Several other girls will be shifted
to alternate classes.
You in particular,
because of your height,
are welcome to join the adults.”
“The adults?” I squeak.
“The adult class.
There you could continue to dance
for your own enjoyment.”
“I need to go now, Madame,” I whisper,
and stand.
“I am truly sorry, Clare.”
She closes my file.
Everything inside me
wants out.
I retch into the toilet
again
and again
until nothing else comes up,
but my guts keep trying
to crawl out
of my throat.
I heave sharp air,
then wipe the last dribble of vomit
off my lips
with a wad of toilet paper
and flush.
Everything swirls away.
I passed people
when I ran from the office
to the bathroom.
The reporters were still in the barre room
with a bunch of girls.
The dressing room
was full too.
But I don’t remember any faces.
I’m not coming out of this stall
till everyone is gone.
Someone actually knocks.
“Are you okay?” she asks,
but gives up when I don’t answer.
“We made it! We made it! We made it!”
two girls yell.
“I completely blew it,” says another.
“My father’s going to kill me.”
I sit on the cold toilet cover
and wait till all the excitement, disappointment,
rustlings, and zippers disappear.
Rosella never found me.
Did she look?
I lean against the wall
and taste my thick, sour tongue.
I can’t stop shivering.
The stall door creaks
when I come out.
Everyone’s gone
from the dressing room.
Shaking,
I pull on my jeans,
clogs,
gather my stuff,
and cram it into my bag.
I run out.
The barre room’s empty.
At least I don’t have to look
at anyone.
Rosella.
Or Elton.
I race out onto the wet street.
It’s like the conservatory
vomits me
out of its belly.
It’s still sprinkling.
I step off the curb.
A car screeches, honks,
and swerves around me.
I rush across the street.
I feel so dizzy
stumbling past the shops.
I breathe faster and faster.
Sidewalk squares shift.
I splash through puddles.
Lights pierce my eyes.
There’s Grandpa’s hedge,
the porch swing,
Grandpa asking me something.
I’m falling.
Darkness.
Finally.
Lying in the backseat.
I don’t have my seatbelt on.
“It’s okay, love,” says Grandpa. “It’s okay.”
Grandpa helps me out of the car.
Wheelchair
squeaking.
Thermometer
beeping.
Blood pressure cuff
tightening.
Stretcher
zooming.
Rubber strip
squeezing.
Needle
jabbing.
IV
taped down
to the pale hairs
on my arm.
Dehydrated.
That’s all.
Dehydrated.
I twirl the armband on my wrist
and stare at the needle
submerged in my skin
dripping clear liquid into me.
How embarrassing.
I can’t even keep enough water down
so I don’t faint,
let alone dance.
The ER corner’s empty
except for a picture of Goofy in Disneyland
and the Space Needle taped to the wall.
Neither one is enough to distract me
from the IV
and the mysterious machines.
This must be the kids’ cubicle.
The two curtains shift as someone walks by.
I shudder
and pull the warm blanket
to my chin.
The cold IV
is chilling me
inside out.
Grandpa comes in.
He tugs the drapes closed behind him.
“You gave me a scare, love.”
I bite my lip.
He smoothes my stray hairs
back toward my squashed bun.
“It’ll be all right.”
I shake my head no.
Tears pop out.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“No harm done.”
“I’m sorry.
“Clare, we only need to make sure
you drink more.”
“I mean about not making the company.”
“Sh. Stop. I know all about it.
Madame called me
right after the audition.”
“Everyone knows
I’m not a dancer—”
“Yes you are, Clare.”
My lips start blubbering.
Grandpa still
doesn’t get it.
“I called your mom and dad.”
“Oh, no,” I groan.
“Clare, they needed to know.”
I kick at the blanket,
which hurts my feet,
but I don’t care.
Grandpa straightens it out.
“They are on their way home.
They’ll make it back tomorrow.”
Our dream’s dead,
and it’s all my fault.
I shut my eyes.
Drip, drip.
Grandpa holds my free hand.
“Owwwww!” yells a little boy.
“The stick went into his eye!”
squeals a woman.
The screams are right on the other side
of my curtain.
I watch a group of feet
shuffle beside gurney wheels
out of sight and earshot.
