Once we get into the meat of our ballet practice, Melissa and I aren’t chatting anymore. You have to really concentrate on the adagio steps—preparations for turns that start out simple, but get a lot more difficult once you add the head and arm movements.
“Let’s do petit allegros now, okay?” Melissa suggests.
I nod my head okay, and prepare for the small jumps—like the changements that come before the grand allegros—which call for bigger combinations on the diagonal. This is the stuff I have to be down on.
Now I start getting nervous, because it’s time to show Melissa what I’m gonna do for my audition. She does her cool-down—some grand battements and ports de bras with her arms—and watches me get ready to do my routine.
“Okay, mija—your extensions are good,” Melissa says, smiling.
“I know,” I say, touching my hair. “I just got them put in.”
Melissa breaks out in a big smile at my joke. In ballet, an extension refers to how high you can lift your leg, in movements like the battements and developpé. I can lift my legs high, está bien?
Before I get too bigheaded, Melissa barks, “Okay, now let’s see your ‘Mariposa Negra.’” I’ve already told her I’m going to audition with a piece from the Black Butterfly, a famous Spanish ballet.
I take a deep breath and put on my audition music—it’s by Tchaikovsky, the famous Russian composer of Sleeping Beauty, Swan Lake, and Nutcracker fame.
Melissa beams, and nods her head for me to begin. She sits on the floor like she is one of the judges, pretending she has pen and paper in front of her, and is writing notes on my performance.
I ignore her, because that’s what you’re supposed to do at an audition. You have to totally concentrate on every single step you take. I take a deep breath, and suddenly I’m feeling dizzy again. I shake my head for a second.
“Qué pasa?” Melissa asks, concerned.
“Nada—I feel dizzy, but I don’t know why,” I mutter, trying not to pay attention to the light-headedness.
“Have you eaten?” Melissa asks me.
“No,” I respond, like, “what does that have to do with anything?” You never eat when you are rehearsing for a big performance—and this is a big performance, even if it is just an audition!
Melissa looks at me, but doesn’t say anything. She nods her head again for me to begin. I start the Tchaikovsky tape, and put my hands over my head in port de bras position. Gingerly, I flutter my arms. I am playing one of the follower butterflies—to audition as the lead would have been too brazen, too conceited for a ballerina auditioning to get into Junior Corps Division.
I take a few steps en pointe—which is the easy part. It’s going from flat to pointe, and coming down on one foot as well as two, that separates the chicas from the lead ballerinas, entiendes? I turn twice, then dip into a fouette, then turn again, maintaining my balance.
Ouch, my ankle hurts—and so does my head! I keep going—jeté, plié, fouette, and the leap that takes me halfway across the exercise studio—before I dive into a beautiful curtsy and drape my body to the floor.
“Bravo! Encore!” Melissa says, clapping loudly. I don’t respond, because I cannot expect that at my audition. No one will clap. They will simply nod, and say “thank you”—and I will be expected to exit from the room immediately.
“Do I need any work?” I ask Melissa, wiping the sweat from my forehead with a hand towel.
“Yes,” she responds without hesitating, and I feel the sting of rejection, even though I know she is being helpful. If there is anyone who wants me to do my best at this audition, it’s definitely Melissa.
“Your fouettes feel forced. It looks like you don’t have your balance when you come back to the center,” Melissa instructs me.
“Okay,” I moan, then put on the record and do the routine again. Melissa watches me carefully, and I try really hard to concentrate on my fouettes. I think it’s because I feel dizzy that I don’t quite get them. No, that isn’t true—I always have trouble with them.
Melissa claps again when I finish, but this time she doesn’t say “Bravo,” or anything. I know it’s stupid, but that makes me feel more nervous. Maybe I shouldn’t even go to this stupid audition if I don’t want to come off like a big babosa.
“I think you’re ready,” Melissa says with a sigh.
I take off my sweaty shoes and hang them over the barre, so they can dry and be ready for my big day on Saturday.
