“Very nice.”
“How ’bout we let Sara unpack a little?”
Dad says.
He and Señor
Head back downstairs.
My breath rushes out
So loud it feels like words.
I stare at the big suitcase
Beneath the one, high window.
Sit, alone
On the slippery bedspread with its giant flowers.
I am really here.
This is happening.
Tomorrow,
Will there be stairs to descend
Into the ballet school?
Will everyone know
I am the girl chosen
From the Boston audition?
Will I still be
Special enough
To stay?
After a while I go downstairs,
Steps slow,
Gaze firmly planted
On the abstract paintings along the wall.
Pretend I don’t see Dad
Put his checkbook back into his breast pocket,
Señor Medrano fold the check for my room and board.
I want to be so wonderful no one would make me pay
To live in their house.
Señor pours a small cup of coffee,
Sets a tiny cookie and a spoon in the saucer.
The hot, brown smell
Comforts.
My smile becomes real.
A dark-haired boy
Saunters down the stairs.
“Julio. My son.”
Flashing me a curious glance,
The boy takes a handful of cookies
From the tray.
I duck my head,
Breath quick.
Like every boy I have seen
Since June and Billy Allegra,
This one sends a curious thrill of terror
Down my spine.
Señor Medrano lets loose in Spanish phrases,
A waterfall to his
Leaky drops
Of English words.
“Yeah, Papa, I know,”
Julio returns in perfect English.
“Julio play classical guitar,”
Señor puffs.
“He need to be practicing much more
So he keep his scholarship.
Back to practicing now.”
Julio helps himself to the rest of the cookies.
Turns away.
“He no work hard enough.
But he a big shot.
Does not like to practice when he can go outside,
Play basketball with friend from school.
“Sah-ra. She going to work hard
For de scholarship.
Stay here near ballet school.
Good idea.”
Dad hides
Behind giant sips of coffee.
I sit, pink
And lonely.
Crumble the cookie in the saucer,
Listen to the conversation dribble
Into a vacuum of uncertainty.
In the sunshine of Boston,
It was easy to say yes
To the chance to become a real ballerina.
Now my bags lie piled
On a floor lacking hardwoods or braided rugs in dull hues,
Breathing coffee-scented air unrelieved
By the sooty comfort
Of a kitchen woodstove.
“Got to get going.”
Dad jangles his keys
In his jeans pocket.
“Got a long drive.”
I follow him
To the shadowy front hall.
Wetness stings the backs
Of my eyes.
I fight my rigid throat.
Release two words:
“Um, okay.”
“We’re proud of you, your mom and I.”
“I know.”
“And we love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Lines
Scripted,
Repeated like mantras.
Preparatory phrases
For a conversation never spoken,
A port de bras
Before
An undanced dance.
His arms encircle me.
His heart thumps into my chest
A thousand more beats
Than the syllables that escape his lips,
As afraid of conversation
As I am of boys,
Of men,
Of wind blasting through
Open car windows.
I make it upstairs
To my new room.
Close the door.
Stare at myself
In the long mirror on the wall,
Eyes still fighting tears.
“I can do this,”
I whisper.
Draw my arms up
To fifth position’s gently rounded frame
Around my face.
Settle into a plié in fourth.
Push off with my back foot, though
It is difficult to spin a pirouette
On red shag carpet.
The call from Mom
Startles,
Though I knew it would come.
My cell vibrates in my pocket,
Jolts me from my stupor.
“Get there okay?”
I do not mention Dad’s usual
Trouble with directions.
“Yes, Mom.”
“Have you unpacked?”
The suitcase’s zipper teeth
Sneer at me from the far wall.
“Pretty much.”
“Had dinner yet?”
I do not wonder aloud
How I can even turn the knob,
Wrest open the door,
Enter a stranger’s kitchen,
Ask for food.
“In a few minutes.”
“When did Dad leave?”
“Half an hour ago
Maybe.”
She talks on and on.
Asks if he smoked
Asks if he got lost
Asks if he’ll make it home before dark.
I let her voice
Wash over me.
Her dissatisfaction
Is familiar.
Her anxiousness
Telegraphs through every high-pitched word,
Clicking tongue.
My eyes
Travel
To my half-opened dance bag.
Leotards and tights
Spill from the top.
Leg warmers in pink and gray
And a pair knit with red flowers
Brighten the pile.
In the hallway going up to my bedroom in Vermont
Is a black-and-white photograph
Of my great-grandmother
And her three sisters
All wearing giant, knitted hats to cover
Heads shaved by their mother
Against the rampant lice of their immigrant tenement.
Her solution
To a risk?
Remove the problem.
Was I a problem for them?
A risk to be removed?
I know I said I wanted this chance,
To dare this dream.
Yet now I wonder how
They let me go—
Whether leotards and leg warmers
Will mask my sense of abandonment.
One more week before school begins,
But classes never stop
At the Jersey Ballet.
Señor Medrano brings me at noontime.
He has a company class to teach
Long before my lesson begins
In the afternoon.
As I wait,
The company dancers
Sweat and posture
Beyond the glass window
Of the largest studio.
Across the hall, little girls
Come and go.
Their proud mothers
Smooth
back their hair,
Send them into A class.
I watch them giggle,
Scurry inside,
Where a sweet-faced young teacher
Pats their heads,
Sends them to the barre.
The mothers sit just outside,
Knit, text, read magazines,
Chat about their kids,
Glance proudly
Through the viewing glass.