I loosen my grip on Grandpa.
His eyes are closed.
Is he praying for them?
Drip, drip.
“Here, suck on some ice,” Grandpa tells me.
Next there’s a man who’s hurt his back
and can’t walk.
“Please, please give me more pain killer,”
he begs.
Drip, drip.
“One more bag, Clare.”
The nurse adjusts the flow.
A woman wails,
“My baby!”
She brushes my curtain open
racing down the hall.
Grandpa pulls it closed.
How can stupid dehydration
compare to this stuff?
So much pain!
Why doesn’t the doctor tell me
to go home already?
Shame heats my skin.
Because,
deep down,
it feels like my dream dying
does compare to all of this.
It’s as bad as poking out your eye,
or your back hurting,
or your baby getting taken away.
My dream was like a baby to me.
I’m totally selfish.
How sickening.
“I have to use the bathroom.”
“Let me get the nurse, Clare.”
Grandpa hurries off.
I sit up, swing my legs
over the side,
and the Goofy picture spins.
“Hold it there.”
The nurse catches me.
“Now try.”
I stand on wobbly ankles.
And I’m not even on pointe!
She pushes the IV stand
into the hall.
“Excellent,” she says.
“Good job,” says Grandpa.
Applause for walking
to the bathroom
wasn’t what I was aiming for
today.
“And make sure she continues drinking.
Bye-bye, now.”
The attendant waves
as Grandpa pulls the car away
into the night.
The dashboard clock says 8:26.
The day is gone.
The awful day
is over.
I swallow the last of the sports drink
and hand Grandpa the bottle.
“There, now. You rest, Clare.
I’ll call and give your parents an update.
Before you know it
they’ll be here.”
I roll over.
He tucks the sheet.
“Call me if you need anything,”
he says from the doorway.
“Okay.”
How about a new life?
In my dream,
I’m dancing alone
on a stage
when things start turning to paper.
The backdrop,
curtains, and floor
ruffle in the wind,
then tear apart and spin away
into the air.
“From the top,” Madame’s voice
blares over an intercom.
“From the top.”
But there’s no place left
to dance.
A last gust tips me over
and wafts me through the emptiness.
The sun creeps under
the edge of my blind
and spears my eyelid.
I squint.
My ballet bag
is sitting on my dresser.
A toe shoe pokes out of the opening.
I fling my pillow across the room.
It hits the dresser mirror, which
knocks my bag to the floor.
Clud, thud.
I sit up and stare at myself.
I’m pale.
Bobby pins dangle
in my hair,
out of place and useless.
I yank them out,
deserving the pain.
“I don’t see that potential
in your work,” she said.
I’m not good enough
to be a superstar.
Not
good
enough.
Not only too tall.
I didn’t try hard enough.
I tilt the mirror down
so I don’t have
to look
at myself.
“There you are, love.”
I sit at the kitchen table.
Shivers spread across my back.
Grandpa reaches over
and rubs my arm.
The heat from his firm hand feels good.
“It’s almost noon.
How about some green tea?” he asks.
“Sure.”
He gets up and pours the hot water
into a mug with a bag.
“I was expecting you
to be up and around soon.” He smiles,
passes me the tea
and the honey bear.
I warm my hands around the mug.
The bear shimmies when I try to squeeze him.
“Let me help you.” Grandpa gets the honey out.
I stir it and take a sip.
“We have to double up on your drinking today.”
“Yeah.”
“Otherwise, you’ll be back in the hospital
before you know it.”
“I’ll try to drink a lot, Grandpa.”
“I can always count on you to try, Clare.”
I kick the dance bag
out of sight under the dresser
and pull on shorts and a T-shirt.
Hey, it’s Sunday.
Grandpa gave up church this morning.
One more sacrifice for me.
Maybe he can still go tonight.
I yank the brush through my hair.
So many tangles.
This is a rat’s nest, Mom would say.
I pull harder to get the bristles through.
My hand slips and bangs on the edge of the dresser.
Ow!
I rub the red spot,
then pull my hair into a ponytail
without finishing.
All the tangled knots are lumpy.
Who cares?
I nudge the porch swing with my toe.
The cool afternoon air
nudges me back.
