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.