"Irene," I ask as I walk beside her up the path toward our house. "Grandma... she hasn't tried to...you know, eat you or anything?"
Irene guffaws.
"Of course not!"
"And she's not doing anything... magic with you, is she? That's not why you're spending so much time with her lately? I mean, trolls aren't supposed to use their magic on people, but Grandma is getting old and..."
"No!"
"Then why are you cooped up with her so much? I thought you had basketball practice this afternoon."
"I did. I was sent home for telling some little kid a bear tore off my legs." I give her a look. She grins. "OK, maybe I added some unnecessarily graphic details. But I didn't want to go home, so I told the lady who drove me to bring me here."
I sigh. Irene always makes up stories about how she lost her legs. Gruesome stories, usually. Once, she even told a gawking first-grader that I ate her legs. She never tells anyone what really happened, though, not even me. She claims the stories she makes up are way more interesting than the truth, and it doesn't even bother me anymore, not knowing.
"Don't worry, Tilda," Irene grins. "I hang out with your Grandma because I like her. And she's right. You shouldn't dance to that stupid fake troll music."
"Easy for you to say."
"Sure, tell the legless girl she's got it easy," Irene says, winking at me before she motors down the street to her house on the corner.
That night, I dance in my room. I clear a space in front of the mirror and play ‘Rite of Spring’ on my tablet, so quiet it's barely audible, and just like in Grandma's cave, I feel the trollish thrill of Stravinsky, of this music, this dance, these steps.
When I finally go to bed it's after midnight and I hear Grandma shuffling around outside in the garden, humming an old lullaby while the trees whisper all around us.
I fall asleep with Grandma's voice, and the voices of the trees, singing in my ears.
At school the next day, I finally realize what Grandma was doing with the flint knife, and why Irene kept her hood up the night before. Irene's long, glossy black hair is gone, and the jagged ends of what remains stick out around her ears. I'm horrified.
"Why would you let her do that?"
Irene shrugs.
"It always got in the way. This is better."
"Did she keep the hair?" I ask, heart sinking.
"She might have."
"What's she doing with it? Something magic?"
Irene looks suddenly serious.
"Magic isn't bad, you know. I realize you can do bad things with it, but it isn't automatically evil or wrong."
"You sound like Grandma. What is she doing with it?"
But no matter how I try, Irene won't tell me.
My next dance practice is worse than the last one. I sneak out of the house before dad gets home, and I have this idea that I should talk to Marie about the tail and the music, but once I'm there, I can't get a word out.
The house is empty when I get back, and Grandma's door is locked. There are fresh wheel-tracks along the path and down the ramp, and I bang on the door, calling for Grandma and Irene. I even use the badger skull knocker, but the door won't budge.
"You better not be eating my friend!" I shout before giving the door a kick.
All evening and into the night, I keep a watch from my window, but no one goes in or out of Grandma's place, at least not while I'm awake.
Irene is not at school the next day, or the day after that, and no one answers when I text or call. Her dad works shifts at the docks, and her mom is a teacher-on-call, so you never really know when they'll be home, but Irene usually answers even if she's sick.
At school, I walk around in a daze, so out of it that I don't even snap at the kids making fun of my big feet in the gym. That afternoon, Grandma's door still won't open. She's even magicked it to look like a boulder, as if that would fool me. I kick and bang on it some more, but nothing happens.
"Irene! Are you in there?"
No reply.
"Did you see Grandma today?" I ask mom when she wakes up from her afternoon nap.
"No. But you know how Grandma is, sometimes she just sleeps for a couple of days or goes off into the woods, wandering."
"Did you see Irene today, or yesterday?"
"No."
I think of Irene, of her hair cut short, of Grandma spinning that knife of flint on the table between them.
"Grandma wouldn't hurt Irene, would she?"
"Of course not! Whatever are you thinking?"
"I don't mean that she'd do it on purpose, but she's really old and sometimes... I mean, if she was really hungry..."
