That Pale Host

by L. G. McCary

  “It’s itchy!” Rylie says.

  “I know, baby. Show me where it itches, and I’ll try to put something over it.”

  The blue and green chevron-patterned leotard shimmers in the sunlight. I help her loop the elastic band at the end of each wing-like sleeve around each hand and adjust the puffy tulle skirt.

  “My headband!”

  I wrap the soft lacy band behind her ears with the pompoms settled on top.

  “Do you like it, Rylie?”

  “I’m a peacock!”

  The sequined feather pattern on the back of the tulle skirt flashes as she arabesques to the window.

  “Now we need that blue and green eyeshadow,” I say. She giggles and bounces up and down.

  “I want my music! Turn on the music so I can dance.”

  I turn the music on and watch her prance and strut around the room.

  “Hey, look at this!” David says from the kitchen doorway.

  “You’re home early,” I say, edging away from him.

  “Is that your new costume, Rylie?”

  “I’m a peacock! Watch, Daddy!”

  David leans against the doorframe and grins as she taps around the room. She ends with a dramatic bow, runs, and jumps into his arms.

  “I’m a peacock.”

  “Yes, you are. Unfortunately,” he says with a raised eyebrow and looks at me. “She’s a peacock. Not a peahen.”

  “What?”

  “Peacocks are the boy birds. They’re the ones with the big fancy tails. Girl birds don’t look like that.”

  I grit my teeth and give him the evil eye.

  “It’s a costume,” I say, my voice a warning that Rylie hopefully won’t notice. “Who cares if it’s biologically accurate?”

  “They should have made that boy in the class the peacock and the rest of them peahens.”

  It doesn’t matter that Rylie loves it and looks adorable. He has to criticize. Rylie is frowning, pulling at her tutu.

  “Get over it,” I growl. “It’s a dance routine, not science class.”

  “Charlotte, I wasn’t picking a fight.” We are squared off against each other with peacock Rylie in the middle.

  “Mama, it itches!” She tugs at the back of her costume.

  “I’ll fix it, baby.”

  I leave them in the living room to find the pack of moleskin I bought after the last time tulle rubbed my girl’s skin raw. She’ll be the loveliest little peacock in the recital. The dance teacher has come up with far weirder costumes than a gender-bent bird anyway.

  “Charlotte, I wasn’t picking a fight.” David startles me while I’m digging through the cabinet.

  “Why do you have to nitpick every single thing about dance?” I say. If he doesn’t want me to bite his head off, he needs to stay at arms-length. “This is her favorite thing in the world, and every single recital, you make some snide remark.”

  “That was not a snide remark! It was an observation!”

  “It was nitpicking. Again. Are you going to make fun of her purple princess costume, too?”

  “I wasn’t saying the costume was bad.”

  I am done with this conversation. “Where is Rylie?”

  “She’s dancing. I turned her music back on.” He stands next to the bed, arms folded.

  “Maybe keep your opinions to yourself from now on. Or at least don’t say it around Rylie. You’re going to ruin it for her.”

  “Charlotte, what is this about?”

  What is anything about anymore? He still wants more kids, and he won’t stop trying to talk about it. But there is nothing to say, and I won’t let him get started.

  “You have to ruin anything dance-related when it’s the best thing she’s ever tried, and she loves it.”

  “Well, I think this is about you, yet again, getting angry about something tiny as an excuse to pick a fight.”

  As if I needed any excuses. I finally find the moleskin and leave the bathroom without responding to him. He shouts something after me as I go find Rylie.

  “Here, sweetie. Where is the itchy spot?”

  I cover the scratchy bits with moleskin, and now Rylie doesn’t want to take the costume off. She dances around the living room again and bows dramatically at the end.

  “Very pretty. You’re a beautiful little peacock, Rylie-Girl,” David says from the hallway. He’s changed into a T-shirt and jeans.

  “Yes, you are.”

  “When is the recital again?”

  “Two weeks from Saturday.”

  “Are you doing your homework, Rylie?”

