Isabelle

by Laurence Yep

  “Hmm,” Mom said. “I really think you’ve grown a little.”

  “I’m just the same height as always,” Jade insisted. “You know a size small can be different from shirt to shirt.”

  “That’s true,” Mom admitted as she scratched the side of her head. “I should’ve had you try it on before we bought it. But I wanted to make sure we got to the stage on time.”

  Jade hunched her shoulders and began chewing her lip, and I figured she was upset over the blouse. So I tried to think of a way to make it better. Then I had a brainstorm.

  I yanked the tablecloth out of a bag. “I bet there’s enough material here to make a sash as well as a shawl for you, Jade,” I said. “That’ll cover up your waist.”

  Jade looked at me gratefully before she began taking off the blouse. “There, you see?” she said to Mom. “Problem solved.”

  Whenever I spent time in Mom’s sewing room, I forgot about my troubles. I just relaxed and enjoyed the rhythmic sweep of my arm as I sent the needle in and out of the cloth.

  “You’re almost as good with a needle as Mom,” Jade said, watching me work.

  “No one’s as good as she is,” I insisted.

  “You’ve got a talent for the needle, Isabelle,” Mom agreed as she stitched small tassels to the bottom of Jade’s shawl.

  That meant a lot to me, coming from Mom. Looking up, I said, “Thanks.” But I didn’t go back to sewing right away. Instead, I watched Mom’s arm, moving back and forth as she worked on my skirt. Her eyebrows wrinkled together in concentration, but she had a peaceful little smile on her face. Mom was as happy when she had a needle in her hand as I was.

  Then I caught Jade gazing at Mom and me. “I love it here in the sewing room,” she said with a little sigh. “Sometimes I wish we could hide out in here forever.”

  Mom finished tying off a thread. “Hide from what, honey?” she asked, reaching for a pair of scissors.

  Jade just shrugged. Dipping her head, she went back to sewing.

  Who knew that the time we’d spent in the sewing room would help me in modern dance class two days later? But it did.

  “This is not dance!” Mr. Amici had just said as he ran around like crazy, waving his arms in the air and wagging his head from side to side with his tongue sticking out.

  He was a short man with black hair who must have really liked the color black, because I never saw him wear anything else. Today he was in a black T-shirt and yoga pants with a matching wool cap and shoes. Except for his pink face and arms, he looked like a giant felt-tip marker.

  “You should have a reason for everything you do,” he said. “So visualize. Have a clear image in your head for each motion. And when you dance, move from image to image.” He set both index fingers on his forehead. “So, everybody, picture in your mind a common household object.”

  What should I imagine? A shopping bag? A bagel?

  Luisa caught my eye and shrugged her shoulders. She didn’t know what to do, and neither did I.

  Mr. Amici lowered his hands. “Now dance,” he instructed, “imagining that you’re doing something with that object.”

  I was afraid Mr. Amici would call on me, so I stepped backward to hide behind my classmates. That made me think of Jade hiding out in Mom’s sewing room. Jade was right about that room—I felt safe there, too. Suddenly that gave me an idea.

  I was ready when Mr. Amici gestured to me. “Isabelle, what do you have for us?” he asked.

  After walking to the center of the room, I slowly bowed my head and started to sew with an invisible needle. Gradually, I began to smile as peacefully as Mom did whenever she held a sewing needle in her hand.

  It just seemed natural to let my arm weave back and forth, more and more widely until it was swinging rhythmically like a pendulum in a grandfather clock. I felt so relaxed that it was easy to keep the peaceful expression on my face. Before I knew it, my whole body was swaying along with my arm. I wished my hair hadn’t been in a bun, because it would have been nice to have the strands swish around, too.

  The rocking motion made it impossible to stay in one place. Instead it swept me gently across the floor. It was as if I had become the needle now, stitching one side of the floor to the other with invisible thread. I finished by twisting my body round and round, as if I were tying a knot.

  When I was done, Mr. Amici tapped a finger against his chin. “Excellent, Isabelle,” he said. “You made it clear that you were sewing before you translated that action into something else. More importantly, you made me feel as calm and happy as you were.”

