by Shenda Paul
When we get home, there are lots of people in our living room, and Mandi’s mommy and another lady are in the kitchen putting food on plates. The people, some I don’t even know, talk, drink tea and coffee, and eat sandwiches and cake. They call it a wake, Mandi tells me. I don’t care what it’s called; I want them to leave. I don’t want to smile, and I don’t want to talk to people. I don’t even want to play with my best friend today. I want to cuddle with my mommy, and I want to forget about my daddy in that hole.
Daddy’s been gone for eight weeks now, and I miss him so much. Both Mommy and I do. We talk about him all the time, even though it makes us cry. Mommy says we keep Daddy’s memory alive by remembering and talking about him and the things we did together.
I’m in my new bedroom, reading. It’s really my old bedroom. It used to be Mommy’s sewing room when Daddy was sick, but she doesn’t need it now because she’s working at the bookshop again. I love this room, but I wouldn’t mind moving back to the small one next to the kitchen if we could have Daddy back.
Mommy moved me here four weeks after Daddy died. She said he’d want us to get back to normal. Yes, my daddy died; he didn’t just go to heaven like Mommy said. He had to die first.
Hannah Simms told me at school. “Your daddy’s dead,” she said. She was so mean, she said Mrs. Callahan only let me hand out books because she felt sorry for me because my daddy died. I said my daddy didn’t die; he went to heaven.
“Your Daddy is dead; my mom says so!” she shouted and everyone heard. I cried because I was sad and so mad at her for telling nasty lies. Mandi, Sammy, and Bronny took me to the little girls’ room. Mandi helped me wash my face, and then, at lunch, she tipped Hannah’s drink right into her lap.
“Sorry; it was an accident,” she said, even though we all knew it wasn’t. I really love my friends.
I told Mommy about Hannah, and she said only someone thoughtless would say something so unkind. She said Daddy passed on, that he had to do that to go heaven. “It’s our passage into heaven; everyone will pass on one day,” she said. So now I know Hannah isn’t just mean, she’s thoughtless; and next time, I’m going to tell her that.
Anyway, I’m in my room, reading Anne of Green Gables. I found it when we unpacked a box of Mommy’s old things. She said I could choose a few, so I took this book and a pretty hair comb, which belonged to my Grammy. Mommy says it’s mother-of-pearl. It’s no one’s mother, she said, it comes from a shell.
Anne of Green Gables was Grammy’s favorite book, then it was Mommy’s, and now it’s mine. I want to go to Prince Edward Island—Mommy said she also wanted to when she was my age—it’s part of Canada she told me. Mandi thinks I’m crazy. “Disneyland’s better,” she said, but I don’t care. She hasn’t read the book, so she doesn’t know.
The next day, at school, our Principal, Mrs. Roberts gives me a letter for Mommy. I hope it’s not like Abby Bertram’s letter because she was grounded without pocket money after she got hers. Mommy gives me fifty cents every week for sweeping the kitchen. Funny, because, sometimes, when she thinks I’m in bed, I see her sweeping it again. I hope I’m not in trouble because I don’t want to be grounded, and I want my pocket money so I can buy Sammy a present for her birthday next month.
I give the letter to Mommy as soon as I get home like Mrs. Roberts said. I’m glad when she doesn’t open it right away because, even though I can’t think of anything, I still worry about what I did wrong. After I help clear the table, Mommy tells me to get ready for bed. “Brush your teeth properly,” she reminds me, and I say I will.
When I get back, Mommy’s sitting on the sofa frowning at the letter. I stop in the doorway, worried again.
“Sit, Angel.” Mommy says and pats the cushion next to her. I’m glad she didn’t call me Angelique.
“The Quandt Institute has invited you to audition. Mrs. Roberts checked their scholarship program and says it’s an excellent school and that you’re lucky to be given this opportunity.”
I don’t know about opportunities, but I don’t think I’d like any from Mr. Quandt. I don’t say so because Daddy told me one has to make the most of opportunities. “Opportunity only knocks once, A Stór,” he said.
