Up to This Pointe

by Jennifer Longo

  Aut moriere percipietis conantur.

  Months after Scott and his three remaining men succumbed to The Ice, the expedition crew who found the frozen bodies could tell, based on the positions the men were lying in, that Scott had been the last to die. The search crew built a cairn of snow over the tent, made a cross of rough wood to place on its top, and let the Ross ice shelf be their grave.

  After a century of storms and snow on the ever-moving shelf, the bodies now lie beneath maybe seventy-five feet of ice, thirty miles from where they died. It is thought that in two hundred years, Scott and his men will reach the Ross Sea and float away, suspended in an iceberg.

  I think of their dark, sleeping forms, maybe holding each other for warmth. Or comfort. Perfectly preserved in clear, aqua-blue-and-white ice, forever floating in the freezing blue-black sea.

  “Aiden,” I say into the icy wind. “Do you want to go to the pole?”

  “Absolutely. The minute I’m legal next year, I’m coming back to be there the second the sun’s up.”

  My heart sinks. Next year. “Okay,” I say. “But what if you wanted to go this year?”

  He turns to me. His face hidden in a balaclava, all I see are his green eyes. “I’m sure you’ve got a sight more sway than most. Scott. You keep your head down, put in your hours, be helpful every moment someone needs you. Charlotte can help, and I’ll talk to my guy. Let the sun rise, and you’ll see.”

  With my mittened hand, I trace the names of the men, of my ancestor still suspended in ice, somewhere beneath the years of snow, of shifting white and water, waiting to drift forever alone in the endless ocean.

  “I need to get there.”

  “Then you will.”

  It is nearly impossible not to believe him.

  I breathe in the sea, the birds and the sky and the ice and snow, and exhale.

  “Angels, I need you all to pee right now. I don’t care if you don’t have to. Think about nice, cascading waterfalls, and let’s go!” I gather my angels before anyone puts on tights. Opening night, my Saturday kindies are performing, and I’m more nervous for them than for myself.

  “Harper?” Willa says. “Do I have to go? Because I went before we left.”

  “Yes,” I call over the din of preshow backstage chatter and music. “Everyone pees!”

  I get all eight kids rotated through three stalls in record time.

  “Okay, we’ve all peed, right? Everyone?”

  “Yes!” they screech.

  We wash our hands, laugh at the crazy Dyson hand dryers, and hustle back to the dressing room. Simone strolls into the chaos as I’m tugging tights over the first set of dimpled knees, and she kneels on the floor to help.

  “Are we ready?” she asks the angels, who nod shyly. I don’t blame them. Simone is scary/striking in a sparkly silk skirt and blouse, silver hair pulled slickly up in a perpetual ballet bun. “They’ve used the restroom first, correct?”

  I nod, struggle with a snug waistband on one angel and hitch up sagging ankles on another. Years of this and still she checks up on me—did we use the restroom first? What the hell! She’s dealing with a professional kid wrangler here.

  “Harper.” Willa is at my ear, tights on, tutu fluffed, halo on, white feathers in her bun.

  “Yes, babe?” I whisper back.

  “I have to pee.” She blinks at the floor, hands tucked behind her wings.

  I sit back on my heels. “Willa, are you freaking kidding me?”

  “Sorry.”

  Simone shoots me a sidelong look.

  “We just got back from the bathroom; she’s nervous!”

  I grab her hand, heave the heavy dressing room door open, and nearly clock Kate, hurrying back in. Brow furrowed.

  “You okay?”

  “My dad never picked up his tickets. Not coming.”

  “Oh, Kat. Maybe he’s just running late?”

  She shakes her head and shrugs. Smiles brightly. “Good news. Didn’t want to see him anyway.” She looks down at Willa. “Potty?”

  Willa nods.

  “Kate—”

  “It’s all right,” she says. “I don’t care. See you in a minute….Go. Hurry.”

  The whole bathroom routine, part two, with my heart clenched tight for Kate—I hate her stupid dad. I rush Willa through the Dyson, and we’re back in two minutes.