  I felt like a dancer again as I left modern dance class for ballet. Maybe I was finally getting the hang of my dance classes here at Anna Hart.

  My good mood lasted through the barre and center work in ballet class, and even into the start of our flower routine. I was actually doing the steps on time! As my arms and legs moved to the music, I began to enjoy myself, just as I used to at my old dance academy.

  But then I remembered that a tricky part was coming up. I became so anxious to do it right that I rushed and curved away from the line of flowers too early. I pulled up just in time before colliding with Stewart.

  As gracefully as I could, I stepped back to my proper place. But by then, my confidence had gone down the drain, and I found myself falling farther and farther behind the others. I held on tight to the image of my costume in my mind. I just needed that lucky sash to work.

  That night, at home, Jade and I worked on our costumes. We worked on them the next night, too. Mom did all the fancy sewing, but Jade and I helped her baste some of the pieces together by sewing long, loose stitches. We also sewed the simpler seams on the machine.

  On Wednesday evening, I got to try on my costume for the first time. Mom had outdone herself dyeing and spray-painting the tulle skirt. The gold, yellow, and pink layers surrounded me like the petals of my favorite water lily. We dyed a pair of ballet shoes, too, and stitched on long ribbons. I crisscrossed them around my ankles.

  When I finally tied the flower sash around my waist, it was everything I’d hoped it would be. But would it help me dance better? When I pirouetted, the tulle skirt belled up and the sash floated like a wing of flowers around me. I felt as light as a dandelion seed. I began to hum the waltz, and without thinking, my body began moving on its own. As I sailed around the living room, I performed each step of the flower routine quickly and perfectly.

  Maybe Ms. Hawken had been right. All that I needed to pull everything together was a lucky charm to boost my confidence. A sash like mine could fool even an ugly duckling into thinking she could dance like a swan.

  A tired-looking Mom clapped her hands. “Lovely, dear,” she said.

  I gave her a hug and said, “The costume is perfect. Thanks, Mom.”

  But Jade had watched my dancing with a more critical eye. “You look great,” she agreed. “Just be careful.” She pointed to the sash hem, which reached toward the floor.

  I was feeling too good for Jade’s comment to annoy me now. “Don’t worry,” I said to my sister, my voice as full of confidence as my dance routine had been.

  I couldn’t wait for ballet class tomorrow.

  Thursday morning, when Jade and I got on the bus, the aisles and seats were already filled with students carrying instruments in cases and costumes in extra bags, like us. The adult passengers looked at us as if we were all running away from home.

  We created such a heavy load that I think the bus rose several inches after the dance students got off. “Hey, Isabelle!” Luisa called to me.

  I hadn’t even realized she’d been on the same bus. She was wearing a red bandanna tied around her head like a cap. Covering her left eye was a black eye patch.

  I blinked when I saw Luisa’s costume in the huge shopping bag she carried. The orange and pink flounces of her dress looked ready to explode out of the bag.

  “No one’s going to miss you onstage,” I said.

  She grinned at me crookedly and said, “Ha!
They’d better not.”

  Gabriel strolled toward us from the opposite direction carrying only his backpack.

  “Where’s your costume?” Jade asked.

  Gabriel smiled that secret smile he wears when he’s doing magic tricks. He patted the stem of a flower pinned to his jacket. “You’re looking at my costume,” he said. “I’m going to circulate through the audience before and after the show and do a little street magic. So none of that Las Vegas flash for me.”

  “You’re just lazy,” Luisa sniffed.

  Gabriel adjusted his grip on the strap of his backpack and joked, “You’re just jealous.”

  As we joined the other students streaming into Anna Hart, I began to hum the waltz. Automatically, my arm responded, lowering like a flower petal unfolding. Jade caught the motion from the corner of her eye, and she grinned.

  Once inside, we separated, to head toward our lockers. Setting down the bag with my costume, I opened my locker and got to work taping my postcard of Jackie Sanchez to the inside of the locker door.

  Gazing at Jackie’s smiling face, I wished, “Bring me some good luck, please?” And then I closed my locker and hurried off to my first class.