Mommy did go to see Mrs. Roberts, and now we’re sitting in this room with five other girls and their mommies. I’m wearing a new dress Mommy made especially for today. It has a yellow skirt and white top. I also have new socks with tiny, yellow flowers. Mommy helped me dress. She hasn’t done that in ages, not since I learned to do it myself; but this morning, even though I told her I could do it on my own, she said she wanted to help me. She even helped put on my socks. Daddy would have kissed her and told her not to fuss.
I don’t want to be here, I’d rather be with my friends, playing with Sooty, but I can’t be because Mommy said today’s important. She said she and Daddy wanted to give me the best, but life had other plans, so they couldn’t do that together now. “But this is a fantastic chance, Angel, and I think he would want us to make the most of it,” Mommy said.
So, that’s why we’re here—for me to audition. Mommy said it’s a meeting where we can see if we like the school, and the teachers can make sure they like me. We traveled by train, and Mommy said we were lucky it wasn’t rush hour because we’d be jammed in like sardines. I asked, and she told me rush hour is when thousands of people travel to work at the same time—on trains, in taxis, in their cars, and some even walk.
New York is huge, and it’s busy. Daddy told me people who live and work here call it The City. Anyway, it’s scary. No one smiles; they don’t even look at you. In Rutherford, where we live, people smile, and, in our street, everyone knows one another. “We’re a community; we watch out for our neighbors,” Daddy said.
In The City, the buildings are tall, very tall—some are so high, my neck hurt from looking up at them. I bumped into a lady while trying to see the top of one building, and she looked pretty mad, even after I said sorry.
I do like Central Park, though. Daddy and Mommy brought me a couple of times. We sat on the grass with our hotdogs and watched people; Daddy called it our New York-style picnic.
A lady comes in now and looks around. “Angelique Bain?” she smiles at the girl in the pink dress, and her mommy shakes her head.
“This is Angelique,” Mommy says, taking my hand.
“Hello, Angelique, I’m Miss Ingrid.” She smiles at me now. She talks like Mr. Quandt, but I don’t mind it so much because she’s pretty, and I like her smile. “Mrs. Bain, I’m Ingrid Svenska, Dance Director at the Institute,” she says when she and Mommy shake hands. “Would you and Angelique come with me, please?”
We follow her down a hallway, and the music that I heard while waiting gets louder. When we reach an open door, I stop to look at the girls standing on their toes. Not on tippy toes like I do, but on their toes. They hold onto a pole on the wall with one hand and the other is the air, bent over their heads. I wish I could stand like that.
A lady, dressed in black, walks up and down, tapping the floor with a walking stick. “Back straight, head up,” she says to one girl and touches her leg with the stick. I want to stay, but Mommy tugs my arm.
“Do you like that, Angelique?” Miss Ingrid asks.
“Yes,” I answer, feeling my face get hot.
“We’ll return when your mother and I have talked,” she tells me. I smile back at her; maybe this school isn’t so bad.
We’re in Miss Ingrid’s office, and I’m watching people in the street. From way up here, they look like the ants I sometimes see in the park, busy, busy, marching past ants going the other way.
“But isn’t she a bit young for serious ballet?” I hear Mommy ask.
“Starting ballet early has both physical and mental advantages. Young minds are more adept at learning a new language, and ballet is definitely a language, Mrs. Bain. It’s a language of movement,” Miss Ingrid says.
“Children retain new information better than adults, Mrs. Bain, and young bodi
es are ideal for developing the long lines and exacting techniques needed for ballet. By the time they become teenagers, there is not much room for change, so, the younger, the better because it takes twelve years to produce a company-ready dancer. Angelique is the perfect age.”
“I appreciate the opportunity, and I understand the benefits; but I’ll only accept if I feel Angelique will enjoy being here. She’s hardly had enough time to be a child. What you’ve described sounds very intense.”
“She will not start full-time classes until she turns eleven. Before that, we will require her to take two weekly classes and undertake one hour’s practice at home. That’s not too bad, is it? And don’t forget, Mrs. Bain, the scholarship also funds a world-class education.”
