by Paddy Eger
Marta looked at the car. The right fender had several dents and the hood ornament leaned to one side. A good washing wouldn’t hurt either.
Lynne laughed. “I know. It’s a disaster. It looks worse than it drives.”
“Thanks, I’d love a ride, but I need to pedal myself home. Maybe another time.”
“OK. See you tomorrow. Nine sharp. Happy pedaling.” Lynne climbed into her car and chugged down the street.
Marta headed home on the bike. Home to the boarding house, for now. When she saved enough money, she’d look for an apartment and then a cheap car. They’d allow her to become totally independent.
The smell of pot roast reached Marta as she parked the bike around back. She needed to find the energy to stay awake for the next couple of hours to eat and be sociable with the boarders. But first, a shower.
On her way to dinner, she stopped on the landing to check her damp hair. It looked kinda scraggly, but then it always looked that way after a shower.
Mrs. B. stood in the archway wearing a red checked apron over a powder blue dress. “Good evening, Marta. You’re right on time. How was your first day?”
“Okay, but I‘m exhausted,” she said as she walked around the table of seated boarders. James pulled back Marta’s chair as she approached. She smiled, “Thanks, James. But you don’t need to do this every night.”
“Ah, yes I do,” he said. “My momma said to seat a lady properly is the gentlemanly thing to do, Miss Marta,”
All the boarders except Carol laughed as the ritual of the chair began.
Dinner in the boarding house looked formal, but in reality the hour invited casual conversation. A well-set table of a striped linen tablecloth with matching napkins and garden flowers in a bowl appeared to be Mrs. B.’s standard. They took second place to the ample array of food: pot roast, mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, a green salad, and chocolate cake. Marta shuddered at the sight of so much heavy food. She took a small portion of beef, no potatoes and no corn, ate her salad without dressing, and avoided the cake.
The boarders encouraged her to share her day. She in turn listened to their stories. Carol remained silent with a look of disinterest affixed to her face. Why does she live here if she’s that detached? Must be like me, Marta thought, unable to afford anything else.
Shorty and James claimed the dining table for cards. Carol disappeared upstairs as Marta cleared the table, then scraped and piled the plates next to the sink. The peacefulness in the kitchen helped her unwind.
The clock read seven-thirty by the time she climbed the stairs to her room. Did she have energy to stay up a little while? No; she’d almost gone face down in her plate. Why did her letter have the wrong date? And why did Madame expect her to call and check? She had called once she reached Billings. The man said the ballet company offices were closed. Tomorrow she needed to be artful, on tempo, and well-rested. All the more reason to go to bed early.
The Baby Ben bedside alarm clock clanged. Marta punched down the “off” button. She stretched and massaged the knots and stiffness in her legs and arms. Through the floor vent she heard Mrs. B. rattling dishes.
The smell of bacon curled up through the vent as well. She gagged. What a disgusting smell. How could anyone eat fried fat for breakfast? Thoughts of skipping breakfast crossed her mind, but Mrs. B. would be disappointed if Marta didn’t eat as a member of her big happy family. Marta covered her head with her pillow to block out the kitchen smells as she struggled to come fully awake.
Right on schedule, Marta parked the bike by the side entrance and found the ballet mistress. She purchased the needed clothing and shoes, then caught up to Lynne stretching at the barre in the large practice room alongside other dancers.
“Hey, Marta,” Lynne said. “How are your muscles?”
“The bike ride loosened them some, but I’m still stiff. It will be tough to become a graceful muse for Madame.”
“I worry about you and that bike. You do know it snows here from November to March? You should get a car.”
Marta shook her head. “Can’t. No money. Besides, we got our first car last spring, so I’ve never driven in snow.”
Madame entered the practice room and tapped her cane. “Time to begin, boys and girls.”
Marta took a cleansing breath and focused straight ahead. Okay, Madame Cosper, you can’t find fault with my appearance. Today I’ll make my dancing flawless as well.
Madame and Damien set a fast pace. Today the mazurkas in Coppélia were introduced, practiced, and expected to be committed to memory. Next, they returned to the choreography for Sleeping Beauty.
The section of the waltz she’d learned for the audition took definite shape as lines moved to circles and circles to lines. Over and over, again and again, the corps moved around the soloists, creating depth and background.
Marta bumped into dancers as she struggled to learn the newer choreography. They frowned and pushed her out of their space. Maybe Lynne would help her catch up after hours. Madame certainly didn’t show any sign of assisting her.
The morning practice lasted forever; eating toast and tea didn’t provide sufficient energy to dance. She’d need to add peanut butter or cheese to her toast. At lunch she’d eat protein, if she could stomach it.
Marta sat in the Bison Café with Lynne and Jer, the young man from her first day. Bartley, the other new corps girl, came along. She stood several inches taller and appeared thinner than Marta. She wore her golden hair in a high bun and glided like a beauty queen whenever she moved. From the looks of her street clothes and shoes, she could afford the latest styles.
“Well, ladies, how do you like the corps?” Jer asked.
Lynne shrugged. “The girls are okay. Some of the guys think they are hot stuff. They keep asking me out. Not going to happen.”