“Chanel!” I hear Mom yelling for me. Melissa and I hurry toward the kitchen. Mom is standing there with the phone in her hand. Funny, I didn’t hear the phone ring. I guess I was really concentrating on my practice. I grab the receiver, and hear Bubbles’s voice.
“Mamacita, we have a game plan,” she coos. I guess she’s trying to be nice to me, because she was so nasty when I wouldn’t hang with her and Dorinda after school today.
“What happened?” I respond, waiting to hear the details.
“We have a showcase in two weeks—on a Friday night at seven o’clock,” Bubbles says proudly.
“Really?” I respond, then catch myself, because I’m sounding like Melissa again. But I am surprised. I mean, Madrina—Bubbles’s mom—can cook up things faster than Uncle Ben’s Minute Rice, which is what Mom’s cooking right now for dinner. (She always uses the white rice when we have company instead of the Goya yellow rice. I guess the lady with the big glasses is staying for dinner.)
“We’re gonna rehearse starting Monday—you know, back to basics. We’re just gonna give ’em ‘Wannabe Stars in the Jiggy Jungle,” Bubbles explains, while I stand there in my leotard, feeling dirty.
“How come you’re breathing so heavy?” Bubbles asks, finally noticing that I’m panting like a puppy.
“I, um, just finished doing my ballet practice—with Melissa,” I explain nervously. Why should I feel bad? I guess I don’t want Bubbles to think we’re having fun without her.
“You’re still practicing?” she asks, surprised. “It’s nine o’clock already. I thought you said she was coming over at five o’clock!”
“She did,” I protest. “Bubbles, the audition is Saturday. I have to be ready.”
“That’s good,” Bubbles says like she means it—but even over the phone, I can tell when she is poking her mouth out and getting an attitude. “This way, you’ll have it out of the way for our rehearsal.”
I can’t believe Bubbles! She’s not even considering the possibility that I will get into the Junior Ballet Corps! I feel myself getting angry. Bubbles can write songs better than I can. Why can’t she understand that I’m a better ballerina than she is? That’s why I have to do this on my own—without her.
“If I get into the company, Bubbles, then I’m gonna have to rehearse—I’m just gonna somehow find time to do both. But for right now, it’s fine.”
“Well that’s the point to this joint, Chuchie,” Galleria says, in that big sister voice I hate. “If we do a showcase for the East Coast peeps at Def Duck Records, maybe they’ll get us into the studio, and start wagging instead of lollygagging.”
“I know. Don’t worry, Bubbles, we’re gonna rehearse really hard together, and be ready for all the quacking Ducks!”
Bubbles doesn’t laugh at my joke. I guess she is caliente that I invited Melissa over to my house to practice with. I start feeling guilty, and then I get dizzy again. My legs feel weaker than a scarecrow’s, and I plop right down at the dining room table. Melissa looks at me, concerned, and sits down too. Mom has come back from the den with the lady in the big glasses, so I don’t want to stay on the phone.
“Bubbles, I feel dizzy. I’d better go—I have to shower and, um, Mamí has company, too.”
“Mr. Tycoon?” Bubbles asks nosily.
“Um, no.” I don’t want to say anything about the lady, since she is hovering near the table. That would be rude. I know Bubbles is annoyed that I won’t stay on the phone and talk with her, but I don’t want to right now. “Bubbles, I have to leave
at two o’clock to go to the audition. I’ll call you afterward, está bien?”
“Okay,” Bubbles says, giving in. “Good luck tomorrow.” I think she means it.
Pucci comes into the dining room, and looks at Melissa out of the corner of his eyes. I introduce him, even though I don’t want to. He mumbles a hello, then plops his Pick Up Stix game box on the table. Fumbling with a pile of Stix, he blurts out to Melissa, “Are you a Cheetah Girl too?”
“No,” Melissa responds.
“Good,” Pucci says, making a mischievous face.
“Pucci—get that box off the dinner table,” Mom tells him, then introduces me to the lady in the big glasses, “This is Lois Paté—she is going to be working with me on my book.”