Mommy sighs big, and her eyes get all shiny like they do when she thinks or talks about Daddy. “Only if she wants to do it, and only if I think she’ll enjoy her time here, Miss Svenska. Otherwise, I’m afraid that no matter how great your school, I’ll have to decline,” Mommy says.
“That is understandable, and I respect your feelings, Mrs. Bain,” Miss Ingrid tells Mommy and then looks up to smile at me. “Are you ready to see some ballet now?”
She takes us to the same room; the one she calls a studio. I don’t know if these are the same girls, but they look the same, dressed in their black costumes that look like swimsuits, and pink tights and shoes. Even their hair is the same, just like Miss Ingrid’s. When she sees me looking, Miss Ingrid tells me they’re wearing leotards, and that I’d wear one too if I decide I want to be a ballerina. She says every girl in the room dreams of being one.
I ask if she’s a ballerina, and she says she used to be once, in Europe. I know about Europe; Daddy showed me when he told me about Ireland. Miss Ingrid tells about the places she visited while touring. I’ll ask Mommy what that means later. I ask Miss Ingrid if she has a little girl who dances. She looks sad and says no, she was too busy dancing and teaching. Now, she only teaches very special students. “I hope you will be one of those, Angelique,” she says.
Anyway, I stop talking and watch. I think the girls look so pretty. I want to do dance like them and look pretty too. The teacher says, “That’s it class,” and then, when they leave, Miss Ingrid asks if I want to try some steps.
“Yes, please,” I say, feeling butterflies in my tummy. She tells me to take off my shoes and socks, and I quickly sit down. Mommy comes to help.
When I’m ready, Miss Ingrid takes me to stand in front the mirror. The whole room’s covered in mirrors. She stands next to me, also without shoes, and moves her feet. “Watch carefully, Angelique; this is called first position. You try it now,” she says after showing me a few times. I do, and it’s much harder than it looks, but Miss Ingrid kneels to move my feet, and I keep trying until she’s happy. Then, she shows me second, third, fourth, and fifth. “Those are the basic steps in ballet,” she tells me, and when I get them right, Miss Ingrid stands behind me and lifts my arm over my head.
“Look. See what a beautiful ballerina you will make,” she says and both she and Mommy smiles at me in the mirror. I smile back, real wide because I think I’m going to love ballet.
“Mrs. Bain, we would appreciate your response in two weeks. Forgive the short time, but we have many who are anxious to enter our program, and we do not want to keep anyone waiting longer than needed,” Miss Ingrid says when we’re in the hallway again.
“I understand, and I promise to get back to you by then,” Mommy says, and we say goodbye to Miss Ingrid.
When the elevator door opens for us to go down, Mr. Quandt gets out. “Nice to see you again, Mrs. Bain,” he says to Mommy. “Did you enjoy the tour, and did Miss Svenska satisfy your questions?” he asks, looking at me.
“We did, thank you, Mr. Quandt. Angelique and I have a lot to think about and discuss,” Mommy tells him.
“Well, beautiful Angelique, I hope you make the right decision,” he says, and smiles, but I don’t smile back because I still don’t like him.
3
I turned thirteen on Wednesday, and, today, we’re going to celebrate. It’s Saturday, so Mom and I are on our way to the Institute for my lesson with Miss Ingrid. Mom will wander around the shops and then come back for me like always. Normally, we’d go straight home, but not today; today, she and Mandi’s mom are taking us girls to the movies. And, afterward, we’re going to a pizza place to celebrate my birthday.
Mandi, Sammy, Bronny, and I are still best friends, even though I’ve left Lincoln. The Bookman School, where I attend now, is close to the studio and most of the scholarship students go there. It’s a school for performers. Many of the kids at Bookman are already professionals; some have been acting or modeling for years. Usually, they don’t attend classes while filming or touring; some never do. They study from wherever they live or where they’re working instead. Everyone’s pretty nice, though, and I’ve made friends, but they’re not my best friends—those will always be Mandi, Sammy, and Bronny. I’m so excited about seeing them later because we don’t see one another as often as we used to.