  Later that day, I repeated the wish when I got my costume out of the locker for the flower routine. For the next couple of days, our regular class schedule had changed. Luisa would be rehearsing with her modern dance class for the two arts periods, while I would be with my ballet class. So without Luisa to encourage me, I knew I’d need all the luck I could get.

  In the changing room, the other girls crowded around Renata, marveling at her sequined outfit. Either someone in her family was a genius at sewing, or her family had bought the outfit from a professional costumer.

  No one noticed my costume right away, but I thought, Just wait. Design is more important than a bunch of flashy sequins. I strode confidently into the studio, feeling like a racing car with its fuel tanks full and its battery crackling with energy.

  But before we began warming up, Ms. Hawken inspected our outfits. Madelyn’s unitard had a pretty spray of lavender embroidered onto it. Stewart wore a headpiece cut from sheets of colored Styrofoam and assembled into a sunflower. “Good,” Ms. Hawken said to him. “Your costume makes it clear just what you are.”

  Ms. Hawken pretended to shade her eyes when she saw the bright sequins of Renata’s costume. “You’re certainly going to dazzle in the spotlight,” she said.

  When she got to me, Ms. Hawken said, “Very pretty, Isabelle. That must have taken a lot of work.” After a moment she added, “Would you turn around, please?”

  As I pirouetted, my long sash twirled about me.

  “Be careful of that long sash,” she said before moving on to the next dancer.

  I hadn’t been expecting Ms. Hawken to repeat Jade’s warning. After all, I was only following her advice to add some sort of lucky charm to my outfit. I forced a smile onto my face. She’ll change her mind after she sees me dance, I told myself.

  For once, I was impatient to begin performing, so our warm-ups and barre work seemed to drag on forever. Finally, though, Ms. Hawken said it was time to begin the waltz.

  Now you’re all going to see what I can do, I said silently to my classmates—mostly to Renata.

  But as I took my place, my sash reached toward the floor like an anchor. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to make it so long.

  Ms. Hawken started the music and sat down in a chair to watch. At home, it had been so easy to dance the waltz routine as a solo. But in class, I couldn’t dance as fast or as far as I wanted because I might bump into one of the other dancers.

  Every time I had to pull up to avoid bumping into someone, my long sash brushed against my legs like a snake playing tag. It started to throw off my timing. It was making me dance worse, not better. Too late, I realized that a charm can bring bad luck as well as good.

  How could I have been so wrong? All I wanted now was for the waltz to be over.

  Then Renata whispered from behind me, “Your sash keeps getting in my way.”

  “Sorry,” I murmured, but that distraction was enough to make me slow down. As soon as I stopped moving, the sash drooped. To my horror, the falling fabric wrapped around my legs. Suddenly I knew how a calf felt when it was lassoed and tied up at a rodeo.

  All I could do was pitch forward like a chopped-down tree.

  “Stop, stop,” Ms. Hawken shouted before the other dancers tripped over me. The next moment, she was kneeling beside me. “Are you all right, Isabelle?”

  “I’m fine,” I mumbled. My cheeks felt hot. I must have been as red as an apple. Angrily I tried to stand up. When I stumbled again, my eyes filled with tears of frustration. I guess some ugly ducklings will always be ugly ducklings—never swans.

  “You’re crying,” Ms. Hawken said in alarm. “Where does it hurt?”

  I shook my head. It doesn’t hurt anywhere, I wanted to say, except inside of me.

  Angrily, I tugged at the sash—and instantly heard a loud rip. When I lifted the sash, I saw I’d ripped some of the stitching right out. I’d just wasted Mom’s hard work.

  “Jade was right,” I mumbled as I struggled to my feet. I just wanted to get out of there.

  But Renata picked up on my words. “Right about what, Dizzy Izzy?” she asked under her breath. “That you shouldn’t have come here?”

  “Be quiet, Renata,” Ms. Hawken snapped.

  But I knew that Renata was right. If I had stayed at my old school, I could have saved myself a lot of embarrassment. I was useless not only as a dancer but as a designer as well.