  Rylie’s face instantly falls, and she rumbles like a storm cloud. “I don’t want to.”

  “You don’t dance unless homework is done.”

  “Grrr!” Rylie says, stomping her heel.

  I wish he hadn’t brought up this battle. So often lately he starts the homework battle and leaves me to deal with it while he messes around with something in the garage. Something in me snaps. He will not do this to me again. Not today.

  “I’ll bet Daddy can help you with your homework tonight if you get stuck.”

  His eyebrows furrow, but Rylie brightens a little. “Will you, Daddy?”

  “Sure. I guess I can do that. Unless you’d rather Mommy helped you?”

  “I think Rylie wants you to help her,” I say, giving him a look. You start the battle, and you finish it, Mister.

  He nods. I won this one for now.

  “Why don’t you go get in your regular clothes, and we’ll get your homework finished?”

  “Okay!” she says as if homework is suddenly the most wonderful idea she’d ever heard of. I help her get the top of the leotard off, and she runs away to her room to change.

  “I hope it’s worth it this time,” David says, gesturing to the costumes on the floor.

  “She is good, David. This is worth the time.”

  “How many times has she run off the stage now?”

  “She gets stage fright,” I say, gathering up the purple princess costume for her ballet routine. “But Colleen has been prepping her. She’s going to be fine.”

  “I hope so.”

  “She loves tap and ballet, and she has both routines down cold, David,” I shout. “She will do great!”

  “She’s been doing this for over a year now. You spend hours on these expensive costumes and all the private lessons and videos that she’s not even in because she hides in the curtains or freezes or whatever. And for what?”

  I turn my back to him and shove the fabric and ribbon into my sewing work bag. I snap the cover on my machine as loudly as possible.

  “I’m just saying, it’s reasonable to consider quitting,” he says. “Unless a miracle happens and she doesn’t have stage fright anymore.”

  I look up at him, stick my tongue out, and clamp my teeth down on it. He throws his hands in the air.

  “Very mature, Charlotte.”

  “I’m biting my tongue,” I say, picking up my sewing machine.

  “And biting my head off every chance you get.”

  “Maybe stop being so negative,” I hiss.

  “Then you stop making excuses for her and homework,” David says, pointing at Rylie’s backpack on the floor.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Am I the only one in this house who reads her report card?” David throws his hands in the air.

  “She has all As and Bs.”

  “It could be all As if you would push her more.”

  “It’s first grade,” I say, setting the sewing machine back on the table a little too loudly.

  “Yes, but she needs to learn discipline early!” he says. “Do you know how hard I had to work to get my scholarships? I want her to work hard from the beginning, not have to make up for lost time later.”

  I cross my arms and sniff. “She is six, David. Six.”

  “Daddy?”

  Rylie stands in the living room doorway, purple T-shirt slightly askew around her neck. Her shoulders are slumped. David’
s ears turn red. Good. I hope he feels horrible.

  “Yes, Rylie?” he says, squatting down to her eye level.

  “Did I make you mad?” she asks, lip quivering.

  “No! No, honey. I’m...”

  He looks to me for help. I smile, showing my tongue firmly between my teeth again. He glares at me and clears his throat. Let Mr. Perfect Grades deal with the pain he inflicted.

  A flash of blue catches my eye behind Rylie, and I suck in a breath. The woman is standing behind her in the darkness of the hallway. She almost looks like light on fog, and she is crying. She won’t stop looking at me. I swallow a scream and steady myself against my sewing table, pretending to tidy it again.

  “Rylie, I just want you to do your best on your homework,” David is saying. He’s looking at me for backup, but he’s not getting any.

  “I’m sorry,” Rylie says, her lower lip quivering. “I’m a bad kid.”

  “No, you are not,” I say firmly.

  “No, you’re a wonderful kid,” David says, pulling her into a hug. “You’re my daughter, Rylie. It’s just that your mama and I want the best for you, and school is important, honey.”

  “I’m sorry, Daddy.” Rylie bursts into tears. As I turn away to let him deal with the damage he’s done, a cold spot makes my skin prickle. I force myself to walk slowly past a blue shadow in the kitchen doorway.

