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    On Pointe

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      He runs his bumpy finger

      around the bowl.

      “You don’t need that salt, Grandpa.”

      He raises an eyebrow above his glasses

      and licks his finger clean.

      “You’re right,” he says. “One more lick.”

      I dump our empty microwave dinner plates

      into the garbage.

      Enough time left for a bath.

      “Night, Grandpa.” I kiss him

      on the forehead.

      “Night, Clare.” He slips back to sleep

      in his chair.

      In the pink-and-black bathroom,

      I peel off my cold leotard and tights

      like a layer of skin.

      While the soaking powder dissolves in the water,

      I sit on the chilly toilet lid

      and pick the tape off my toes.

      I step into the tub.

      Yikes! It burns, burns, burns

      the open sores

      on my feet.

      Then it stops.

      Hey.

      The tub seems shorter

      than ours at home.

      I shiver

      in the hot water.

      Everyone is sacrificing

      so my dream to dance

      with City Ballet

      comes true.

      Mom and Dad pay for shoes, clothes, and lessons.

      Grandpa helps pay for them too,

      and lets me live here for the summer.

      So much money is spent on me,

      I have to sacrifice

      my whole body.

      I can’t waste a dime.

      I dial,

      tug the sheet

      up between my legs,

      and leave my throbbing feet poking out.

      The cool night air slips around the room,

      but I’m too beat to get up and close the windows.

      I don’t know if I have enough energy

      to even talk to Mom.

      But here goes.

      “Hello?”

      “Hi, Mom.”

      “Clare! How was class?

      Was it fun and energizing?

      Did you do well?”

      “It was fine.”

      “Great! And

      is everything going smoothly

      with your grandfather?

      Are you two still getting along?

      No problems now, I hope.”

      “No, we’re doing okay.

      It’s still easier staying here

      than taking the bus every day

      from our apartment.”

      “That was the plan.

      A good plan.

      I knew it would be.

      You’re getting the best instruction

      right in my old hometown.

      I’ll never figure out

      how Ballet Conservatory

      ended up there.

      Someone liked the setting,

      I suppose,

      at some point.

      So there you have it.

      And it’s all worked out for us.

      Tell me,

      how are your new shoes holding up?”

      “They’re okay.

      Mostly.

      I, um, I’ll need another pair

      in a couple weeks.”

      “I’ll put in the order, Clare.

      Happy to do it for you.”

      “Sorry I’m wearing them out so quickly.”

      “Now, now. None of that.

      Anything for our dream.

      Any word on the audition, sweetheart?

      You must be so excited.

      I bet it’s only days away.

      I understand

      they wait to post the announcement

      till just before the tryouts,

      to keep nerves at bay.

      So, Clare,

      have you heard yet?”

      “Not yet, Mom.” I scrinch the sheet

      into my fist.

      She talks a hundred miles a second

      through every minute.

      “Well, when all goes as planned,

      are you ready to spend the school year

      with Grandpa?

      It would be a perfect location for you.

      Think about—”

      “Definitely. I’d like to stay here.

      It’s close to the conservatory.

      Rosella is psyched that I’d be in her school.

      And it’s not like I’d be leaving

      a ton of friends behind.”

      “No,

      ballet study hasn’t left time

      for friendships, has it?

      But then, that’s completely understandable,

      and you do have Rosella.

      She’s such a dear.”

      “Yeah. But, Mom?”

      “Yes?”

      “I would miss working at the bookstore

      with you and Dad.”

      “That’s nice of you to say, Clare.

      But like we discussed,

      you could come home after class

      occasionally,

      on Saturdays,

      and earn some money.”

      “That’d be good.”

      “I drove by your and Rosella’s

      old dance school today.

      You both have certainly outgrown

      their little yearly performances for parents.”

      “Definitely.”

      “And now you are at the conservatory,

      ready to audition

      for City Ballet Company.

      Next it will be Pacific Northwest Ballet,

      or even New York City, Clare!

      Our dream is about to come true, honey!”

      “Mom, you sound like a sappy commercial.”

      “Well, I’m so proud!

      But since it’s late, I’ll let you go.

      You need to get your rest.”

      I let go of the sheet

      and try to smooth it out.

      “Oh, and Dad sends his love, Clare.”

      “Love to him too.”

      “And he says to remind you, ‘Work hard.

      Failure is not in your future.’ ”

      “Yeah. Right.” Dad’s favorite line. “Night, Mom.”

      “Good night, my little ballerina.”

      Click.

      Little?

      Ballerina?

      Why can’t Mom focus

      on one thing?