  My classmates’ faces were blurry through my watery eyes, but I thought they looked as if they were feeling sorry for me.

  I couldn’t take it anymore. I gathered the torn sash in my hands and rushed toward the door.

  “Isabelle, where are you going?” Ms. Hawken demanded.

  Anywhere but here, I thought as I stumbled from the room.

  I didn’t get more than a few steps from the studio before I ran into my sister. “Isabelle, what’s wrong?” Jade asked. In her arms, she had a stack of books from the school library.

  Jade was the last person I wanted to see. She’d been right about the sash all along. I dodged around her. “Everything’s wrong,” I muttered, starting to run again. My torn sash streamed behind me like a banner.

  “Isabelle, stop,” Ms. Hawken called from the classroom door, but I kept on running.

  “I’ll get her, Ms. Hawken,” Jade said. There was a thump as she set the books down on the floor.

  Behind me, I heard the rapid patter of my sister’s shoes.

  I skidded as I turned into the corridor that led to the old building. At the end of the hall were the steps leading to the front doors.

  But I never could outrun my sister. She caught me by the smiling portrait of Anna Hart, the dancer for whom the school had been named. “What happened?” Jade asked. “How did you tear your sash?”

  “Let me go,” I said angrily, squirming to break free. But I’d never been able to out-wrestle my sister, either.

  Jade tightened her grip. “What’s going on?” she asked, leaning forward so that our foreheads were almost touching and her eyes were staring right into mine. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  I knew Jade wouldn’t let up until I told her the truth. So I squeezed my eyes shut and took a deep breath. Then I opened my eyes and looked past Jade’s concerned face—to the smiling portrait of Anna Hart—and admitted, “I just fell flat on my face in ballet class.”

  Jade gestured toward my waist. “I told you that sash was too long,” she said matter-of-factly. “Just trim it and you’ll be fine.”

  Jade’s “I told you so” was more than I could take. I was feeling so miserable that I couldn’t stop myself from saying, “The only reason I even got into this school is because of you. And no matter how hard I try to fit in, I don’t belong here.”

  “Of course you do,” Jade insisted.

  All
the hurt, all the frustration came pouring out of me now. “That’s easy for you to say!” I snapped. “You’re perfect.”

  Jade sucked in her breath as if I had just punched her. “I’ve got my problems, too, Isabelle,” she said sharply.

  That only made me angrier. “Name one,” I challenged her.

  Jade hesitated. “None of your business,” she finally said.

  “Ha!” I said, jabbing an index finger at her. “You can’t tell me because you don’t have any problems.”

  Jade let go of me and slumped against a locker. “That shows what you know,” she said softly. “I’m not perfect.”

  My sister suddenly looked very sad, which took the wind right out of my sails. I’d gone too far. “Sorry,” I mumbled. “It’s just that…I’m tired of everyone comparing my dancing to yours.”

  Jade took a deep breath. “Look,” she said, “we’re both good dancers. We’re each better at different things.”

  I scoffed and shook my head. I knew better than to think I was actually better at something than Jade.

  But Jade persisted. Taking a tissue from her pocket, she handed it to me. “You’re better at leaps than I am, Isabelle—you really are,” she said. “Sometimes you just explode into the air. You’ll be your own kind of dancer.”

  I wiped my face and looked at Jade doubtfully. “Really?”

  “It’s true,” she said. Then she frowned thoughtfully. “You just overthink things, Isabelle. When I see you practicing at home, I can see that you’re thinking about each step before you take it. You’ve trained your body. You have to learn to trust it.”

  “But how do I turn off my brain?” I wondered aloud.

  Jade paused for a moment and then asked, “Have you ever tried visualization?”

  Before modern dance class today, I’d never heard the word. But now I could say to Jade, “Yes, Mr. Amici just taught us about that today.” I didn’t mention that I had done well at it, but I began to feel more hopeful.

  “Well, this is how I visualize the gypsy dance,” she explained. “I imagine that I’m Tutu playing with a tassel. And I move my arms and legs the way Tutu does—up, down, and around.”