My Life in Dioramas

by Tara Altebrando

  I finished it the night before the closing date and decided to show it to my parents. Upstairs, surrounded by boxes, they were pretty much sitting in the exact positions I’d put them in—Angus, too.

  “You guys need to get out more,” I said. And I turned the box to face them.

  My mother took one look at it and started crying.

  My dad got up and put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “It’s really lovely, Kate. Just”—his eyes were filling with tears—“lovely.”

  Back downstairs I found a large moving box but before packing up, I stacked the shoeboxes carefully, putting each room in its place.

  It was my whole life.

  In dioramas.

  25.

  The pink streak in my hair had faded with each passing week, with each passing shampoo, without my really noticing it. And on the day of our move it was gone.

  It was a Wednesday—and my parents insisted I go to school. My mother was staying at home to meet the movers and my father was going to the closing. The truck would be loaded by the time I got home and then we’d be on our way. I put my box of dioramas in the trunk of the car, not trusting them to not get crushed in the truck.

  I drifted through the day, not really raising my hand in class or talking much beyond the necessary. Sam Fitch told me he was going to miss me and I couldn’t look him in the eyes when I said, “Thanks.” Mrs. Nagano asked if she could keep my dioramas—and I had to fight hard not to cry. I thanked a few of my teachers, who wished me well, but I didn’t have the energy for a whole day of big, sad farewells. What was the point?

  Stella and I rode the bus home side by side in silence. “We’ll text and have sleepovers and then we’ll apply to the same college,” she said, squeezing my hand, but I wasn’t convinced any of it would happen.

  My mom was sitting on the front steps petting Angus when I walked up. Which seemed like a normal enough scene until I saw that she was crying.

  And that Angus was lying there perfectly still.

  “I guess Angus didn’t want to move either,” my mom said without looking at me.

  “No,” I said. “NO!”

  I ran past her and opened the front door so I could run up to my room and throw myself on my bed to cry, but—bam—the house was empty.

  All the furniture already gone.

  All the walls blank.

  The chalkboard in the kitchen had been wiped clean.

  Everything that showed that we’d ever lived there was gone.

  I dropped down to my knees right there in the empty dining room and cried and cried because . . . really, universe? Didn’t we have enough to deal with? Hadn’t we been messed with enough? Weren’t we all already trying so very hard to hold it together?

  My father came in and said, “Kate. Come with me.”

  He’d been out back in the woods, digging a hole. And now he was done.

  He’d moved Angus down there and now we were going to bury him.

  My mother just stood there in her jeans and white shirt, not talking, not crying—only occasionally lifting a tissue to wipe her nose.

  My father struggled to put Angus in the hole and then he started to shovel dirt on top of him. “I seriously”—more dirt—“cannot”—more dirt—“believe this is happening,” he said.

  I couldn’t tell if he was angry or just tired or what. He seemed sort of crazed and maybe we all were.

  I started to look around for something to mark the grave with so if I ever came back I’d be able to find this spot, maybe lay some flowers down for Angus.

  There was a flat stone down by the pond that seemed like it might do the job. I tried to lift it but it was really dug in. So I kicked it a bunch of times and hurt my foot doing it and I started to cry but now my hands were too dirty to wipe the tears away and then the earth finally let go of its grip on the rock and I carried it over to where my dad was patting his pile. I bent down and lowered the rock and my dad helped me get it settled.

  “You were a good dog, Angus,” I said.

  My mother said, “Well, at least one of us gets to stay.”

  I wasn’t sure what was going to happen then. But I watched as my father looked at my mother, and I guess she shook her head and laughed a little and then he laughed a little, and then he said, “If you’ll pardon my French, this has been a—”

  “Watch it,” my mom said.

  The wind kicked up and I heard bells.

  “You forgot to pack your wind chimes.” I went up to the porch, took them down, and carried them to the car.

  My grandparents met us at the door and came out to help with our bags. I carried my box of dioramas inside and put it in a corner of the living room. My grandmother had made up a bed in the office and I went in there and lay down. She followed me.

  “Not the best day of your life,” my grandmother said. “But this too shall pass.” She smiled. “Hopefully soon, because I’m not sure this house is big enough for me and your mother.” She kissed my head. “You, my dear, can stay as long as you like.”

  I nodded, tears coming out. “I’m really tired.” I just wanted her to leave.

  “There’s clean towels in the bathroom,” she said. “Maybe a nice warm soak before bed?”

  I nodded again and she got up and went down the hall and started the water running, then peeked her head back in. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  I went into the bathroom and watched the tub fill and found some liquid bubble bath to use. Voices from downstairs drifted up, echoing in the tub around me once I turned the water off and got in.

  “What do you mean it’s not sold?” That was my mother.

  “I couldn’t do it.” That was my dad. “He was being such a jerk about everything. And I don’t know.”

  “What don’t you know?”