In the studio, I see the teacher’s lips smile.
Her eyes are sharp.
Looking
For the ineffable
Something
That makes one child
A ballerina.
I am wearing leg warmers
As I sit in the hall, stretching
At two o’clock.
Inside my lunch sack,
Señor Medrano
Kindly packed
A peanut butter sandwich
Enhanced
With a slice of last night’s chicken.
This bizarre concoction
Promptly finds its way into the trash,
Where I should have thrown
My pink leg warmers
When I saw the other girls come in.
At home, at the country dance school
Leg warmers
De rigueur
Fend off the New England cold
Of a drafty studio too ramshackle,
Too expensive to heat.
Here the real dancers
Bask in torpid air
Moist with sweat,
Chalky with resin and cigarette residue
Reminding me of Dad’s car—
The first time the smell of cigarette
Is home.
I am wearing a pale blue leotard,
The designated shade
For my level.
An ungenerous color
That does not conceal
A single awkward angle
Or threatening curve.
In the dressing room
I watch the other girls
Trade bobby pins and tampons,
Unabashed nakedness,
And learn not to wear underpants
Under my tights.
My leotard has gauche long sleeves,
Not the chic spaghetti straps, low backs
Of the city girls.
I spot a safety pin on the floor,
Dash into a bathroom stall,
Gather the leotard front together
In little pleats.
Better?
The mirror tells me
I still look like a hick.
Their eyes are not unwelcoming,
Just curious.
A tall, thin girl with a giant blonde bun,
Lisette,
Melts into a split.
Her friend,
Bonnie,
Maybe thinner
With thick, dark eyebrows,
Bounces her knees:
A butterfly in seated first position.
Another,
Simone,
Black-haired, roundish,
Lounges on a wooden bench, talking about a boy
To a taller, redheaded girl, Madison.
These chosen girls
Are in the E class, but I
Have been told by Yevgeny
That I must begin my stay in Jersey
In C class, two levels down.
“Just to tidy up that small-town technique.”
Though he has assured me that I have the talent
To leap quickly to the higher levels,
What I see now is mostly shorter, younger girls
Waiting for C class by the doorway down the hall.
While Simone and Madison,
Who look high school age, like me,
Bonnie and Lisette,
With their ballerina-straight backs,
Lounge regally outside the largest studio.
So where do I sit?
New England girls
Say “Mr.”
“Ms.”
Or “Mrs.”
To adults and teachers.
But here,
Except Señor Medrano,
Everyone is simply, strangely
One short name.
Shannon
With cropped brown hair,
Pale skin, thin lips.
Bright silk scarves around her head
Her neck, arms, legs unimaginably long.
Yevgeny
A greyhound, pointed nose, narrow eyes,
Froths of fine curls
Tumbling over his sharp brow.
I cannot say
These names.
Just try not to ask questions.
Nod.
Obey.
Yevgeny pats my back.
Speaks in regal, nasal tones.
“Good to see you here, Sara.”
We begin technique class:
Tendus, jetés,
Pliés.
Trying to disappear,
I chose the spot at the far end of the barre.
Now, when we turn to do the left side,
There is no one in front of me
To follow.
Everyone is behind me
As I bend my knees in a deep grand plié,
Try to keep my spine pointed down, straight, remember
The things Ms. Alice taught me, the only things I know.
I can feel them judging
Even though it is my first day
And I have yet to learn the combinations
They have been taught at the Jersey Ballet
Since they were old enough to walk.
But there are no excuses
In the studio.
Yevgeny is not interested
In my story,
Only in my
Mistakes.
I brush through the layers
Of encrusted hairspray.
My hours in the studio have doubled,
Tripled
From what I danced in Vermont.
My arms ache from a thousand
Ports de bras, from pinning up a thousand chignons,
Lifting the brush,
Pulling it down.
My slick hair crackles
As I try to smooth away
The shellac
That coats my locks,
Clouds my mind.
At home, I could see clearly
Where I stood:
In the front row at Ms. Alice’s studio
Where some of my dancer friends
Only came to ballet between lacrosse
And ski season, and didn’t think twice
About the color of their leotards.
I knew what to do
To hold my place nearest the mirror.
Here every step
Is danced under sunless, fluorescent lights.
No open fields
In which to disappear, to pause; only, always
Mirrors
Reflecting stray wisps
Escaping from the nets and pins
No matter how much spray
I put on my hair.
How long can you go without
Talking?
I can almost count
On my bitten fingernails
And battered toes
The number of words I have said
Each day
Since I arrived in Jersey.
I could talk to Mom at night
But it hurts to call home.
I am too proud to say
That when LaRae looks at me,
Her lips are forever
Pressed in irritation,
Señor Medrano
Smiles with pity,
Yevgeny
Barks in frustration.
Madison turns triple pirouettes to left and right,
Stops without a wobble,
An expression of sheer disinterest on her face.
Bonni
e’s jetés jut with military precision,
Her stomach perfectly flat except
Where the bony knobs of her hips rise,
A little like Frankenstein bolts.
Lisette is a driven, dancing angel
Whose balancés and piqué turns draw a smile
Even from the eternally angry Yevgeny.
To the left, I can at best turn a solid
Double pirouette.
My tendus will never match Bonnie’s
Geometric perfection.
My Vermont accent,
Inferior as my angular ports de bras,
Reveals my rural roots, basement ballet technique.