Yevgeny commands.
Then he says to shift our weight into them.
Collaborate.
“Let them carry you.
Don’t look at their hands.”
How can this be?
How can you hold
Your balance and
Let them carry you?
Both, at the same time?
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says.
“Boys and girls.”
Never women
And men.
Yevgeny partners me with Fernando,
On scholarship not just
Because he is a boy.
He is the best—
Arching feet,
Strong back,
A better dancer even than Remington,
Though not nearly so handsome.
Fernando’s eyes never stray to my curves.
His grip is clinical, precise.
Today he will lift me into the air,
Hold my hand,
Support my back,
And make me more beautiful
Than I could ever be alone.
Saturday morning
I am early for class, as usual.
The curse of living with a teacher
Who keeps a morning schedule.
So I am there to see Remington stalk in.
Jane is five steps behind him
With a paper cup of coffee
And an irritated expression.
“Thanks for holding the door,”
She calls to his back
Before she notices me
Curled into the corner bench.
I peek at her over the top of my history book.
Our eyes barely meet
Before the blush burns my cheeks.
“Morning, Sara.”
Jane flips her frown to a professional smile.
“Still limping?”
“I’m okay.”
As if he had choreographed it,
We both turn our heads
To the sound of Remington dropping his dance bag
On the floor.
He gives a little bow,
Though his eyes take in only Jane as he says,
“We’ll talk after class.”
She sighs, glancing at me
As she puts the key in her office door.
“Sometimes Rem can be like—
A sprain.
If you’re still hurting tomorrow, Sara,
I should take a look.”
“Okay.” I nod, astounded
At the way Jane can talk about people and pain
Out loud, in one breath.
The things I leave unspoken,
Hidden behind pallid words:
Mister . . . Ma’am . . . Please . . . Thank you . . .
Okay.
Bonnie comes early on Saturdays, too.
She gets a ride from one of her brothers
On his way to work
And has to put up with his hours.
Probably because Lisette has not arrived,
Or maybe just because she’s a friendly sort,
We chat awhile.
Bonnie has ten brothers and sisters,
All older than she,
Some by decades.
And she can barely remember
All their names.
I think of Mom on the phone last night,
Asking what I had for dinner,
How things were going at school.
“Your mother feeds eleven children?” I ask,
As a picture of an enormous table fills my mind.
“We’re not all still at home,” Bonnie laughs,
Explaining there are only five others in the house.
She shares a room with two sisters
And the cat.
“Next year, when I start high school,
I might get my own room.”
I am so grateful for her friendly conversation
I do not mention what I see.
The way she counts out raisins—only six—
To eat between afternoon technique class
And a grueling evening of variations.
The myriad trips she takes
To the dressing-room scale and
Wraps her stick fingers in near despair
Around her wraithlike waist.
Turns away with a fake and frozen smile
Fixed between her hollow cheeks
Above a jutting chin.
Could it be that Yevgeny’s brittle gaze,
Simone’s friendly teasing,
Señor Medrano’s flamboyant smile,
Lisette’s ceaseless perfection
Are a more intimate family?
To dance like Bonnie,
Will I have to stop craving organic apples,
The smell of a woodstove,
My mother’s overprotective questions,
My father’s soft, adoring gaze?
Instead embrace
Saturday mornings in the studio hallway
And eternal pliés
clutching the backs of the polished wood benches
That line the walls.
I watch Bonnie stand, stretch
Proficient, methodical, sleek.
She is grades behind me in school,
Though far wiser
In the ballet studio.
All around are
Dancers so precocious and strong,
And me pretending to be like them,
Though it can be hard to talk too long
To girls who know so much
And yet so little.
Is that why Remington,
The shadow of a beard over his chin,
Wise eyes,
Keeps drawing my stare?
Audition
Is always a scary word
Even though at the last one
I was chosen to come here.
This morning,
Bonnie and I watch Shannon
Slap a firm staple into the hallway corkboard.
Secure a single page:
Black-and-white letters,
Date and time.
Students from level B and up
Will try for parts in The Nutcracker.
Little girls dream of the party scene,
Older ones a chance to dance with the corps
Behind the Dew Drop Fairy,
Or perhaps be featured as an exotic candy
In the Land of Sweets.
For D and E students, and apprentices,
There is also the chance to be chosen
For a lecture-demonstration tour
Performing at schools and such
Along the eastern seaboard:
An introduction to barre exercises,
Some variations, and a story ballet.
Should I be more unsettled?
It seems to me that every day
Is an audition.
Fernando is twitchy,
Worried about the audition announcement.
All my grand ego at being his partner
Erased by the fear
That when I piqué across the floor,
Glissade and leap,
He may not catch me on his shoulder.
The posting about the audition has not left me nervous,
Only uncertain.
I will think about it tomorrow
Or maybe the next day.
Now I am pointing my toes,
Lifting my arms.
While the others around me
Stumble and slip and think about the future,
My dreams have dissolved
Into this moment
When I have to jump.
Most of the girls have been dancing here
Since they were very small.
Lisette, a miracle on legs,
Turned-up nose, giant smile
Belying the fierceness of her dedication.
Madison, casual, cool, ba
llerina chic,
Whose father is on the ballet board.
Half the company dancers were her babysitters.
Some days,
I partner with Fernando,
Feel LaRae pat my shoulder,
Catch a glimpse of Shannon’s smile.
But more days,
I tiptoe away from Señor Medrano’s disappointed shrug;
Feel the irritated pressure of Yevgeny correcting
The angle of my foot, the curve of my arm;
Chase mastery of some step, some line the other girls
perform with ease.
