Contents
On Pointe
Dedicated to my grandfather,
Reuel Grant Garber,
who always said I felt the music;
and my husband,
David Warren Grover,
who saw the trees dancing.
Special thanks to
my mother, Karine Leary,
for driving me to ballet for ten years and waiting through all those classes;
my brothers, Dale and Kevin Leary,
who had to come along and wait as well;
and my editor, Emma Dryden,
who dances with me now from one end of the manuscript to the other.
Willow
I dance because Mother says I’m her prima ballerina. City Ballet Company? Please. I’m going to New York. Soon I’ll be the youngest professional dancer in American Ballet Theatre. Mother says so.
Rosella
I dance because money won’t buy my spot in City Ballet. I want this so bad I’ll do anything. I get whatever I want.
Dia
I dance to feel beautiful. But all of a sudden I’ve grown. Not taller or fatter. But now I need a big bra and my hips are huge. I have to cover up and hide everything. Otherwise they won’t let me dance anymore. I know it.
Margot
I dance because I always have. What else would I ever do?
Elton
Most guys don’t dance, but I like to. None of my friends get it. Who cares? Ballet makes me strong. Besides, I like hanging out with so many girls.
Clare
I work half an hour at the barre and an hour on the floor, six days a week. I stretch every sinew and sweat from every pore, proving I’m in control. This is our dream: me, my mom, dad, and grandpa’s. We dream that I’ll be a dancer in City Ballet.
I let go of the barre,
press my salty lips
to my towel,
and breathe in my sweat.
Willow pitty pats her face dry.
Elton wipes up
where he dripped.
“Here, Clare.”
Rosella hands me my toe shoes.
“Thanks.”
“And now move to the floor room,”
says Madame.
Little girls
pour out of the dressing room,
racing for the barres
we’ve stepped away from.
We hurry with our class
down the hall
to the floor room
and watch the adult class end.
“How sad,” whispers Rosella.
The men and women are like
twenty years old.
A few could be thirty or forty.
Who knows?
They don’t use pointe shoes.
Their bodies sag.
Bits of fat
bounce on their bones.
Their tights and leotards
blare color.
Half of them can barely stumble
through combinations.
Their instructor with the little goatee
must be sick to his stomach
after trying to teach them.
Why are they even here?
Why do they smile?
I shrink back
as they brush by
to leave.
The guys get extra time to stretch
while we girls
drop down against the back wall.
Without our flat shoes on,
we are
a row of feet,
bulging in tights
spotted red and brown with blood.
The holes we cut
let us peel the fabric
back from our toes.
The tights tug up
loose skin and coagulated blood.
“Huhhhhh!”
We grind our teeth and blink back
the stinging pain.
Blisters pop.
Clear liquid runs.
Fresh blood oozes.
Gauze,
tape,
moleskin,
and spongy pink toe caps
hold the skin
and blood in place.
“Hppp!”
We hold our breath
and stretch
the tights
back over our toes.
Our feet slip
into satin shoes
with stiff shanks,
hard boxing,
tight elastic,
and slippery ribbons
that wrap and end
in hard knots.
The frayed edges
are crammed
out of sight.
We stand.
A row of bound feet
rises
to its toes.
“I’m looking
for a four/four piece,”
Madame says to the pianist,
the old guy
that’s here everyday,
that no one ever talks to
or really looks at.
“No, not that one,” says Madame.
She shuffles through his music.
Rosella and I
lean against the window.
A breeze tickles a couple stray hairs
against my cheek.
I press them back into place
and look outside.
The Cascade foothills
snug up close against my grandpa’s town
sitting low in the valley.
Mount Rainier is peeking out
of the top of the clouds
hovering above us.
It looks huge.
“I’m definitely fat today, Clare,” says Rosella.
“You are not,” I whisper,
and look away from the window.
She turns sideways
and stares at herself in the mirrors
that cover the wall.
They show the truth
every second we are in this room.
But even so,
some girls can’t see themselves
for real.
“Yes, I am,” she says. “Fat.”
I shake my head.