Mom and I say goodbye in the Institute’s lobby before I race to the locker room to change. Miss Ingrid comes in and watches while I tie my pointes. “You’ve followed the steps perfectly; paying attention to small details is what makes a great ballerina. Many are talented, but only very few are counted among the greats; you can be great, Angelique,” she says when I’m done.
“Thanks, Miss Ingrid.” I blush because she doesn’t praise me often. Usually, she just says I can do better.
“Happy Birthday,” she says then and comes to wrap an arm around my shoulders. “Mr. Quandt wants to see you in his office. Hurry now; I’ll be waiting in the small studio.”
It’s been six years, and I still don’t like Mr. Quandt. I try to avoid him, but he’s always around, and he watches me, I know. He’s never asked to see me before, though, so I’m worried. I hope he’s not going to stop my scholarship. I don’t care about The Bookman; I’d rather be with my friends anyway, but I love ballet, and Mom can’t afford to send me to another school like this.
I’ve improved a lot since I started. In the beginning, classes were just fun; it felt like we were playing when we learned creative movement. Miss Paula called self-discovered movement. She said no one would laugh or think us weird. “Just feel your bodies move and to learn to love the feeling of dance,” she said.
Next, she taught us ballet steps, and it wasn’t playing then. We had to concentrate and remember everything we learned, and there was always a lot to learn. When our coordination improved, we moved to dance structure and rhythm, and then the next stage, and the next. Each year, we had to work harder. Some students dropped out, either because it wasn’t fun anymore or because they found it too difficult. I loved every moment, and, even when it got hard, I always looked forward to learning more. I still do.
Two years ago, I entered stage one of the pre-professional course, which includes pointe, variations, pas de deux, modern jazz, and repertoire rehearsals. I was moved to one of the special classes that Miss Ingrid teaches. I love having her as a teacher; I even asked for extra lessons. So, now, as well as my compulsory, I have a two-hour, one-on-one session with her every Saturday.
I’ve just started stage two of my pre-professional training. I hope to advance to stage three quickly, and I’m hoping to land a bigger role in our Christmas performance this year—if Mr. Quandt doesn’t tell me to leave.
I take a deep breath outside his door. I knock, just once, wishing real hard that he doesn’t answer so I can tell Miss Ingrid he wasn’t here. But he is and tells me to come in.
Mr. Quandt watches from behind his desk, smiling, when I step inside. “Come in, beautiful Angelique. Shut the door,” he says and pushes his chair back. Ugh! He’s so creepy. I want to run, but I force myself to move. I watch him bends to open a drawer and then take out a blue box tied with a white ribbon.
“Happy Birthday, Sweet Girl,” he says, coming toward me. He hold
s the box out just like he did that day in the park. His eyes don’t move from mine, not even once.
“Thank you,” I say, but I don’t take it.
“It’s a present, Angelique. Don’t you want it?”
“I’m not allowed to accept things from strangers,” I tell him and fold my hands behind my back.
“I’m no stranger.” He frowns and walks around me. He stops, so close, he nearly touches me. And then he’s in front of me, staring at me again. I turn my head. I don’t like him looking at me like that.
He pulls my right hand from behind my back. “You’re so beautiful,” he says, squeezing it. “You were a lovely child, but you have become an exquisite young girl… a girl on the cusp of womanhood. So beautiful,” he sighs. I don’t know what he’s talking about. All I know is that I want to get out of here.
“Take the present; every woman dreams of receiving jewelry from a man,” he says and presses the box into my hand.
I want to drop it, but he’s holding my hand. “Happy Birthday, my beautiful girl,” he says, and then he strokes my cheek and my neck with his other hand. I jerk away, but he’s hand’s still on my neck. He stares at me, a funny look on his face. And then he steps back and goes back to his desk.
“Don’t keep Miss Ingrid waiting,” he tells me, and picks up a letter and starts to read.
My legs shake when I walk away, and when I shut his door, I run—straight to my locker. I shove the box to the bottom of my bag and then, in the bathroom, I wash my face and neck, scrubbing hard with paper towels until it’s red and stinging. I force back my tears because I’m late, and Miss Ingrid hates anyone being late. I don’t tell her what happened; I just want to forget about Mr. Quandt.