  “Okay, ladies,” I tell the angels. “I’ve got to get myself ready.” I run to my bag and pull out the giant comforter Mom lends me for shows. Coloring books, crayons, paper dolls. I spread the blanket in a corner and corral the angels onto it. “No one moves off this spot until I come get you, right?”

  Finally, at forever last, the music starts. They pipe it to speakers mounted over the makeup mirrors, and we all shut up. Kate squeezes both my hands, which are freezing, my fingertips blue. Kate rubs them vigorously, kisses my knuckles, dashes back to the mirror to put some last-second glitter in her hair, straightens her tiara. I make sure my eyelashes aren’t going anywhere and line my angels up once more—they open the second act. I lead Willa, who in turn leads the wobbly-whispery line snaking around the dark backstage, maneuvering around props and stage crew, and I put my finger to my lips. They all nod. Fluff their feathers. I send them out and hold my breath. They blink in the lights. Turn to me in the wings.

  “Plié,” I whisper. “Arms up, second and straight and point…”

  They wake up. They dance. Oh, they remember! All of it! My face hurts; I’m counting silently through the smile that’s nearly breaking my face. They are so good; my chest aches, they’re trying so hard, and in what feels like ten seconds, they bow. It is over. They run quietly to me, and I hug them all, each one, and send them off with the stage manager because snow—it is time for snow….Oh God, I am terrified.

  - - -

  We wait in shafts of light in the wings, holding sweaty hands before our entrance, watching Kate soar and turn and be beautiful in her spotlight. Ballet is a petri dish crammed full of the jealousy-inducing bacteria of physical appearance requirements with incredibly narrow parameters, and competition for very, very few employment opportunities. But even the most jealous heart could not deny the truth executing a perfect triple piqué turn into a beautiful tour jeté right in front of us. Kate is what we aspire to. She is perfection.

  A hand rests on my shoulder, which scares the crap out of me. Lindsay.

  “Harp,” she whispers, “two piqués and a sauté or three and two?”

  “Two and a fouette,” I whisper back.

  “Oh God…”

  “Don’t think,” I insist. “Just dance. No hesitating. Right?” She nods but looks ill.

  The music floats and swells, our cue. We run lightly to our places.

  Lindsay catches my eye. I cross mine at her. She is pale. But she smiles.

  We dance.

  The stage crew is really going for it. The blizzard falls, sheets of white, and though we’re sweating in the boiling lights, this snow is magical. An icy chill sweeps my bare shoulders. Simone’s choreography is a well-matched union of the traditional Balanchine and her own; it uses the entire stage and does not let up. We turn and leap and balance all our weight on the strength of our feet, our toes, every muscle in our legs. Our backs and cores are lifted, engaged, and the audience is silent as years—thousands of hours—of training for these eight minutes and forty seconds go by. The music is urgent; it fills my head and heart, and I turn out from my hips, the snow falls, and The Plan, school, any worry or thought of anything in the world—everything else—disappear.

  - - -

  Kate and I change backstage, grab Willa, and meet everyone at the Beach Chalet. Kate hands the cabdriver a wad of bills, and the three of us climb out beside Ocean Beach, sea spray salty on our lips, and the wind whips Willa’s hair around her face. Kate’s and my rhinestone-studded performance buns are still intact, and she is ethereal in a filmy silver slip dress and fishnet stockings. Even Willa’s got a dress on, one of mine from the childhood stash
. “I can’t believe you’re in jeans,” Willa says. “This is a fancy night!”

  “I’ve got my fancy silky!” I shout into the wind, turning to model the pale blue satin blouse I found brand-new at Goodwill. “And I’m bejeweled!” Faux emerald-cut aquamarines shine at my throat. Willa shakes her head.

  “Hold hands!” Kate laughs and pulls us across Great Highway through a break in the steady stream of Friday night traffic. We run from the sandy sidewalk beside the ocean to the edge of Golden Gate Park, and finally up the steps of what was once the Sutro Baths but is now the Beach Chalet.

  From the cold mist into the warmth of the lobby, I stop and pull Willa near me to stand and marvel. In 1925 this was where Ocean Beach swimmers changed into and out of bathing suits. Willa fogs up the glass case that houses a miniature replica of Golden Gate Park. Tall windows face the sea, and the walls are alive with bright murals of San Francisco.