Bartley smiled. “That red headed guy always tries to stand next to you. You’d make a cute couple.”
“Right.” Lynne rolled her eyes. “I like college men. They have more to talk about.”
Jer stopped chewing his burger and looked up. “Are you saying we’re dumb or something?”
“No, just focused on yourselves.”
“At least I eat real food.” He pointed to Marta and Bartley, who had side salads with chicken slivers sprinkled over the top. “Is that all you girls are eating, rabbit food and baby portions of chicken? You need energy to survive Madame.”
Marta watched Bartley fork up another bite. “This works for me,” Bartley said.
“Me too,” Marta said.
Lynne finished her tuna sandwich. “Eat your cow and leave them be, Jer. If they don’t eat, they’ll pay the price before today ends. I, on the other hand, will be lively and energetic.” She slurped the last of her milkshake. “Guys are all alike. They eat anything and everything. I’m lucky as well. I’ll burn off this lunch in no time.”
Marta picked at her salad and drank a second glass of water. Bartley smiled and pushed away her half eaten salad. She grabbed her purse and walked to the cashier to pay for her meal.
“I guess she’s ready to leave,” Jer said.
With Madame overseeing the soloists and taking care of the operation of the company, afternoon rehearsals were pleasant. Damien’s style allowed Marta to focus on the choreography rather than worrying about the meaning of Madame’s frown line that deepened whenever she looked toward Marta.
The four new dancers stood in the back row. Patrice Royal, the aqua- eyed principal dancer, stood center front, a place reserved by experience, talent, and hard work. Marta scanned the row of demi-soloists. They were lean and skillful, not even breathing hard after long sections of choreography. How many years did it take them to gain so much stamina and work their way to the front row?
She surveyed the other corps members, standing one row ahead of her.
Too many dancers to surpass to become a principal dancer any time soon.
In an hour’s time, sweat dripped off every dancer, spreading droplets across the shiny floor. Opening the doors and windows didn’t relieve the humidity. While the troupe rested, Karl, the guard and maintenance man, mopped. His grimace reminded her of her first encounter with him. Didn’t anyone but Lynne smile around here?
Rehearsals ended early today for costume fittings. The costume shop ran the width of the building and covered half the upstairs. Stepping inside provided a visual feast. Rows of clothing racks held a variety of costumes: a rainbow of long gowns and tutus, tunics, vests, capes, jackets, and aprons. Bolts of blue cotton, red velvet, and misty silk lay on tables; niches overflowed with feathers, bodice forms, beads, and trim. Marta wished she could touch the fabrics to feel their luscious textures. Her mom would be thrilled if she could work with this array of fine fabrics.
Two assistants sat at long tables sewing and repairing while others hand-cleaned and pressed costumes. This would impress Miss Holland. She got excited when the costumes she ordered from various dance wear companies reached her on time. Most required massive adjustments before recitals--another task for Marta’s mom.
When her turn arrived, Marta stepped onto a small raised platform. Rose Vagus, the costume mistress, recorded her measurements. Marta used the time to scrutinize her own body in the massive mirror: thin nose, high cheekbones, thin neck, and breasts small enough that she’d not need to bind herself for costume bodices. Now, if she could drop a few pounds, everything would be perfect.
“There, that’s it,” Rose said. “Buy a hair piece to fill in where your hair is thin. Don’t gain or lose any weight; we only take your measurements once a year. And don’t go fixing things yourself. We do all the repairs, understand?”
“Yes, mistress.” In high school Marta had taken in her own costume to prevent her mom from noticing her increasing thinness. Many days her mom squinted, trying to figure out what was different, but Marta didn’t volunteer any information.
As she exited the room, she passed Lynne, who sat on a folding chair reading Photoplay magazine as she waited for her turn. They exchanged smiles.
“Lynne Meadows,” called a voice from inside the costume shop. Lynne stood, tossed down the dog-eared magazine, and stepped into the costume shop.
Marta slowed as she passed Bartley. They looked totally different. Bartley’s golden hair lay flat against her head in a perfect bun; few hairs escaped. Marta’s brown hair kinked different directions, springing from her bun whenever she sweat, usually all day during rehearsals. Bartley’s sleek copper skin glowed. Marta’s fair skin and freckles washed her out.
Bartley smiled. Marta hesitated. “May I ask about your name?”
“Everyone does,” Bartley said. “It’s my mother’s family name. Dates back a hundred years. Since I have no brothers, I’m the first girl to get stuck with it.”
“Hm-m. I kind of like it,” Marta said. “Sounds dramatic; a good name for a principal dancer.”
“True, but you should see all the mail I get for Mr. Bartley Timmons.”
Marta returned to the practice room downstairs. Did Marta Selbryth sound like a good name for a principal dancer? She hoped so. But first, she needed to perform her way out of the back row.
She stood at the barre practicing her port de bras, reaching back further and further to challenge her flexibility. From upside down, she saw Patrice enter the room. What was the protocol when a principal dancer entered a room? Ignore her? Leave the room? Pretend she didn’t see her? Too late for any of those.
Patrice crossed her arms and smiled. “You have a nice extension.”
