by Maria Padian
“I’m still not sure this is the right thing for you,” he says firmly. “But as I’ve said, and as I’ve promised your mother, I’m willing to give it a try. At least for the summer.”
“Dad, it’s just camp,” I said. Repeated, for the millionth time. “How many kids go to summer camp?”
He puts up his hand. Stops me, right there.
“No, Henry, it’s not just summer camp. I don’t want you to be naïve about this.” I shift in my chair.
“This is the big leagues, Henry. Kids here are getting groomed.”
Poodles get groomed. Horses get groomed. But kids?
“You’re not used to this heat. You’re not used to this level of physical pressure.”
“We’ve been through this, Dad…,” I try.
“If something hurts, stop. Go to the trainer right away. Never play through pain.”
“Dad?”
“Hydrate. Lots of water before, during and after workouts.”
“I’ll be the Poland Spring Queen, Mr. Lloyd.”
“Most of all: trust your instincts. You’re a good kid. You have good instincts. If something doesn’t feel right, say it. Never be afraid to say no.”
I say no all the time. You just never listen.
Mom returns, ending the lecture. She flashes Dad this knowing look.
“The waitress is coming,” she says to me. Then she reaches into her bag and pulls out a small, gift-wrapped box. She hands it to Dad.
“Henry, we thought that since you’re going to be so far away, you might like to have something to help you stay in touch.” He hands me the box.
“Oooh,” I say. Medium light. Nothing rattles when I shake it. I know what I hope is in here, but I’m afraid to let myself in for disappointment, so I just rip it open fast and …
“Yes! Oh, awesome! Thank you so much!” A cell phone. Not just a cell phone: an iPhone. This is a complete and total great surprise. Then, as I remove the phone from its box, it rings. It blares Krystal Harris’s song “Supergirl.”
And a photo pops up. A girl in a ballet leotard.
“Hmm,” Mom says. A very exaggerated “hmm.” “I wonder who could possibly be calling you?”
“Better answer it,” Dad says, grinning.
“How?” I exclaim, laughing. He leans over and taps the photo with his finger. I lift the phone to my ear.
“Hello?” I say, hesitantly.
“Assure me you are wearing sunblock,” says a familiar voice.
“Oh my god!” I laugh. “Were you in on this with them?”
“Are you kidding? I advised them all the way,” Eva says. “They went all out; I think they’re going to miss you. So, tell me: how’s Florida?”
“Flat. Sunny. Hot. Very cool birds, very colorful clothing. The natives are stylin’.”
“Would I hate it?”
“You’d like being warm.”
“Where are you now?”
“We’re at this lunch place near the ocean, sitting outside, and it’s around ninety. How did you know to call me?”
“Your mother just phoned. How does it feel to be completely set up?”
“I’m getting used to it. Especially after the Facebook thing.”
“That phone takes pictures. Send me some. Tonight. Promise.”
“How ’bout now? I’ll show you this restaurant.”
“Excellent, but I want the dorm room, too.”
“You’re amazing, Eva.”
“I know. So go back to your French fries. I miss you.” I press “end.”
“That was very cool,” I say, smiling at my parents. “Thank you.”
* * *
The thing I can’t get over is their bags. I’ve seen some of these bags before: advertised in Tennis magazine. Enormous, with capacity for five rackets, not to mention all the water, food, towels, extra clothes, extra shoes and who knows what else you could possibly want during a match. Naturally, each has a logo in big, splashy letters: Wilson. Fila. Head. These are the sorts of bags I assumed six-figure professionals carried, not kids at a summer camp.
We’re standing several campers deep in the registration line, beyond the shade of the awning set up over the long table where smiling Chadwick people are handing out room keys and directing players to the dorms. It’s hot in the sun, and I’m dying to move forward, but some mother is holding up the line, asking a million questions about the vegetarian options in the dining hall.
I don’t know anyone who has five rackets. I think Mike Adams has two. Only last week Dad bought me a second, and that’s because the camp requires it.
Stop it, Henry. Deep breath, girl. Just because they accessorize like pros doesn’t mean they play like pros.