“Hi, Ms. Paté,” I say, noticing that her name rhymes with plié, which I don’t want to think about until tomorrow morning when I get ready for my audition. Suddenly, I realize this is who Mom has been talking about on the phone—the “ghost writer”—but she doesn’t look like a ghost to me. I wonder why they use that expression.
“I have to go,” Melissa whispers to me. It is already getting late, and I know she has to travel all by herself on the subway to Washington Heights, which is in the upper part of Manhattan—almost all the way to the Bronx. I feel guilty that she has to go home by herself. I walk Melissa to the door, and she gives me a hug and says, “Buena suerte tomorrow. Good luck at the audition.”
My hands are freezing; I’m so terrified. I run to my room and lie down without even taking a shower, because I am so dizzy I can’t see straight. Plopping down on my bed, I pass out—just like Sleeping Beauty.
Chapter
9
I thought I knew what it meant to be scared, but now I know what terror really is. Just the thought of seeing Mrs. Chavez and the other judges watching me at the audition is enough to send me running for the hills. Still, I am so proud of myself—because even though my stomach was growling this morning, I didn’t eat anything, and now I don’t feel hungry at all. I feel like I’m floating on air.
When I open the door of the American Ballet Theatre, I stand as tall as I possibly can, like I’m not nervous about anything. Nada, está bien? I’m going to leap into stardom, that’s what I’m going to do!
Then that stupid little voice comes into my head again. Maybe the judges won’t think I’m so good. I start shaking as I sit down in the waiting room.
A lady with a sharp voice instructs me to change in the anteroom studio. This is it. Now I will know if I have what it takes to be a ballerina—or not.
I turn nervously and look at the other girl in the anteroom, who has already changed. She looks a little older than I am, and she has long black straight hair pulled back into a ponytail. I watch her as she stands and does pliés—warming up and getting ready for the big time. Then she walks over to her canvas bag to get something out. I sneak a glance at her butt. She doesn’t have one at all! I start shrieking inside again. How could I be so flat-chested, yet have a butt that sticks out?
“Chanel Simmons?” says a lady, sticking her head around the door. She is holding a clipboard. I wonder how I got called before the other girl. She must be early, I guess.
“Do you have a tape?” the lady asks me.
I hand her my Tchaikovsky cassette, which is clearly marked “Blank” on Side Two, so the assistant won’t have any trouble figuring it out. I sneak one last look at myself in the mirror as I walk to the center of the exercise studio. My hair is slicked up in a ponytail, and the styling gel is holding up okay, because I don’t see any frizzies trying to take over.
Standing in the center of the studio, trying not to look at the judges, I feel the strangest feeling in my life—it’s as if I have left my body, and I’m watching myself from above, where I’m floating. Suddenly, I feel my hands shaking, and I hope no one notices it but me. All that matters now is, it’s time to dance!
The music has begun, and I begin to do the movements from the “Mariposa Negra” ballet piece. I place my hands over my head in port de bras position and my feet in fifth—then begin my pliés and petit allegros before I do my first fouette.
All of a sudden, I feel like I’m going to faint! Not now, Dios, please! I pray, as I do another fouette, then get ready for my series of grand leaps. One, two, three—
I leap, then turn—but lose my balance instead! “Aaah!” I scream, as I fall backward onto the floor—and disappear into darkness!
When I wake up, I see Mrs. Chavez and one of the other judges huddling over me. Ay, Dios mío—I must have blacked out! I feel a sinking feeling in my stomach, and then—worse—a shooting pain in my left ankle.
“Drink this,” Mrs. Chavez instructs me, handing me a paper cup of water.
“I don’t know what happened!” I moan, now that I am conscious and fully aware of my catástrofe.
I ruined my audition! Tears start streaming down my face. My left ankle feels like it’s on fire!
“You, um, fell and passed out.” Mrs. Chavez says, waiting patiently for me to stop moaning. “Drink this water, please.”