  “I just couldn’t do it! What do you want me to say?” He was talking louder now. “I kept picturing Kate and the living room and Christmas, and the idea that this guy was going to make money on our loss, I couldn’t do it.”

  “So now what?” My mother again.

  “We relist it. We’ll find a better buyer.”

  Then the sound of the front door opening and closing.

  I soaked for a while. I imagined Megan’s father being so shocked, saying, “But you can’t—” and my dad saying, “Oh, yes I can.” I pictured my dad leaving the office jittery—terrified of my mom but also kind of pleased with himself. I sank down into the water and smiled with my mouth closed.

  After getting out and putting pajamas on, I went downstairs. Through the window I saw my mother on the front porch. My dad was in the living room in an armchair with a baseball game on the TV. My grandparents were tidying up in the kitchen. So I just squeezed next to my dad in his chair and gave him a huge hug.

  “You did good,” I said.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  I nodded. “Like, you’ve got superpowers, good.”

  “Your mother doesn’t think so.” He nodded toward where my mother was sitting outside in a rocking chair, not rocking.

  “She’ll come around,” I said, and hoped it was true.

  26.

  New books, new faces everywhere. New teachers. I couldn’t remember anyone’s names, and with only six weeks left to the school year, it almost didn’t seem worth bothering to try. The feeling seemed mutual. No one—not even teachers or mean girls—is that interested in the new girl when the year’s almost over. So I moved through halls like a ghost, mostly undetected, which was the opposite of how things felt at my grandparents’ crowded house. Though with Angus gone, even full rooms felt empty. My parents started just disappearing—separately—for hours without any explanation, which meant that my grandmother was home in the afternoon, offering snacks. My grandfather involved me in chores around the house. I read a lot.

  “Where’s Mom?” I would ask if I came home and her car was gone.

  “Just running errands, I suppose,” my grandfather would say.

  “Where’s Dad?” I’
d ask.

  “Not sure.” He’d shrug.

  After a while I stopped asking.

  I texted Stella, eager for updates about school and troupe, but her texts weren’t as fast, weren’t as funny. She was already moving on. I knew I should, too. I just didn’t know which direction to move in.

  I texted Naveen with reports of my boredom and we agreed that we’d both buy and read a book he’d discovered—a novel called Bear v. Shark—so we could text about it. One chapter per day.

  There were some updates from my dad about Bernie, but they were scattered: “An interested buyer.” “A lot of second showings.”

  But nothing concrete.

  My scooter and bike were both on the moving truck in some warehouse somewhere, and I wasn’t getting any exercise at all. When I finally asked Grandma if I could move stuff around in the basement, she said sure.

  So I went down and moved boxes and tables. It was surprisingly spacious down there, considering how cramped everything upstairs felt. I brought my phone down and plugged it into my dad’s computer speakers. A random song in my music library kicked in.

  And I started to dance.

  Every afternoon after homework and a chapter of Bear v. Shark.

  One day, “Semi” came on.

  I’m passing that old farm again / I carry the same load as the last time.

  I slowly moved my arms in graceful arcs, spinning and leaping and sliding and spinning on the floor, the way we did in class.

  And maybe because of how my dad and I had talked about it—the longing, the loneliness—it made me feel a little bit better about all the longing and loneliness I was feeling right then.

  And my mother’s violin part didn’t sound as sad as it usually did. It sounded pretty, almost hopeful. Like that sad truck driver was actually going to arrive somewhere and be wanted.

  So I hit Repeat and danced to it again.

  These tires kick up so much dust.

  And again.

  Until the sky breaks open wide.

  And again.

  I drive, it’s not a tear.

  Again.

  That’s dust that got in my eye.

  I was borrowing moves from probably every video Stella and I had ever watched, moves from every recital dance of the last few years.

  After maybe ten times through, I propped my phone on a table with some books holding it in place and hit Record.

  Upstairs I got on my dad’s laptop and went to the Dance Nation website. The deadline for solo competitors, unaffiliated with any studio, was still a few days away.

  I thought about just going ahead and registering, but that hadn’t exactly worked out before.

  So I opened up an email to Miss Emma called “Solo?” then attached the video of myself dancing and went down to wait for a chance to ask my parents if they’d really forgiven me, if they’d give me this second chance.

  My parents came home sort of happy seeming that evening. I didn’t even want to ask why and spoil the good mood. My grandmother had made a roast, and the whole thing felt sort of extravagant for a weekday. I couldn’t stop thinking about my email. But Miss Emma hadn’t written back yet.

  My phone rang after dinner.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Miss Emma.”

  I stepped out onto the front porch. “You watched it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Am I crazy?”

  “No. But it needs work. And also, the song. Who is it? We need to make sure it’s in the catalog of songs you can use without having to pay the songwriter.”

  “The songwriter’s my dad.”

  “Oh.” She laughed. “Then I guess we’re fine.”