      Why can’t I think about City Ballet

      without the pressure of PNB

      or some New York company

      in the way far-off future?

      City Ballet is what I’m working for.

      Isn’t that enough, Mom?

      “Clare,” Grandpa calls

      through my bedroom door

      in the morning.

      “Clare.”

      I don’t answer

      and wait for him to give up.

      He cracks the door

      and peeks in.

      I close my eyes and lie

      perfectly still.

      He closes the door

      and heads out to church.

      Every week he tries this.

      I take class six days out of seven.

      Let me at least chill out on Sunday!

      Even Mom said I didn’t have to go to church.

      Everyone agreed to that

      before I moved in.

      We’ve never gone.

      Why should I start

      because I’m staying with Grandpa?

      I snuggle down

      under my covers.

      After I wake and eat lunch,

      I go out and weed

      in Grandpa’s garden.

      I rip out the clover enthusiastically

      to make up for not going with him.

      “Hi.” I wave as Grandpa pulls in.

      “What’re you doing there, Clare?”

      “Some weeding.” I beam,

      ready for sure praise.

      “Oh.” He shuts the car door.

      “Want to help me?”

      “No. But thanks
    . I don’t work

      on the Lord’s Day.”

      The trowel slips from my muddy hand.

      “Oh, right. Sorry.”

      “Why don’t you come in,

      and we’ll have a simple lunch.”

      “I—I already ate.”

      He nods and goes inside.

      Ugh. I stab the dandelion roots

      with the weeder stick

      and yank the plant out of the dirt.

      I heave it at the wheelbarrow.

      Why can’t I ever seem to do the right thing

      to please Grandpa?

      He naps

      then goes back to church at night.

      For evening service

      he doesn’t bother knocking on my door.

      Just leaves me a note saying

      he’ll eat dinner with his friends

      afterward,

      and I can find something

      in the freezer.

      I hide out in my room

      through the afternoon.

      Reading and napping to avoid him

      till he leaves again.

      Come on.

      Everyone needs a down day.

      Right?

      “Morning.”

      “Morning, love.”

      Since Sunday’s over,

      everything will be normal again between us.

      Not weirdo stressed.

      It’s been the pattern since I moved in.

      Grandpa’s smiling,

      which helps me smile back.

      I kiss his cheek

      and smell warm prune juice.

      Yuck.

      He dabs his mouth. “Aha!”

      “What?”

      He fills in the last squares

      on his crossword.

      “Not in unison is discordant.”

      I stir my breakfast drink.

      This is it for me.

      Rosella vomiting makes me feel too guilty

      to eat anything else.

      “D-i-s-c-o-r-d-a-n-t,” he spells.

      “When something doesn’t fit in

      with the rest. Like a note in music.”

      He looks up at me.

      “Right,” I say.

      Discordant.

      Like one girl who’s taller

      than the rest.

      The skin on my back

      crawls against my T-shirt.

      My tights squeeze my legs.

      My leotard encases my body.

      I wind my ponytail tighter and tighter

      and pin it to my head.

      I’m a ballet student

      who feels like a lean linked

      sausage.

      I shove over the covers,

      sit on my bed,

      and cut foot holes

      in my new tights.

      Snip, snip.

      Perfect.

      Just the right size.

      And the tights aren’t running.

      At least something on me

      is perfect today.

      Even if

      nobody will see.

      Yeah.

      It’ll be fun to spend the school year

      at Grandpa’s.

      I like the little town,

      and I’ve always loved this house.

      The same one Mom grew up in.

      It has a rich full smell

      with smooth wood floors.

      The small window panes

      make things look ripply

      because the glass is curvy,

      from 1926,

      when the house was built.

      I love all Grandpa’s family’s antiques

      that were passed down to him,

      like the iron bed

      and antique dresser in here.

      And now this room,

      which used to be the guest one,

      looks like mine:

      clothes on the floor,

      bed unmade,

      stuffed animals

      lining the wide baseboard,

      books overflowing the shelves,

      and the giant poster of Mikhail Baryshnikov,

      the perfect dancer of all time—

      and drop-dead gorgeous, Rosella and I say.

      This room feels like mine

      already.

      By the time I double stitch

      a torn ribbon on my toe shoe

      and snip the loose threads,

      Grandpa’s calling me to eat lunch.

      The protein bar

      should hold me through class.

      “You sure that’s enough food, Clare?”

      “Yes,” I say with my mouth full.

      If he only knew what Rosella gets by on.

      Grandpa pats my back

      as I head out the door.

      “Bye, Clare.