"Tilda! I know Grandma likes to pretend she's a scary old troll-madam, but you know she's not like that. Besides, I'm sure Irene is just at basketball practice or something. "
I nod, but I know better. I know a lot of troll magic involves using someone's hair, and Grandma has a whole braid of Irene's locks.
I know everything is wrong, and I know I can't fix it.
It's mom's day off, and she's giving me a ride to the last practice before the recital. On my way out, I run into dad. He takes one look at me, dressed in my dance gear, and glowers.
"We talked about this. No more dancing."
I fumble with my backpack, fumble with my words, finding none that are fit to say out loud.
Dad sighs, or maybe he growls, it's hard to tell the difference.
"Tilda... Those people in the dance business, this Marie and the dance academy... they'll never see you as anything other than a big troll, fit only for clumsy footwork and maybe a laugh. I know what it's like to be around people like that, and I don't want that for you."
I know dad's trying to be sensible, kind, even, but each word stabs through my tough, grey skin, sharper than Grandma's blade of flint, more painful than anything else he's ever said to me. And maybe it's because of the pain, or maybe it's because of Grandma and Irene and the tail I've carried around in my backpack all week, but a sudden troll-rage overwhelms me, flaring up like an all-consuming, grease-fed flame. It burns through me, more powerful than ever before. I don't know what I look like, but dad's jaw goes slack, and I feel twice as big and ten times as strong, and when I open my mouth, not a word comes out, just a deafening roar. It's so loud it sets off the neighbour's car alarm.
I don't wait around to see what dad will do, I just run outside, the magic fading as quickly as it flared up. By the time mom sits down in the driver's seat, I've doused the last embers inside me.
Mom drives the whole way in silence.
"Dad's just worried about you," she says when we arrive. "You know that, right?"
"I'm a good dancer, mom. I'm not a joke."
"I know. I've seen you dance, and you have a gift. You probably get that from Grandma, because it certainly doesn't come from me or your dad."
Right now it's hard to think I'm anything at all like Grandma.
"Was she really good?"
"Sweetums, she was the best. When she danced, she could spellbind a mountain-full of trolls."
I get out of the car, and mom leans over, giving me a wink.
"Go do your thing. Make the best of it."
For a few minutes, I almost think it'll be OK. I almost think I can do it, that it won't be so bad after all. Until I get inside.
Two people, a man and a woman I've never seen before, are talking to Marie, and everyone else is in a tizzy.
They're from the dance academy. That's what Marie tells us. And they're here, unofficially, to watch us practice.
"I love Grieg," the man says, shaking my hand enthusiastically. He's trying not to stare, but I guess he's never seen a troll in tights before. "Can't wait to see what real troll will do with that wonderful music and Marie's famous choreography!"
"I didn't even think trolls really existed," the lady confides to me, smiling at me as if that's supposed to be a compliment.
Maybe I smile too. I'm not sure. I only know I cannot speak, because all
my words have shriveled into nothing. There's only one thing I know for certain: I'm trapped, wearing a tail in the hall of the Mountain King.
Make the best of it, I think, but tonight, those words seem like a bad joke.
Marie wants us to dance in costume. Of course. I put mine on in the bathroom. It fits. The tail dangles behind me and I try to see it as playful, fun, and trollish, but I can't.
I dance last. Before me there's a swan, a princess, a prince, a tin soldier, a fairy with wings. And then there's me. A troll dressed in a troll costume.
I dance, I play the troll, I wag my tail, I do everything as trollishly as possible, and everyone loves it. The two visitors even clap when I'm done.
I bow, and walk out. I don't even bother taking off the costume, I just put on my jacket and go. Maybe Marie calls my name, but I don't stop. I keep walking until I'm in the parking lot where mom is waiting for me.
"Tilda?"
I just shake my head, unable to speak, staring through the windshield at the lights inside the building, the lights where everybody else is, while I'm out here in the dark. Mom drives away, and I grab hold of the top of my costume, digging my fingers into the coarse, ugly fabric and with one tug I rip the whole thing in half.
