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 g
roup.
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
Madame concludes.
Breathe in through my nose
and out through my mouth.
Again.
The old man pianist plays an intro.
His music immediately snaps me into place.
I’m braced on all sides of my body
by the rhythm.
I can do this
totally alone,
as long as I have the piano music.
So far so good.
I wipe down
and watch Margot’s group
move through the complicated
combination.
She’s definitely the best.
Her line is perfect
from her fingertips to her toes.
The judges have to see that.
Even the girl who cracked her knee
is moving well.
I saw her wrap it before she took the floor.
Where’d she get the bandage at the last minute?
Doesn’t look like her knee’s bothering her a bit.
Sweat drips into my eyes.
I rub the acidy burn away.
The judges’ pencils
scratch along with
our quiet panting,
gritty shoe leather
brushing the wood floor,
and someone cracking their back.
I hand Rosella her towel.
“Thanks,” she mouths.
I smile.
“Group One,”
calls a judge with fake eyelashes
that curl up to her brows.
Yuck.
I hurry out
to the floor
for my turn.
What will they each scratch
about me?
The fifteen guys are grouped together.
It’s weird to see
so many in one place.
Tommy is doing well
despite all the new girls around.
Nathan nailed his tour en l’air,
spinning high in the air
and landing in the same spot
he started from.
But Elton moves to the music
like no one else.
Those judges have to see his power
and grace.
He loves what he’s doing.
Absolutely.
We line up for grands jetés
across the room.
I twist to stretch my sides
and catch Elton giving me a thumbs-up.
I smile, turn back,
take a huge breath,
run, and take off
in the highest, clearest leap
I’ve ever done.
I’m flying across the room
like the deer I saw with Grandpa!
The judges have to notice.
I’ve left everyone else behind.
I’m turned inside out.
This is me!
Beautiful!
The girls in the second group
are like small twigs
twirling in the wind.
I feel a bit faint.
Must be the tension
and not enough water.
I get a sip at the fountain,
then slide down in a corner
and close my eyes.
Satin pointe shoes squeaking
on wood,
rapping,
clunking,
thudding
over the creaking floorboards.
I open my eyes and feel
the girls land hard,
even when it looks like
they haven’t landed at all.
Rap, rap, thud.
I’ve heard through
the illusion.
We all take the floor
and bow to the judges,
and then to ourselves
in the mirror.
I danced in here.
I rocked this place.
No one is going to tell me different.
We rise.
“High-five, Rosella.”
She smacks my palm. “Yes!”
It’s over.
All the work
I’ve done for ten years
made me ready
for this audition.
And now it’s over.
My dream is beginning.
We untie and unwind
our pointe shoes
the same way.
We fold in the heel
and wind the ribbons
around the shank.
Doing the same thing alike,
we are one dancer
scattered into pieces,
as the corps
of City Ballet Company.
That one girl
unwraps her knee
and there’s a huge goose egg
sticking up.
She hops to the wall to balance.
Man. That’s tough.
“Please wait in the barre room.”
Madame rolls her cane between her palms.
“The judges will post the City members
in half an hour.”
We flow out the door
and through the hall
like a real ballet corp.
Cameras flash
in the barre room,
and we pull apart.
Newspaper reporters
want interviews.
I move away to the window
as they speak to Rosella.
She doesn’t seem to mind.
“R-O-S-E-L-L-A,” she spells.
Each journalist has found someone
to interview.
I’m safe for now.
Introverted and left alone.
Just the way I like it.
But a little lonely.
Elton’s talking to Tommy
and Margot.
How do they think they did?
I could go ask.
I start to make my way toward them,
but the reporters push me aside
and gather in a tight circle.
What’s going on?
I get a look through their legs
at a girl on the floor
huddled in a ball,
crying.
“I’ll never make it!” she bawls.
“I’m not good enough.”
How humiliating!
“Clare.”
I look up.
Madame is calling me
from the doorway.
“Would you join me in my office?”
I clasp my hands
to still the shaking.
“Sit down, Clare,” says Madame.
I sit on the very edge of the chair.
My pelvis
nails the wood.
Madame slides into her seat
behind her big oak desk.
She opens a file.
My name is on the edge.
“Clare,” she says.
My skin creeps.
“Clare, you are a fine dancer.”
Yes!
“You are qualified
to be a member
of City Ballet Company.”
I’m busting open,
my smile is so huge.
Tingles race
over my goosebumped skin.
“But … ”
What?
“But … ” She flicks through my paperwork.
The air whooshes out of me.
I’m like a paper doll
about to drift
off the chair.
“Your body is not well designed
for the ballet.”
“But—”
“You are too tall,
and I speculate you haven’t finished growing.
Clare, I hate for you
to devote yourself
at this level
to an art
you will never be suited for professionally.”
The sweat on my back
freezes.
“But, Madame, I danced as well as anyone
at the audition.”
“Yes, you did.”
“I did really well.”
“Yes.”
“My développé was above hip level.
My, my—” My throat closes.
At least it stops my pathetic begging.
“Clare, I am sorry.
You are a dancer.
Which is why
I wanted to give you a chance at this audition
in case a taller group of girls turned out.
But it’s not the case.
We have to face that you’re not shaped
for classical ballet.
Before long
you’ll be too tall
even for Pacific Northwest Ballet.
And in New York,
you would need to be a superstar
to succeed.
I don’t see that potential in your work.”
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
“I have to remove you
from your class, Clare.
The group is going to consist
only of City members now.
They will be dancing far more
with their additional commitment,
and you will be left behind.