried the radio for his unit
in the Korean war.
Ages ago.
Not that he ever talks about it.
But his medals are displayed in the glass cabinet.
The jingle keeps going
in my brain.
Be all that you can be.
What’s the best I can be?
Grandpa stops a second on PBS.
“Oh, Clare. This used to be your favorite show.”
I split in the middle and grimace.
A big hairy monster
is telling a little yellow ball
she can grow up and do anything
she dreams of
if
she believes and tries hard enough.
“Grandpa,” I complain.
“Okay, okay.” He chuckles.
“So grown up now.”
He starts channel surfing again.
I wonder if Dia
ever watched that show
when she was little?
“Do they hurt, Clare?”
“What?”
“Your feet.”
I pull my knees up
and spread my toes on the braided rug.
“Well … ”
One nail is black.
I didn’t cut it short enough,
so the skin bruised underneath.
Three toes have open blisters.
The big callus on my right foot is really red.
“Yeah. I guess if I think about it, they hurt.”
Grandpa’s lips pinch into a line.
“It doesn’t seem right.”
“Grandpa, it’s part
of learning ballet.”
He shakes his head.
“All that dancing on your tiptoes.
Most people get arthritis when they’re old.
But what will your feet feel like
after this much damage?”
I shrug.
He slips his feet out of his leather house shoes.
His nails are thick and yellowish.
His toes are knobby and bent like his hands.
“I ballroom danced, remember,
and you know I still love to ski.
But neither of those
equals the foot strain of ballet.
And now my feet hurt
on all our rainy days.”
“Huh.”
“I wish there was another way for you, Clare.”
“Another way for what?”
“Well,” he says as he slips his shoe back on,