“Excuse me. Are you Henriette Lloyd?” A girl’s voice speaks behind us.
I recognize Yolanda Cruz instantly from her Facebook photo. But even without the photo I would have identified her and her family in this lineup of disproportionately trim, blond people.
Yolanda’s little brothers and sisters all look like mini versions of her. Black hair, complexions like creamy coffee, brown eyes so dark you can’t see the pupils. They cluster close to their parents, and in addition to being remarkably well-behaved for a bunch of children forced to wait on a line in the hot sun, they are impeccably dressed. Even the next-to-littlest, a guy who might be all of four, wears pressed shorts, a belt and a shirt neatly tucked in.
“Umm, yeah. But it’s Henry,” I reply, surprised at how awkward I feel. “Yolanda, right?” She’s short, this Yolanda Cruz, and … stocky. Not fat, although when she smiles her cheeks look like these two round apples. I can’t imagine she moves very well on the court.
She puts out her hand, which seems a little formal, but her face melts into this expression of relief. I notice that she stands beside two rackets, each zipped into individual covers, and leaning against a square, brown suitcase.
“Excuse me, can we move forward, please?” Some mom standing behind the Cruz clan sounds impatient, and I realize we’ve advanced in line. As we shuffle toward the table, nudging our luggage ahead with our feet, my mom introduces herself to Yolanda’s mom.
“You look just like your Facebook picture,” Yolanda begins. “I recognized you right off.”
Hmm. I don’t think that looks anything like me, but okay.…
“Did you fly into Fort Lauderdale?” she continues.
“Actually, we drove.”
“¡Ay, Dios mío!” she exclaims. The family standing in front of us turns and looks. “Straight through?”
“Oh, no, we stopped at night. Twice,” I add. Yolanda turns to the little brother with the belt.
“How would you like that, Mr. I-Get-Carsick?” she says to him. “Three days in the car?” He looks at me shyly, shakes his head no, then buries his face in his sister’s hip. I hear him whisper to her. “Sí, es muy bonita,” she replies quietly.
“He thinks you’re very pretty,” she tells me.
“Tell him he can be my boyfriend,” I reply seriously. “I like younger men.” Yolanda whispers to him again, and he squeals. He runs to hide behind his mother.
“He’s really cute,” I say to Yolanda. “I don’t have any brothers and sisters.”
“I have a few you can borrow,” she says, and we both laugh.
“Uh, some of us would like to get out of the sun?” The impatient mother behind us again. It’s our turn at the table.
The Chadwick people exude high-voltage helpfulness as they hand us our room keys and point us toward our dorm. Girls, we learn, are on the third floor; boys are on the second. There’s a gathering at three o’clock, in the dining hall, for all campers and parents, then campus tours for new players. Dinner, to which families are invited, starts promptly at six. After dinner …
Well, then it begins, doesn’t it? Mom and Dad drive away. Three days between here and New Jersey.
The Lloyds and Cruzes, weighed down by luggage, head toward the dorm rooms. Mom and Mrs. Cruz chat away like old friends, and I know it w
on’t be long before Mom gets her hands on the baby Mrs. Cruz holds. The dads seem very preoccupied with carrying suitcases.
Just before we round the corner, Yolanda nudges me and gestures with her head toward the line.
“One, two, three … fifth guy back,” she murmurs. “Recognize him from Facebook?”
Right about where I think the fifth camper might be, I see a blond-streaked head. He’s a lot taller than I imagined he’d be.
“Jonathan Dundas!” This comes out a bit louder than intended. Heads on the line turn, luckily not Jonathan Dundas’s. But another guy’s. He’s standing just beyond the awning, alone, not really part of the line. More like he’s checking it out. He has long brown hair, sort of Roger Federer–ish. It swings when he whips his head around. I don’t recognize him from Facebook.
He obviously heard me, and he stares. Great, Hen. Haven’t even dragged your duffel up to the room, and already made an idiot out of yourself. Ten points.
As we walk on, Yolanda whispers in my ear.
“What did you think of his profile?” She looks at me carefully.