  She’s not real. She’s not.

  Eighteen

  “Mama, is Grandma watching?” My little girl is dressed in a soft purple princess dress that puffs out into a fluffy tutu above her knees. Her crown has been pinned on with every bobby pin in the universe. I feel a rush of freezing air as someone opens an outside door. I hope we get snow instead of sleet.

  “Yes, she’s all ready to watch. She’s out there with G-Pa and Nana and Daddy. Go stand with your teacher.”

  “I’m going to do the best ever!”

  “You’re going to listen to Miss Colleen, right?” Every nerve tingles from head to toe.

  “Yes ma’am,” she says.

  “And follow all instructions?”

  “Yes, Mommy.”

  “Pinkie square?”

  “Pinkie square,” she says, crooking her pinkie and smiling. She runs into the group of princesses about to walk down the hall to the stage. I’ll never know how Colleen keeps them in line, but I know I’d better duck out now between performances. David and our parents have saved me a seat that I manage to find in the dark theater. I slide in next to David and lean on my dad’s shoulder on the other side.

  “Is she behaving?” David whispers.

  “She’s fine.”

  “Can’t wait! Is she next?” Nana Tanya asks.

  “No, one more.”

  “Did you get her crown to stay?” my mom asks.

  “I sure hope so.”

  We’re paying for the professional video by the dance studio’s team. David wasn’t happy about the expense, but I told him to pay it or buy a nicer camera.

  “Did you see Tori and Greg came?” David whispers. He points behind us a few rows. I can’t believe they’re sitting through the whole recital for Rylie. Tori waves and grins like a little kid, and Greg gives us a thumbs-up. I wave back and settle in to watch the side of the stage for Rylie. If she can just be brave. Colleen hasn’t given up on her yet, but I don’t know how long that will last.

  I finally relax when the lights dim as Rylie’s class takes the stage. She walks on a little slower than the rest of her class and stands perfectly in line. As the lights come back up, I see that old face of stage fright and wince. I lean forward in my seat, willing her to be brave. She can do this. My heart thunders in my chest, my hands are cold, and I tap my heel against the floor, waiting with her. Her eyes are wide, and I can see her hands shaking even from this far away. She swallows as she searches the crowd for us.

  David waves, and Rylie draws a breath. She sees us. What is taking so long to get the music going? The longer we wait, the more likely it is that she’ll run. My dad squeezes my hand, and I can sense all five of us fidgeting in our chairs.

  The music chimes.

  Her eyes light up. Immediately she’s spinning around the stage, a whirl of purple. Her feet are perfectly pointed. Her arms snap in perfect time with the staccato notes of the music. She bows an elegant curtsy at the front of the stage, and I hear someone near the front “aww” with delight.

  But most of all, she is smiling. The joy on her face steals everyone’s eyes as she moves from element to element. This is the beautiful ballerina I’ve seen in class every week, not the scared little girl terrified at a parent-only showcase.

  “Is that the pas-de-chat you were talking about?” my dad whispers. Mom elbows him to hush.

  My bouncing knees shake our whole row. The big jump is coming. She’s landed it every week in the studio, but she fell in both dress rehearsals. The music crescendoes, and she steps to the center of the stage. I hold my breath.

  She lands it. I thought her smile was huge before, but she lights up the whole stage. I can barely sit still. She dips into the last bow, and I’m on my feet before the music can end.

  She finally showed everyone what she can do. I look back at Tori, who is standing along with me. The tears streaming down her face reflect the stage lights. She puts a hand over her heart and smiles. Greg stands and claps with her and nods at me.

  I can’t wait to see Rylie’s face when she realizes Aunt Tori and Greg watched her dance, too.

  “Charlotte, she was perfect!” my mom whispers.

  “She was!”

  “That’s my girl,” David says next to me. “I told her she could do it.”

  I close my eyes and bite my tongue. He told her she could do it?

  The grandparents whisper among themselves. I know my mom understands how amazing this truly is. They have to sit through three more dances before her tap routine.