Marta reached tall and viewed Patrice through the mirror. “Thanks.”
As soon as she spoke, she regretted her comment. What a stupid thing to say. But what should she have said?
Lynne walked in as Patrice exited. “What did she want?”
“She said I had a nice extension.”
“What do you know, she speaks to corps dancers. Watch out for her. Jer says she doesn’t like many people, especially dancers who threaten her role as princess of all things.”
“I’m no competition. I’m barely keeping up. These practices make all my past ones look like kinder class.”
Lynne laughed. “Don’t be too sure. We made the cut. Who knows, maybe one day we’ll both be a princess of all things, if Madame stops correcting us and gives us the chance. Did you hear her mention my turnout, again?”
Marta stretched over the barre. “Does she mention everyone the same?”
“No. Marguerite only gets compliments. I wonder why she’s special. I’ll ask Jer. He seems to know everything.”
Marta wondered as well. Madame seemed disinclined to mentor the new dancers. Would she let them audition as understudies this year? Doubtful.
In a moment of frustration and tiredness, Marta felt a tiny rebellion rise inside her. She limped around the room, imitating Madame, pointing an imaginary cane toward Lynne. “You there, Lynne. Keep your mouth quiet and get back to work. You’re only a corps girl.”
Lynne stood statue still, not laughing or cracking a smile as Marta continued.
“Keep your chin up! Up, up!”
Marta saw Lynne’s face turn chalky white as she tossed a small motion of her head toward the door and moved her eyes that way as well. Marta turned.
Madame stood in the doorway. Her eyebrows met above her nose as her face twisted into an angry glare.
Marta’s feet felt glued in place. A blast of fear exploded through her body.
Madame shook her head slowly, lifted her chin, and thumped away.
Tick, tick, tick. Only the sound of the second hand on the clock interrupted the silence in the room. Marta couldn’t move or breathe.
Lynne stepped to the hall doorway and peered out. “She’s gone.”
Tears filled Marta’s eyes as she attempted to breathe normally. “I may be gone as well.”
5
Marta sat in her room and rocked, watching the day fade to dusk, then dark. Her body ached more from crying than dancing. Madame’s angry face arose whenever she closed her eyes.
A gentle tap on the door startled her. “Who’s there?”
“It’s Mrs. B. I brought a pot of peppermint tea and dry toast. Shall I leave it here in the hall?”
“Just a minute.” Marta ran her fingers through her hair and snugged the ties of her borrowed housecoat before opening the door.
Mrs. B. smiled. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well. Can I get you anything else?”
Marta shook her head. “I have a confession. I’m not really sick. I couldn’t face dinner tonight. I got in trouble today, and I don’t know what to do to fix things.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” Mrs. B. said.
“Maybe. But I don’t know what good talking will do.” Tears welled up. She wiped them away. “Can you stay for a minute?”
“Of course.” Mrs. B. entered and placed the tray on the dresser by the window. She moved to sit in the rocking chair and folded her hands. “How can I help?”
Marta paced her room then sat on the edge of the bed. “I made a terrible mistake. I mimicked Madame and she saw me. Now I’m afraid she’ll send me home.”
“Hm-m. That sounds serious. You don’t seem like a person who’d intentionally hurt someone’s feelings.”
“I’m not. I mean, I was tired and frustrated. I missed several rehearsals, and it’s hard to catch up. Madame glares at me and isn’t helping me and... I don’t know.”
“So it’s her fault that you got in trouble?”
Marta startled and stopped pacing. Is that how she sounded? That she was blaming Madame for her rudeness? “No. It’s my fault. I--I’m frustrated and embarrassed and scared
that she’ll send me home.”
Marta resumed her barefoot pacing. The only sound in the room was the creaking of the rockers as Mrs. B. kept the chair moving back and forth.
“I wish I could go back and undo what I did,” Marta said.
“At times we all do, dear, but we can’t. So, what are you planning to do now?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Mrs. B. stood and patted Marta’s shoulder as she reached for the door handle. “In my experience, an apology is always a good place to start. Whatever you decide to do, you need to figure it out as soon as possible.”
Marta stared at the closing door. Mrs. B. was right. But what do you say to someone like Madame who dislikes you, someone who controls your future?
The clock hands moved in slow motion. All night Marta alternately paced, rocked, and stared out the window. She replayed the situation with Madame again and again. Why had she mimicked her? Because Madame scowled at her and didn’t appear to approve of her? Or was she frustrated with herself for making so many mistakes? For not being as good as the other dancers? She was trying to learn the choreography as fast as possible, but her best didn’t seem good enough—for Madame or for herself. How badly did she want to be part of the company? Badly. Somehow she needed to make a significant change, and fast.
As the pre-dawn sky lightened, she knew what she wanted and needed to do. Apologize. She splashed her face with cold water and combed her hair. Except for losing her Dad, facing Madame could well be one of the hardest things she’d do in her life.
Breakfast sounds, voices, and clattering breakfast dishes traveled up through the floor vent. She knew she couldn’t eat or sit at the table and act as if nothing had happened, so she slipped out the back door and pedaled into town.