Maybe a summer storm is moving in?
That can make the temperature drop fast.
Mija leaps up
and curls in my lap on the blanket
Grandpa made me bring out.
How long till the blisters on my feet heal?
How long till, “You aren’t fit for ballet,”
stops chanting in my head.
I pet Mija’s fur
backward.
She purrs.
How long till Mom and Dad get here?
What will I say?
At least I didn’t have to talk to them
this morning.
Grandpa told them it’d be better to chat
when they got here.
Definitely.
I wish I could get out of it then too.
I pick the newspaper up off the swing
and pull it out of the plastic.
I flip through the sections.
I’m sure it’s in here.
Do I want to look?
My hands keep searching.
Entertainment.
My stomach flips.
I open the section.
“City Ballet Selected.”
My hands sweat and stick
to the newsprint.
I scan down the list.
Rosella.
Margot.
Ellen.
Devin.
Nathan.
Tommy.
I recognize names of other kids in my class.
Of course they’d almost all make it.
The conservatory is the best instruction
in western Washington.
Back to the list.
No Clare.
I rub the list of last names starting with M.
Mine doesn’t appear.
The ink smears.
I let out a big shaky breath.
The picture is of that girl
on the floor crying.
I feel a chill
and turn the page to see the rest of the report.
“No. No!”
There’s a photo of everyone gathered around
the posted list.
And one girl in the background is running
to the dressing room.
One girl holding her stomach.
Me.
Grandpa’s still inside.
I cram the section of the paper
into the trashcan
and cover it with other bits of garbage.
Damp, cold coffee grounds,
limp tea bags,
tomato slime,
wadded tissues.
I put the lid back on,
and the metal rattles
like my bones are shaking.
I drag my hands on the grass
till all the ick comes off.
No one is going to see that picture.
Except
the rest of the city.
“Clare!”
Mom jumps out of the car
before Dad completely stops.
She rushes over to me.
I set Mija aside
and get up too quickly from the swing.
My eyes see spots and I fight the dizziness.
She pulls me close in a hug
and my head clears.
“Oh, sweetheart. Are you okay?
How are you feeling?
Are you alright?”
“Yeah,” I answer.
“There’s my girl!” Dad steps up,
and it’s a group hug.
At least this way
I don’t have to look them
in the face.
And Dad didn’t say,
“There’s
my failure.”
“There, now.” Dad gets me settled
on the swing.
It’s so good to see him.
We haven’t talked on the phone lately.
He drapes the blanket over my legs.
Mom hovers behind him.
I can’t see anything but her little feet
because he’s so tall.
Why did I end up like him?
Why?
He squeezes my shoulder.
“Are you comfortable, Clare?”
“Yeah.” I smile
and clench my teeth
to keep
my bubbling anger
in.
It’s not his fault
I’m huge.
Really, it’s not.
Besides,
he’s my dad!
“I’m sorry you guys
had to leave your convention early.”
“Clare. Don’t even bother to think about it,”
says Mom.
“Not another thought.”
“Exactly,” Dad agrees. “You
are what’s important to us.”
Grandpa brings out biscotti
and fresh coffee on the teacart.
Mom pulls her chair closer to the swing.
“Now, are you sure she’s okay, Dad?
Is that what the doctor said?”
“If she keeps drinking, she’ll be fine.”
Grandpa passes a cup to my father.
He takes a sip. “Well, she looks great to me.”
I smile and drain my water bottle.
“Let me get you more.
I’ll be right back.” Mom hurries inside.
The storm door bangs behind her.
Dad shakes his head.
“She’s really wound up, Clare.”
“That’s Mom.”
“True.”
Grandpa crunches the dry biscotti.
Little crumbs tumble down his shirt front.
He doesn’t brush them off.
“Here you go,” says Mom.
She stands over me until I drink.
“Everything, every little thing,
is going to be fine now,” she says.
“Inside,” Mom announces. “I don’t want you
getting chilled.”
“But it will keep getting warmer
till 2:00,
the hottest hour of summer.”
“She’s right, Martha,” says Dad.
“Yes, she is.” Grandpa pours himself more coffee.
“Well, I heard a storm may blow in,
so it may not warm up at all,” Mom argues.