That night I head into the woods. Mom and dad both tried to talk to me, but what I feel has no words, it's like a troll-rage roar, but silent: it only reverberates inside me where no one else can hear.
It's dark, and I'm barefoot, dressed only in my flannel pajamas. I haven't run into the woods like this since I was five or six, back when Grandma would come and collect me by suppertime if I'd given her the slip. Of course, I'm not really running away; I just don't know what to do.
I head into forest beyond our house, in between the trees, until the sounds of the backyards and the streets fade away.
I know the trees here are not the same as in the Swedish forests where Grandma and my parents lived for centuries before coming here. Grandma says everything about the trees here is different, their bark and roots, their sap and smell, even the way they speak in the wind. She says the rocks are different too, that they hum a different song than she's used to. But these are the only trees and rocks I've ever known. They are my trees, my rocks, and this is my forest: red cedars and red alders towering above me, branches shaggy with moss; swaying western hemlocks with waxy, scaly needles whispering in the canopy; maples with splayed-fingered leaves waving in welcome; soft ferns tickling my legs.
I sit down in a hollow between the roots of a storm-felled tree, leaning back in the soft dirt, thinking I might never move again.
If a troll sits still enough for long enough, they turn into rock. That's how most trolls die, according to Grandma. They get old and tired, they sit down in the woods and they don't bother getting up again.
I sit. I'm not cold. I'm not even angry anymore. I just sit, and I imagine that I'm turning heavy and solid and grey, inside and out. I'm not sure how long I sit like that before Grandma finds me.
"It takes quite a while to turn to stone, you know. Especially when you're still so young and soft."
She sits down next to me, knees pulled up until they creak, arms linked around them, and her white hair a frizzy halo in the moonlight.
"Can't say as I'll ever get used to these woods," she sniffs. "Where I grew up everything grew slow and deliberate, and in winter, it all froze and slept till spring. Almost makes me tired, just feeling all these trees, so busy growing all the time."
We sit together for a while after that, neither of us speaking.
"Your performance is tomorrow, I guess," Grandma remarks finally.
I dig my fingers into the dirt, curling them like roots.
"I can't do it. I can't dance with a tail. I can't dance to Grieg. And I can't give up dancing, no matter what dad thinks. It's all wrong and it's too late to fix any of it now. I've been trying to make the best of it," I whisper, feeling small, "but I don't know how."
"Can't you just dance what you want to dance?"
"No. I want to get into the Dance Academy, and Marie says..."
Grandma blows a raspberry.
"No doubt you'd get applause for dancing to that rubbish by Grieg. Might even get you into that Academy. But no matter how good this Marie is, it doesn't mean she knows how you should dance. And this Dance Academy, why wouldn't they let you in if you dance as good as you can do?"
"Because..." I start, before I realize I don't know what to answer.
Grandma nudges me with a calloused elbow.
"Bet they've never seen a troll dance, really dance. Have they?"
"Maybe not, but..."
"But nothing. There's magic in the right dance. And yes, I know your parents think trolls shouldn't wield magic around humans." She peers at me underneath her bushy eyebrows. "Truth is, humans have magic too, and they wield it all the time."
"No, they don't."
"They do. Take your friend Irene, she's got a strong magic in her. My, my. That girl can spellbind even me when she starts talking about science and space and basketball and what-not!"
"That's not the same. Troll magic is scary. That's why we don't use it anymore."
"Not all troll magic is scary. A troll-rage is frightful, for sure. But trolls have other kinds of magic, and a troll dance is the best kind of magic. I'll tell you this, if that Grieg had ever seen me dance, he’d have written another kind of music entirely."
I think of the flutter beneath my skin when I dance, the zing and zap of something fizzy-light and sparkling inside my bones.
"We're not supposed to use our magic around humans," I repeat, stubbornly.
"Pish posh. The magic is a part of you and I don't see why you should withhold it from the world."