  “Harp,” Willa whispers. “Can we go?”

  “She’s doing her thing, babe.” Kate smiles. “Harp, if you love San Francisco so much, why don’t you marry it?”

  “Maybe I will.”

  “Fantastic. We’re starving. See you up there,” she says, scooting Willa up the steps two at a time.

  The stair rails are sea creatures carved from magnolia wood and worn smooth beneath thousands of visitors’ hands. Arched doorways open to Golden Gate Park and to the mosaic-tiled stairway leading to the dining room.

  But my very favorite part of this room are the words painted carefully in lovely script, looping around images of seagulls in flight curving above one archway, Fair City of my love and my desire. A love poem to San Francisco.

  “What are we looking at?” a voice beside me asks.

  “The words, it’s poems…”

  Owen.

  Owen?

  “What are you—are you eating here?” I stammer.

  “Yes!”

  “Oh, we’re here, too. Luke’s upstairs, and my parents—”

  “Yeah,” he says. “I came with.”

  “With who?”

  He frowns. “Luke. To the show.”

  “What show?”

  “Um. The Nutcracker? He asked if I wanted to, and I did. I was just parking the car.”

  My throat is suddenly dry. Luke pisses me off sometimes. This is a family thing—what the hell!

  “I have to tell you. I’ve never been to a ballet before, ever, and—”

  “It’s just a school show. A recital.”

  “Oh. Well, I was all set to be bored. No offense.”

  “Sure.”

  “But then you’re there dancing and—it wasn’t…pretty? Not the way I thought it would be.”

  “Okay…thanks?”

  “I just mean…ballet. Tutus and tiaras and all that, but we were sitting so close, two rows back, and all of you were…sweating. I could hear you breathing, and your legs…” He drifts off, looks at the floor.

  But I like this. What he’s saying. What I think he’s getting at. “Our legs what?”

  He shakes his head. “Muscles.”

  “We’re not supposed to be breathing that loud.”

  “No, it wasn’t like panting, just—you were working. I’m so glad I got to see it.”

  “Well, that’s…I’m glad you liked it.”

  What is happening? He saw the show and he’s wearing a jacket? A jacket! A nice tweed jacket and jeans! Not in a hipster way—in a really good way! And his hair is out of his eyes again….Oh God…

  “It was really beautiful,” he says. “You were amazing.”

  I nod. “I know. We all watch her, even when we’re onstage together. She’s our guru.”

  He frowns. “Sorry—who is?”

  “Kate.”

  “No, you—I said you. You were. So good.”

  My hands are sweaty. “You didn’t see me.”

  “I didn’t?”

  “I’m in the chorus.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’re all wearing the same costume. You can’t see anyone but Kate. It’s okay. That’s how it’s supposed to be.”

  He looks up again at the words on the wall. “I’ve been here so many times, and I’ve never read any of these. Poems, really?”

  “Parts of them. This ‘Fair City’ one is Ina Coolbrith. She was California’s first poet laureate. People say she had a torrid affair with Mark Twain.” The second the words are out of my mouth, my face burns pink. Torrid affair? I’m the worst!

  But Owen nods. “Hot,” he says. “Poet sex hijinks.”

  I smile against the back of my hand—I think I might pass out; seriously what is going on?—and he walks across the tile floor and stands at the archway to the park, beneath my favorite words of all. George Sterling’s:

  At the end of our streets is sunrise;

  At the end of our streets are spars;

  At the end of our streets is sunset;

  At the end of our streets the stars.

  Only the last two lines are painted here, and if I were to ever get a tattoo (ballet sacrilege!), it would be those words.

  At the end of our streets the stars.

  I love this poem. I love this beautiful city on its hill surrounded by the sea. Our streets do end in the ocean, in stars.

  We stand together, reading.

  And then Owen says, “You entered from the right. Your right, audience left. You stayed mostly on that side, but then after the circle thing, you were down toward the audience on the left corner, and then you were stuck in the back for some of the jumpy part, then to the right for all the toe stuff. And those turns—you’re kind of amazing at turns.”