Even her neck
looks skinnier today.
“Okay, class.”
Madame claps,
and we walk out to the floor.
None of us is fat.
Or
we wouldn’t be here.
There are only
sixteen positions
in City Ballet.
Sixteen positions
make the company.
How many in my class?
How many in the conservatory?
How many in western Washington
dream
like me
to be
one
in sixteen?
We stand
perfectly still.
Madame chants the combination.
“Demi-plié, pas de chat, changement, relevé.”
I try to mark the steps
by barely moving my hands.
We catch the words
being fired out
of her red-lined lips.
My mind is frantic
to gather each sound.
“Begin,” she says.
The pianist plays an intro.
I dip down and leap, switch feet and rise
on pointe.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
And then flow into the steps
we memorized last class.
The choreography is graceful, then strong.
It’s like I’m melting,
then getting zapped with electricity,
then flowing across the floor.
To the final plié.
I got it.
I hold my arabesque.
Madame weaves through the class
making adjustments to form.
I’m at least four whole inches
taller than all the girls,
and a couple inches taller than all the boys,
except Elton.
He’s still taller than me, at least.
Why didn’t I inherit Mom’s shortness
instead of Dad’s tallness?
And why the spastic growth spurt
this summer?
My ankle wobbles,
and sweat outlines my eye.
Madame raises my foot.
Her eyes measure every edge of me.
Please, don’t notice the four inches.
She moves on.
Her cane taps along the floor.
“Good, Margot.”
I peek at her in the mirror.
Margot’s only five-foot-two.
I lose my balance
and drop the arabesque.
We’re
sliced and divided
into little groups.
If we’re performing,
it’s as a group
of individuals,
each dying to be noticed for something good.
I land my triple pirouette.
Madame doesn’t see it.
If we’re waiting our turn,
we’re watching
to see if anyone
fails in any little way.
Willow misses a tendue.
Madame doesn’t see it.
We’re sliced and divided.
Dust.
Steamy sweat,
like a pot
of chicken soup.
Oak floors.
Pine rosin.
Sour breath
from deep inside.
We breathe it all
in rhythm.
Here is the moment
when the music flows into my bones,
and I don’t have to
think of the steps,
and I don’t have to count the movements,
and it really feels
like I might actually be
dancing
for a few seconds.
I’m a pale dust mote
swirling on a warm
sunbeam.
I leap and float,
land deep and rise
to step and spin in the shaft of light,
showing everyone
who I really am.
It’s like
I’m turned
inside out.
With a great sweeping bow,
we thank Madame,
silently,
but for the brush of shoes on wood,
and then we bow
to ourselves in the mirrors.
Even if we failed most everything today,
at least these bows
let us pretend
we’re real dancers.
Madame once was.
A dancer.
We all know she was great.
Her black-and-white photos line the back wall.
She was a soloist,
then a principal dancer
in a European company.
She lived it,
every person’s dream in this room.
So even though
she’s the typical ballet instructor—
tough,
harsh,
and scary—
we respect her
for what she was
and
what she can do for us
now.
I snatch my flat shoes
from the row against the wall.
It’s easy to find
the biggest pair.
“Can you come over today, Rosella?”
She works at landing
a triple pirouette
and nails it.
“Rosella?”
“Oh, sorry.
No, not today.
My mom says this Saturday is hers.
She wants to go shopping with me.”
“Okay.”
Leaving the floor room,
I look back.
Dia is comparing herself
to Rosella
in the mirror.
Dia grew big breasts and hips
this spring.
She’s tried to
shrink back to normal,
wearing sweaters
and rubber pants.
But nothing has worked.
Her body’s out of control.
Everyone can see it.
Madame will speak
to her soon.
“It’s pointless to think
you can achieve,” she’ll say.
Rumor is,
that’s her standard line
before you get kicked out.
I clutch my shoes
and rush down the hall.
I can’t keep growing
taller.
I’ve got to stop.
I can’t lose control
and be pointless
like poor Dia.
Everyone bustles
around the dressing room.