      Have a good time.”

      I turn and wave until he goes inside.

      The air is still cool.

      My clogs crunch the fir needles,

      sending a Christmas smell

      out into the summer air.

      I weave through the garden.

      I piqué and glissade

      where no one can see me.

      I jeté around the giant sunflowers.

      A chickadee

      hops in the birdbath.

      One last double pirouette,

      and I’m out the gate,

      onto the sidewalk.

      Nothing is better

      than Grandpa’s garden.

      I dig out the dill pickle

      I stashed in my bag earlier,

      unwrap it,

      and take a big bite.

      Mmmm.

      Not many calories and delicious!

      I munch and cut through the alley

      behind the bakery and gift shops

      to avoid the window shoppers.

      I try not to kick up dirt

      onto my tights.

      I run across Main

      when the traffic breaks.

      The last bite of pickle

      makes me burp garlic.

      Up the front staircase,

      I pull hard

      on one of the heavy wooden doors

      and step into the brick conservatory

      that pulses with music

      and movement.

      The door thuds closed.

      My heart skips a beat

      and is out of sync

      with everything around me.

      In the foyer

      I smooth my hair

      and mash my bun

      until I feel the bobby pins

      jab into my scalp.

      Hairspray sticks to my fingers.

      I press one stray pin

      back into the center.

      It pops halfway out again.

      I press it in,

      but it won’t stay.

      I shoulder my bag,

      pull the bobby pin all the way out,

      pry it open with my teeth,

      and shove it into the other side

      of my bun.

      Sometimes

      things don’t stay

      how you want them.

      With a deep breath,

      I step into the barre room,

      where the adult class teeters

      to keep their balance.

      The instructor looks over at me.

      “And hold it, hold it,”

      he directs them.

      I cast my eyes down

      and rush along the opposite wall

      to get to the dressing room.

      This place has a lousy design.

      People are always coming through

      at the end of someone else’s session

      to change and get ready for their class.

      Everyone knows to scurry by silently.

      Even if it is

      just the adults.

      In the dressing room,

      I glance sidelong at Ellen;

      she’s looking at Margot,

      who’s sneaking a peek at that new girl, Devin.

      Rosella’s not here yet.

      Except for me and her,

      no
    one’s really friends

      with anyone else.

      Ballet students at the conservatory

      don’t hang out at each other’s houses

      or even call to chat.

      The only time we speak

      is to ask

      to borrow a bandage

      or to say, “Excuse me,”

      before pushing past.

      Everyone is someone

      trying to be better

      than you.

      It’s risky to make friends.

      Or to care.

      Rosella and I met

      back in kindergarten.

      My mom drove me across town

      to an uppity preschool.

      The only really good thing about it

      was Rosella.

      We’ve been friends

      since the first day.

      We both drew ballerinas

      in the art corner.

      We took classes together for years

      at our old ballet school.

      Sharing the same dream when you’re kids

      is fun.

      But here,

      everyone is completely serious.

      Each person at the conservatory

      shares our dream.

      Each is a threat,

      trying to be one in sixteen.

      If sixteen of them

      make it,

      my dream dies.

      I slip off my jeans and T-shirt

      and tie on my black chiffon miniskirt.

      I kick off my clunky clogs

      for thin, leather, flat shoes

      that glove my feet.

      My bones and muscles

      poke out all over.

      Here

      everything has to be uncovered.

      Margot walks by

      in the dressing room,

      wearing nothing

      but a dangling tampon string.

      Is she so used

      to people staring

      at her body,

      correcting and directing,

      that she believes

      it doesn’t matter

      if anyone looks anymore?

      Is she so confident

      of her body

      that anyone can look

      at everything?

      Why am I the only one

      blushing?

      Willow never gets ready alone.

      Her mother swoops into the dressing room

      for final touches,

      like a splash of rose water.

      We are bumped aside

      for Willow’s completion.

      “There.” Her mother sighs.

      “Now go dance,

      my prima ballerina.”

      Willow parades out to the barre room,

      wearing the only smile around.

      Yeah, my mom might call me

      her little ballerina,

      but at least she doesn’t smother me

      like Willow’s mom.

      Shoving in,

      telling me what to do

      and how to get better.

      That’s got to be a ton of pressure for Willow.

      Her mom needs a life.

      At least mine’s got the bookstore with Dad.

      She has something other than me.

      Doesn’t she?

      Willow’s mom scuttles out

      while Rosella charges in.

      “I guess Prima

      is ready for class,” she mutters.

      “Mommy made her smell like a rose today.”

      Rosella snorts.

     

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