I smile and raise my eyebrows suggestively.
“What did you think?” I return the question.
She crosses her eyes, clutches her throat and makes mock gagging sounds. I burst out laughing.
“I mean, could you believe him?” she says, relief in her voice.
She chatters unrestrainedly now. As she walks ahead of me, the muscles in her calves bulge.
Bet she’s one of those heavy hitters. She’s carrying too much weight to be quick. Then again, you never know. Don’t underestimate the big girls.
Chapter Ten
EVA
It begins with plié. It always begins with plié.
A simple bend of the knees from first position, where the heels touch and the feet swivel out in a parallel line. Do this while resting your hands on the barre, a long wooden railing that extends around the perimeter of the room. First, the demi-plié, a partial knee bend, heels remain on the floor. Again. Again. And again. Slowly the calves warm, the thighs stretch, the buttocks and stomach tuck in. Always the line straight and the center firm.
Next, the grand plié. Bend so the thighs are parallel to the floor. The heels can rise now, and one hand rests on the barre while the free arm sweeps a graceful, circular motion. As if you’re embracing a big beach ball. The head tracks the arm: dreamlike, hypnotic. Give no hint of the rigid concentration and strength it takes to repeat these movements again and again, as the muscles move from warm to burn and sweat glistens on your neck.
And always, always in front of you: the unforgiving mirror.
I’m the biggest in the class. Tallest. Fattest. A giantess in a room full of pixies. You suck, and they stuck you in a class with girls two years younger.
Your head is held on a string that pulls you up to the ceiling. Even as you plié down, that string pulls, keeps you from folding in on yourself. Straight, long and tall on the way down, and slowly straight, long and tall on the way up. The legs grow warm but the strength comes from the abs. The focal point for every move.
Madame approaches. I see a suggestion of her quick step in the mirror. As her assistant calls out, “And plié! And up. And plié! And up,” Madame visits each girl at the barre, murmuring comments, making corrections. I turn my eyes toward the mirror in fierce concentration. Now, Eva. One perfect plié.
She stands slightly behind me. Then I feel her hand between my knees, gently coaxing them open.
“More turnout, but from the hip. Open at the hip. If you cheat with your knees you’ll injure yourself.”
I imagine my thigh bone twisting in its socket ever so slightly. Ligaments scream, but I ignore them. I check the mirror. Better. Definitely more open. I begin the descent, this time for grand plié, and focus on the straight line of my back.
Madame has one hand on my butt and another on my stomach. She pushes my butt forward.
“Tuck the buttocks in, Eva!” she says firmly. Again, I check the mirror. I correct, instantly, but Madame has already moved on. My straight, clean line is lost on her.
Ballet booty. That’s what you’ve got. Big fat butt sticking out of your leotard. That butt alone weighs more than one of these other girls. You’re the fat elephant in the kids’ class, Eva.
It goes on. For ninety minutes. From pliés we move to tendus, from tendus to frappés, then on to ronds de jambe, first en dedans, then en l’air. I have never spent so much concentrated time at the barre in my life. The words of the woman in the black warm-up suit return to me: “We do many, many tendus here.”
Somewhere between the umpteenth tendu and ronds de jambe en l’air, I lose track of time. I lose track of everything, actually, except the particular movement I’m called upon to perform. I’m in this place that Henry calls the zone, where all the background noise fades and the only thing that exists is what you’re doing right at that moment, whether it be a forehand or a plié. The instructor’s voice, my burning calf muscles, even Madame’s striding presence among us, disappear, and I’m in a small space where the perfection of the simplest step commands me. It’s a quiet, pure place, and as I work I feel the pace of my heart lessen and the nervous tension in my shoulders loosen.
Then, at grand battement, it happens. Leg lifts: one leg planted while the other is raised into the air from the hip, then brought down again, knees straight. The goal is to loosen the hips, turn the legs out from the hips. Over and over we lift devant (in front), à la seconde (from second position) and derrière (behind). Each time my foot goes a little higher, the joints relax a little more, and on the third grand battement à la seconde I feel completely loose, I see my foot soar above my head, the leg scissors down, straight, and I realize: it is the best, most perfect grand battement I have ever done. I feel this … rush … of elation.