  “What do I do?” I said. “I can’t afford a choreographer.”

  “You don’t need to. You have me.”

  “But I don’t. You’re an hour away.”

  “Tell me how to find the song and I’m going to fix your routine, add to it, video myself, and send it back to you.”

  “Oh my gosh, really?”

  “Really.”

  “But Kate?”

  “Yes?”

  “I need to talk to your parents. I need to know they’re on board with this.”

  My mom had come out on the front porch.

  “Can you give me a day?” I said into the phone.

  “Everything okay?” my mother whispered.

  Miss Emma said, “Sure,” and we hung up.

  “What’s going on?” my mom asked.

  “I want to compete in Albany.” It felt good to say it out loud.

  She almost groaned. “Kate, we’ve been through his. We simply can’t get you to the practices in time. And also, after that nonsense with the forged signature, I just don’t think—”

  I was shaking my head. “No, not with troupe. As a soloist. I know what I did was wrong, but I’m sorry. And this week, in the basement, I choreographed a routine—sort of—and Miss Emma said she can fix it up for me, make it better. And we can swap videos and she’ll critique me.”

  I sat in one rocking chair and my mother sat in the other. She was eerily quiet.

  “I just think it’d be good for me. I feel like I need something to focus on while we’re here. For however long we’re here.”

  “You really think you can do it?” she said.

  “You could afford to be a little more supportive of me,” I snapped.

  “I just want to make sure you know how few people make a career out of this.”

  “I never said I wanted to make a career out of it! It’s just something I like to do! I’m not going to end up like you and Dad! Miserable because . . . you know what? I don’t even know why you guys are so miserable. Because your band didn’t become rich and famous? Get over it! What matters is that you did it. That you were really good and that you loved doing it.”

  My voice seemed to echo.

  I’d overdone it, said too much.

  But she just looked at me. “You’re right, Kate. You’re absolutely right.”

  Then we sat in thick silence for a minute.

  “And before you storm off,” she said, finally. “What I meant was is there enough time to prepare?”

  “Oh.” I felt dumb. “If I get started right away.”

  “Then what are you waiting for?” my mom said.

  “Really? You’ll drive me to Albany?”

  “Of course we will, Kate. It was never about not wanting you to do it. It was about not being able to see how you could.”

  That night I pictured myself in a diorama—alone onstage with a spotlight trained on me. With my friends rooting me on from the wings. I could see every detail, could practically feel the velvet of the curtain, but I couldn’t seem to put Stella in the scene. And then I realized why. It was so obvious. We were going to be competing against each other.

  Stella would think that was reason enough not to do it.

  But not me.

  It wasn’t about winning for me.

  It was about doing.

  About stepping out of the shoebox.

  I got Miss Emma’s video and practiced the tweaked routine in Grandma and Grandpa’s basement in every free moment I had that week. But I needed more room to spread out, to really move. When I explained this to my mom she said she would figure something out.

  By the next day, she’d spoken to my grandfather and then to the people on the board of their little community, and arrangements had been made for me to use the clubhouse for a few hours every afternoon that week and the next.

  I only had three weeks to get ready!

  There were usually some old people in another room—the library—playing cards or talking but they didn’t seem to mind that I was in the common room with all the tables and chairs pushed to the side. There were no mirrors on the wall, which took some getting used to. I had to go with my gut and trust myself from the inside out. After two days of rehearsing on my own, I asked my mom to come with me so we could video the whole thing and send it to Miss Emma for pointers
.

  “Oh, Kate,” she said, when I started the music. “Not this song.”

  “Why not? I love it.”

  I started it over.

  She filmed me.

  We did this once, then again, and Miss Emma sounded encouraging. My mother actually did, too. This was the most involvement she’d had in any of my routines—ever—and she morphed into a pretty good dance coach. I had no other feedback coming in so I had to trust that she knew what she was seeing, knew where I looked good and not.

  When my mom said she had to drive back to the college for something that weekend—the last one before Dance Nation—I asked if I could come along and try to see Stella. I knew Stella was rehearsing with Miss Emma every Saturday morning so maybe we could meet up after.

  Then I had a better idea.

  If I could have one actual in-person class with Miss Emma, it would really help.

  I could surprise Stella at the studio, and tell her about my solo in person.

  So I asked my mom, and she called Miss Emma. And it was set. We’d have to get there early to practice before Stella’s session, but my mom agreed.

  27.

  When “Semi” filled the studio—the very place where I’d learned to dance—I felt confident, ready. Like I’d inherited whatever gene had allowed my parents to get on-stage and be rock stars even if only for a little while.

  “I’m impressed,” Miss Emma said when I was done.

  “Me, too,” my mother said. I hadn’t realized she’d been at the door watching.

  I did the routine again.

  And again.

  And Miss Emma told me to do this with that arm and that with this arm, and we worked on a sort of bow/curtsy move that felt natural to me and then we did it all again and again some more.