Once, Mom made me watch
A PBS documentary about the prodigy Mozart,
Whose first compositions came before
He knew how to write the notes on paper.
While I watched, Mom smiled approvingly,
Encouraging my glance
Into the mirror,
Where I saw Mozart’s eyes in
A girl who had danced
Since before she went to school,
Whose first memories
Were of standing in bright tutu, blue eye shadow,
new ballet slippers,
Skipping across a narrow stage.
Now, the edges of these memories sharpen.
I see the cracks in the studio floor beneath her feet,
The lack of turnout in her fifth position.
What I cannot see is answers.
Why was that blue-shadowed girl happy?
Where did she think she was going?
What did she want?
At last well turned out, on a professional stage,
Can she get anywhere so late in the game?
Where does she think she is going?
What does she want?
I should be in the studio
During the break between barre and center work,
Stretching my legs,
Working my arches.
Instead I linger in the hall
Where Remington stands
Talking to some corps dancers
About choreography.
I should be drinking water.
Instead I surreptitiously sneak
M&M’s from the bag
I bought at the drugstore near the bus stop.
I should be thinking about the stripe-tied boys from Upton.
Instead I steal glances
At the wiry hairs peeking over
Rem’s white T-shirt collar,
Imagine the feel of the dark stubble
Shadowing his cheeks and chin.
“Is Julio coming to the studio tonight?”
Simone stands beside me.
“Can I have some?”
She points to the candy
Tucked behind my dance bag.
I nod,
Watch her toss a giant handful
Of bright orange, red, blue, yellow
Into her mouth.
“God, I love chocolate.”
She gives the slight curve of her stomach
A rueful pat.
I shrug.
Don’t know if Julio is coming
Or if Simone’s bright, black eyes
Have spotted any of my secrets
Less innocent than candy.
There is this tricky lift
Straight up.
The girl stands in front of the boy.
He pliés low,
Puts his thumbs together,
His palms pressing up against her thighs.
She jumps, leaning back a little,
Leveraging her straight body
To balance against the strength
Of his hands.
Today I am not with Fernando,
Who touches girls
Like vaguely disgusting objects
He is taking to the trash.
Today I am with Remington
And his hands feel different
When they slide along
The backs of my legs.
We read great books at Upton Academy,
Crime and Punishment,
Pride and Prejudice,
This and that.
In bed at night
When I can’t sleep,
I think of Rodya dreaming of horses,
Sonya’s pale face,
The misdirected loves of the Bennet sisters.
Wish my life were inside a book
So I could turn to the ending,
See if it is a love story
Or a gothic disaster.
At the studio,
The company dancers
Sit at the table in the corner
Littered with diet soda cans.
Some read books with corseted bosoms
And bare-chested men
Swooning across the covers.
No symbols.
No images.
Just the story of a man and his member,
A girl and her desires.
No AP literature essay required.
And then sometimes I dream myself,
Torn frock, hair flowing,
Draped across the rippling arm
Of Remington.
I should be grateful
To my school adviser,
Who arranges a ride for me
From Upton to ballet.
I no longer have to ride the city bus.
But the solution is a convertible,
No windows to close,
Driven by the giant-haired
Ruby Rappaport,
Whose father owns a restaurant chain.
The car is cherry red
With a white, collapsible roof,
Gleaming silver hubcaps.
She drives her boyfriend sometimes—
Adnan, with bronze skin
And a laid-back way of lounging in the seat.
I sit behind,
Thinking how handsome they are together.
Jealous of their easy conversation,
Barely intelligible through the windy air,
Of Ruby’s slightly aggressive speed,
Open-topped along the urban thruway.
They are polite
But when they drop me
At the studio
I know they are relieved.
I cannot find the words
To reassure them
My awkward quiet is not judgment
But envy.
There’s no such thing as an easy ride.
In the smallest studio
At the far end of the hall,
Remington works late
With some company dancers
Or Jane
Or alone
With an old CD player
He stops and restarts,
Measure after measure.
Stepping, standing, writing stuff down,
Scribbling it out,
His hulking hands gesture and smash.
Waiting for Señor, I watch
The shapes and patterns of making dances
Different
From just dancing them.
No school on Monday
So I will go home for the weekend,
Get back late Sunday,
Take an extra ballet class Monday
In preparation for the audition on Tuesday.
Dad meets me at the studio.
I skip Friday night’s partnering class
So he won’t have to drive through the city
After dark.
Ignore Yevgeny’s sneer,
Accusing me of lack of dedication.
All I want is to sleep in my own bed,
A dinner without jalapeños,
The smoky heat of a woodstove,
A bright bouquet of rosy apples
Softening in the clay fruit bowl,
Filling the kitchen with their gentle scent
Of ripening off the vine.
Weekends are always too short
And most of the time is lost to sleep.
Otherwise I wear a sturdy smil
e,
My armor against the questions
Mom pelts from every direction, topic, side,
Spreading thick butter on homemade bread,
Sprinkling cheese onto soup.
Have you gotten taller?
Did I tell you Mrs. Allegra is having another baby?
We had a bumper crop of Jonah Golds.
Bess wants to know if you’re coming to her Christmas party.
Are you happy?
Decline Ms. Alice’s invitation
To join the Saturday class
In her friendly basement.
Turn down Bess’s offers
Of riding to a party at Kari’s
With her and Stephen.
I don’t think I can bear
Sitting in the back of a car behind a boy and a girl
The way I do each day in Jersey, pretending