Chiffon skirts,
shoes,
and ribbons
flutter
as we metamorphosize
back into girls
and cover up
our leotards and tights
with jeans and T-shirts.
“Rosella!”
I bang on the stall.
The toilet flushes.
She comes out
wiping her lips
on toilet paper.
“You don’t
have to puke—” I say.
“Yes. I do.”
I cross my arms and block her way.
“You don’t, Rosella.”
“Knock it off.” She shoves by,
and I follow.
“You saw how fat I was in there, Clare.
It broke my whole entire line.”
“Give me a break.”
“No, give me one.
You’re supposed to be my friend.”
I raise my voice, “I am.”
The other girls stare at us.
I glare at Rosella,
but she doesn’t notice.
She crams her stuff in her bag
and leaves without looking back.
Rosella’s mom waves to me
as Rosella climbs into their convertible.
They pull out into traffic,
so neither one sees me
wave back.
The crosswalk light
takes forever to change.
I stare at the red hand.
Finally it turns
to the walking person.
I jog across Main Street,
hurrying by the yellow daffodil silhouette
spray painted on the asphalt.
The flowers mark every intersection in town.
The crosswalk light changes
before I get to the curb,
like always.
I reach the sidewalk
as the cars roll over the painted flower.
Nearly all the nearby farms grow daffs.
Grandpa says once everyone grew hops
till disease took the crops.
I can’t imagine beer mugs
painted at all the corners.
I brush gently against the heart-shaped leaves
trailing from the streetlight hanging baskets.
I smile at the judge watering his begonias
outside the Hammermaster Law Office.
He’s the only judge in town,
so everyone recognizes him.
Even me,
just from visiting Grandpa so much.
“Hello,” he says as water
splatters down onto the cement.
“Hi.”
I walk past.
The sp
lashing water sound reminds me of Rosella.
Yuck.
I could never puke like she does.
Even if I was overweight,
I’d eat less or something.
She eats less and vomits.
Where does she get energy
to get through class?
What am I supposed to do?
She’s definitely getting worse.
Other girls do it every now and then,
but Rosella is puking
after every class.
What about at home?
Should I tell her mom
or mine?
My grandpa, since I’m living with him
this summer?
Madame?
I’m Rosella’s friend.
She should listen to me.
I slip by the skinny tendrils dangling
from the last flower basket.
Or maybe I should listen to Rosella
and shut up?
She does have to stay thin … .
Grandpa’s house and garden
are surrounded by
a tall laurel hedge.
Sometimes, before I walk through
the little iron gate,
the shrubs look mean,
like they are trying to keep me out.
But other times,
the shrubs are like big arms
waiting to hug me into Grandpa’s house.
Today I step through the gate
easily.
The garden flowers sway
in the late afternoon wind.
Even the house’s sloping Tudor roof
looks like a lopsided smile.
I race up the porch steps
and open the storm door.
Classical music
plays softly
for Mija,
his sixteen-year-old black cat.
Today the hedge and house
seem just right.
“I’m home, Grandpa!”
“Hello, love,” he calls from the back porch.
I pour a big glass of orange juice
and nuke a bag of fat-free popcorn.
I stretch out on the couch.
Mija manages to leap up,
nibbles a piece I dropped,
then stretches and arches her back.
She slinks down
and disappears around the corner
with perfect grace,
despite her crickety old self.
Grandpa comes in and sits
in his small velvet chair.
“How was dancing today, Clare?”
“Class
was fine,” I answer.
“Did you express yourself
with those fast spins on one leg?”
“Fouettés. Yeah.”
“Excellent. There’s nothing like dance.
When your grandmother was alive,
she and I ruled
the ballroom.”
I zone out.
I’ve heard this a thousand times.
I barely remember my grandma.
She died when I was little.
Finally he finishes.
He smiles and crosses his legs.
“Pass the popcorn, please.”
I do.
Only a couple kernels
roll around on the bottom of the bowl.
“You are a scoundrel,” he says.
“My couch, my juice, and all my popcorn.”
“But I’m your granddaughter.” I grin.
“That you are, Clare.”