This is when it happens for me. Never during a performance, or onstage, or in the mirror. But at these unexpected moments, when I’m too tired to look in the mirror, and just slip into feeling: one perfect execution. Something lovely, beautiful, created by me. Only for an instant, then it’s gone.
But this is why I dance.
When the instructor calls for révérence, the stretch that marks the end of the exercise and is the traditional gesture of respect for the art, I feel a pang. I hate to stop. Hate to abandon this space.
As I reluctantly leave the barre and head with the rest of the class to the changing room, I see Madame. She is watching me. Probably has been, for I don’t know how long. Our eyes lock, and reflexively I smile at her. God knows why. And in return she does … nothing. Her expressionless face is flat. Neither approval nor disgust registered there.
I’m a stranger blocking her view of the wall. I am molding clay. Anonymous, beige, to be twisted and retwisted into sylphlike shapes of ballet perfection.
I can’t decide whether to lunge at her and seize her by the throat, or collapse on the floor in hysterical sobs. So since I can’t decide, I quietly follow the line of girls out of the studio.
* * *
We have two hours before pointe class at one o’clock. Perfect. There’s a lounge on the second floor with big couches and a drinks machine where I can get a bottle of water. Just the place to put my feet up and eat my bag lunch, but as I head for the elevators, one of the pixies invites me to join her and several others at the canteen.
“Thanks, but I brought,” I say, displaying my bag as evidence.
“Oh, they’ll let you take food in,” she assures me.
Next thing I know I’m riding the elevator with three of them. The girl who invited me does the introductions.
“I’m Marguerite,” she says. “This is Anna. Caitlin.” Each nods and smiles. Each has her hair smoothly pulled back in a tight bun. No one wears jewelry, not even earrings. We’ve all changed into leggings and loose T-shirts. Soft wool clogs that could double as bedroom slippers. “Eva,” I say, smiling back.
“Is this your first summer?” asks Marguer
ite.
“Yes,” I reply, surprised. “Have you done this before?” All three nod.
“Third time,” Marguerite says matter-of-factly. “Third,” she adds, pointing to Anna. “Fourth,” she says, pointing to Caitlin. I don’t even bother to hide my astonishment.
“I didn’t know people repeated,” I say. Anna shrugs.
“Still trying to get an invitation to the full-year program,” she explains. “They’ll let you keep trying until you’re, what? Seventeen?” she asks Caitlin, who nods. “So I’ve got one year left.”
“You’re sixteen?” I ask. No way is this flat-chested pipsqueak older than me.
“Yup. The old lady of the group. Everyone else is fifteen. You?” The elevator doors slide open.
“Same.”
The canteen looks like a cross between a high school cafeteria and a hospital lunch café. Smells about that appetizing, too. We find an empty table with four metal and plastic chairs, and sit. All the pixies carry their lunches.
“Where are you from, Eva?” Marguerite rips the top off a yogurt and stirs vigorously.
“Ridgefield, New Jersey. It takes a little less than an hour to drive here.”
“You drive into the city each day? That must suck,” says Caitlin. She’s unsheathed the largest spinach wrap I’ve ever seen. It’s practically a torpedo. It leaks veggies, cheese and something resembling turkey.
“I’m used to it. Do you all live in New York?” I pull out my bag of carrots. Twelve organic Bunny-Luv brand baby carrots in a Ziploc bag.
“For the summer. We’re all in the dorms,” Caitlin says. She takes a wolfish bite of the wrap.
“I heard they got more requests for boarding students this year than ever before,” Anna says quietly. “They turned the rooms in Marks Hall into triples.” She’s unwrapped a little square sandwich on brown bread. PB and J on whole wheat.
“Those were tight as doubles. I don’t want to think about three beds in there,” says Marguerite. “Caitlin, what is that?”
We have to wait for Caitlin to chew and swallow before she can answer. She’s dropping shredded lettuce into her lap, and dressing drips from one end of the wrap.