  Luke is forgiven.

  - - -

  Candle and lamp light warm the dining room, and Dad waves us—me walking slightly behind Owen so we’re not coming in together—to a table beside the wall of windows, which, in the daylight, would afford an amazing view of the ocean. Tonight, the bamboo shades are drawn so it’s cozy, nice just knowing the ocean is there, close enough to hear the waves crash.

  “Oh my God!” Kate pulls me near to whisper so loud I’m sure the people in the kitchen and all the drunkies at the bar hear her. “Owen! Did you know he was coming? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I shrug. “Talk to Luke; they’re joined at the hip apparently.” I work my best feigned annoyance.

  I sit beside Willa, across from Luke and Kate and Owen.

  Okay. He looks like a young Bruce Lee. Jet Li? His arms are all lean and cut—holy crap, that sounds super racist. I’m not saying he’s a martial arts guy; those are just the first famous Chinese actors coming to mind when I imagine being pressed to describe him to someone in a way they might know who I was talking about, to paint the most accurate picture of his really black hair and those eyes and how long is my inner monologue about this dude going to go on and have I said any of this out loud?

  I take a long swig of water. Kate is smiling, leaning into a conversation with Owen, and Mom and Dad and Hannah raise their glasses to Kate’s and my last Nutcracker with Simone and to the start of Willa’s years of being angels and mice and soldiers and, maybe one day, Snow.

  Willa reaches up to my shoulder and tucks my black bra strap back under my blouse.

  I kiss the hair-spray-sticky top of her head.

  Across the table, Owen smiles. At me.

  My water is empty, and so I swallow Willa’s entire glass, take her hand, and push back my chair.

  “Let’s go potty, babe.”

  “I don’t need to.”

  “Really? You sure?”

  She nods and dips a hunk of bread into a puddle of olive oil.

  “Well. Okay. Be right back.”

  “I’ll go with you!” Kate jumps up and steers me by my elbow through the crowded dining room, down the stairs, and into the ladies’ room.

  “I’m having a stroke,” she says. “We’ve been talking nonstop. Did you see?”

  “I’m on it.” I smile weakly. “Bridal shower’s being planned a
s we speak.” I lock myself in a stall.

  “He watched the show! He came and sat through an entire ballet recital, and he liked it—or at least says he did. He is a stunning specimen of manhood. I could die.”

  I step out and join her at the sink, my stomach burning. Boys falling all over Kate is nothing new, but she’s never been so giddy in return. She leans close to the mirror to rub gloss on her lips. “Do you think Luke will actually go through with moving out?”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  “He better,” she sighs dreamily. “Because then we can go over to say hey to him, and oh gosh, look who just happens to be home, too….”

  I’m grateful she’s thinking about something besides her dumb dad. But this may be even worse. “Hey,” I say. “Addendum thirteen.”

  She hugs me hard and brushes some glitter from my forehead.

  Back at the table, the food has come. “Harp,” Willa whispers, “what is this?” She’s got scallops on her plate, skewered on what look like lavender stalks in bloom. I hold one to my face and inhale. Yep.

  “It’s just a flower,” I say. “It’s a thing now. People make lavender ice cream, lavender honey. I don’t think you’ll taste it; it’s just for the smell. And to be pretty.”

  She frowns. “It’s like perfume soap. Fish and perfume aren’t delicious.” I laugh, wrap my arms around her, and squeeze her tight.

  “I got the scallops, too,” Owen tells Willa. He holds his lavender up and slides the scallops off, cuts the flower stems short with his knife, and hands the bouquet across the table to her. “You were a really beautiful angel.”

  She smiles shyly at him and puts the flowers in her water glass, punch-drunk. “Thank you,” she demurs.

  Oh, Willa—not you, too.

  Kate starts back up with Owen, flirting hard like she’s out to save her own life. She is stunning in that dress, and Willa and I watch the show until—“Here we are!” A line of servers swoop in to whisk away our empty dinner plates and put delicate chocolate sand castle cakes before each of us, even Luke—because they are flourless chocolate, dusted with crushed almond “sand.”