  “She did great, Charlie,” David whispers in my ear and squeezes my shoulder as I stand up to sneak out to help Rylie with her costume in the green room.

  I pretend to be a dignified human being until I hit the doors to the backstage hallway, and then I run full tilt. Rylie pops up from the floor as I push the door open and runs to me, arms outstretched.

  “Mommy! Did you see me?”

  I can’t keep the tears from falling. My little six-year-old is getting heavy, but I pick her up and spin around anyway.

  “You were perfect. My perfectly perfect purple princess!” I say as we spin. She giggles and squirms.

  “I did it! I did it, and I didn’t get scared!”

  I set her down again and hug her tight.

  “I am so proud of you. So, so proud.”

  “I didn’t trip! Did Daddy see?”

  “Yes, and he’s so proud of you,” I say. The words taste like soap, but I know they are what she needs to hear. “He had such a big smile.”

  “Rylie Madsen, that was a spectacular performance!” Miss Colleen says, running up to us and hugging Rylie. “Super, stupendous, spectacular, splendiferous, all the S’s!”

  Rylie giggles and bounces with her. “I did it!”

  “You turned that Stage Fright Monster into a cute little puppy, didn’t you?” Miss Colleen’s lips and cheeks are all sparkly with glitter, making her smile look even bigger.

  “No, I turned him into a guinea pig!” Rylie says. Miss Colleen and I both snort.

  “A guinea pig? Well, whatever works,” she says, hugging Rylie again. “You’re a ballerina now.”

  “No more Stage Fright Monster!” Rylie yells.

  “That’s right!” Miss Colleen says. “You better get changed for tap. Go get your bag, baby girl.”

  Rylie runs to her dance bag in the corner.

  “I knew she had it in her,” Miss Colleen says. I think there might be a tear in her eye. “I am so proud when one of my kids beats the Stage Fright Monster.”

  “And turns him into a guinea pig, apparently.” I laugh.

  “Don’t
knock it if it works, Mama,” she says. “She’s a real ballerina, Mrs. Madsen. Nothing will stop her now. Okay, peacock costumes on! You have ten minutes, everyone!”

  David will have to let her keep dancing after tonight. There’s no way he can deny her talent and beauty. I’m so proud of my sweet girl that I feel like I might burst.

  I remove the five million bobby pins holding the tiara on her head and help her into the ridiculous blue tulle costume that David hates. It is a little silly, but I won’t admit it. Rylie is all wiggle and bounce, and I barely get her settled before callbacks.

  My family is so excited they can’t sit still when I find my seat again.

  “Is this the peacock one?” David asks.

  “Yes, and it’s adorable. Hush,” I tell him as the lights come up.

  Rylie is in front, looking even happier than before. She flaps and jumps around the stage, her shoes tapping in nearly perfect time to the music. She shuffles, jumps, and taps from side to side.

  If there’s one thing she loves about tap, it is being allowed to make as much noise as possible. The silly birds peck each other, pull each other’s tail feathers, and end with a final loud squawk and stomp. It’s what Miss Colleen calls a “crowd pleaser.”

  We have to endure a few other dances before the end of the show, but Rylie gets one final bow with the entire studio. I run to the green room.

  “Rylie, get your tennis shoes on so we can go see Daddy and Grandma and G-Pa and Nana,” I say, hugging her one more time. “And someone else special is here!”

  “I see a real ballerina over here,” Miss Colleen says behind me.

  “Thank you for believing in her,” I say.

  “I always have. From that very first class.” She watches Rylie put her ballet shoes away and lowers her voice. “If she keeps going like this, she has a career ahead of her, Mrs. Madsen.”

  “You think so?”

  “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it. Competition season starts soon. Now that she isn’t afraid, she’d be perfect for the team. I’d even give her a solo.”

  The competition team? And a solo? I can’t process the words. I stammer a “thank you” and usher Rylie, now in her tennis shoes, out into the lobby.

  “There’s my ballerina!” David hollers and wraps her into a hug.