"Marie says all great artists have to sacrifice for their art." I dig my fingers even deeper into the soil.
"Maybe that's true, but is it really worth it if what you have to sacrifice is yourself?"
I sit quiet for a bit, listening to the trees and rocks whispering around us, their voices clearer than they've ever been before. It's almost as if they're murmuring my name, telling me I'm as tough as they are, as strong as stone and wood
I think of a mountain full of trolls, spellbound by Grandma dancing..
“Using magic is cheating, though, isn't it?” I say, looking at Grandma, her lustrous eyes glimmering in the moonlight.
“No. You cannot cheat by being what you are.”
“But I don't even have anything to wear,” I say, voice trembling now, thinking about the ripped costume.
Grandma laughs, her biggest, loudest guffaw.
“Well, now...I happen to have something you can wear instead.” She gets up and offers me a hand. “You've been looking for Irene, haven't you?"
"What did you do to her?" I ask as I stand up, brushing the dirt off my pajamas.
Grandma looks offended.
"Do to her? What do you think I did? Nibbled on her? Turned her into soup? I didn't do anything to her at all. But she has done something for you, and now she wants to show it to you.”
"Tilda, you're up next."
It's the night of the recital, and I'm staring at myself in the mirror backstage, still trying to convince myself that what I see is real. The dress I'm wearing reaches halfway down my thighs and it's heavy, but somehow, it's heavy in a way that doesn't weigh me down, and when I move, it chimes.
It's a garment that seems part dress, part armor, part enchantment, and I feel the power of it stir against my skin.
Irene and Grandma made this dress for me, together. They worked almost without sleep or rest these last few days, locked inside Grandma's cave. They used Grandma's gold nuggets, each one pierced to make a bead, then sewn onto the soft silk underneath with thread spun from Irene’s black hair, each strand magicked by Grandma to be as soft as cotton, yet as strong as steel wire.
Some of the nuggets are smaller than a sunflower seed, some are as big as a dime, and the entire dress is covered with them - each one
jingling softly when I move. When Marie sees me, or rather, when sees the dress for the first time, her expression is so comical it almost makes me laugh out loud. Instead, my words tumble out in a rush:
"Marie, thank you so much for all your help and the costume and the choreography, but I can't...I can't dance to Grieg and I can't wear a tail either. I am doing a different dance and I brought the music and I'm doing it and if you want to kick me out of the class afterward, it's fine, just let me do it first, OK?"
I take a breath after all that, and Marie says...nothing. She's staring at the golden dress, reaching out to touch it, befuddled and incredulous. Finally, she nods.
When the curtain rises, and I stand in the middle of the stage, my body and my limbs perfectly positioned. I see mom and dad in the audience, seated next to Grandma and Irene. Grandma's hair is like a white cloud around her head, while Irene's new, short hairdo is styled to look like a spiky hedgehog. Dad is scowling, but he still waves at me, making the best of it, I guess.
Don't worry, dad, I think, and try to smile reassuringly.
Grandma and Irene, they sort of know what's coming, but no one else has seen this dress, and no one at all has seen this dance before.
On stage, the gold dress shivers to life, sparkling, flashing, gleaming. And when the music starts - those first raw, shivering notes of Stravinsky's 'The Rite of Spring’ - I begin to dance.
I dance, and just like when I danced by myself in my room, I feel the trembling power lurking beneath the surface of that dance I dance while the gold spins and flows and ripples around me, tethered to me, to my movements, by the silky strength of Irene's magicked hair. I dance, and as the music moves within me, as I move within it, the room changes. It's not an ordinary room in an ordinary building anymore. It's a huge hall, carved out of a mountain, and the rounded walls glow with veins of mountain crystal, lit by magic from within. The hall falls quiet around me. There is no other sound than the music and my feet. I twirl and spin, I leap and turn, and I am gold and light and movement, but most of all I am me, utterly and completely.
Hand Me Downs Page 2