A lady comes with a wet washcloth and puts it over my forehead. “EMS is coming. They’re going to take you to the hospital,” she says.
“Hospital? I don’t need to go to any hospital,” I say, trying to talk normally between grimaces.
“Can you move?” Mrs. Chavez asks me.
I try to lift myself up without putting any weight on my left foot—but as soon as I get midway off the ground, I feel a shooting pain in my butt.
“Mr. Herrera, we’d better put her in the wheelchair,” Mrs. Chavez says.
“We’re gonna lift you up, Chanel,” Mr. Herrera informs me. “Hector, can you come here, please?”
I don’t want to be lifted up—I want to walk, but I’m too scared to try. Mr. Herrera and Hector get on each side of me and pick me up.
“Oouch!” I scream. My left ankle, dangling in midair, burns.
“Just one more second, Chanel. Can you sit like this in the wheelchair?”
“NO!” I cry out.
“Okay, then, we’ll wait for the stretcher,” Mr. Herrera says, as they put me back down on an outstretched blanket.
When the ambulance people arrive, Mrs. Chavez instructs them, “She’s gonna need a stretcher.”
I feel like such a babosa. What happened? I don’t remember! Suddenly everything just went blank…. I guess the dizzy spells were an omen that something bad was gonna happen. I should have listened!
“I’m sorry I ruined your auditions,” I say to Mrs. Chavez earnestly.
“That’s okay, Chanel, we’ll be fine,” she says, and I notice the tiny furrows in her forehead get deeper. She is probably worried that they’ll get in trouble or something.
The ambulance people return with a stretcher. “Okay, one, two, three,” I feel the shooting pain in my butt as they pick me up, but I try not to yelp anymore.
“Where does it hurt?” asks one of the ambulance attendants.
“In my, um, near my backside, and my left ankle,” I explain, trying to be mature.
Inside the ambulance, an attendant puts an oxygen mask over my face. I start to panic. What if I don’t wake up? Fresh, hot tears roll down my cheeks. Not waking up would be better than living through this!
The attendant takes a tissue and wipes my face, then secures the oxygen mask, covering my nose. I close my eyes, and listen to the whirring sound of the siren. This is the first time I’ve ever been in an ambulance.
Suddenly I see Abuela’s face before my eyes. She had to be taken to the hospital once, when she fell on the icy sidewalk in her neighborhood. Abuela is going to be so disappointed in me, I think, breathing in the oxygen and drifting off to sleep.
As I’m carted into the Lincoln Hospital Emergency Room, I try to decide who I would least want to see now—Mom, Abuela, or Bubbles, When I wake up and see Mom’s face, I finally decide—it’s Mom.
The attendant wheels me into a small room with a white curta
in. “A nurse will be with you shortly” he says, and leaves. Mom stands next to me until another attendant comes in, and gives me a paper gown to put on. Mom tries to help me get out of my leotard.
“I can’t,” I scream. The attendant gets some scissors, and starts to cut off my leotard! Tears are streaming down my face.
“Don’t cut my shoes!” I beg.
“We won’t have to if we can get them off,” he replies.
Mom hurriedly unties my pointe shoes. I know she doesn’t want to waste the fifty dollars. “No duckets down the bucket,” as Bubbles would say. Now I wish Bubbles was here to comfort me.
“Did you call Bubbles?” I ask Mom. I’m happy to see that the rash on her face is clearing up. Still, when I look at her, I see this image of her wearing that scary hockey mask.
“Don’t worry about Bubbles now, okay?” Mom says sternly.
My ankle feels like a football. The attendant takes my pointe shoes and cut leotard, and puts them in a paper bag, then staples it closed. “You can get these when she’s being released.”
“Thank you,” Mom tells him.
After the attendant leaves, we sit there in silence. I’m so relieved that Mom doesn’t say anything to me while we’re waiting for a nurse, doctor, or the Boogie Man to come see me. Please, somebody come! I lie there, resigned, with my eyes closed. The throbbing pain doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters now, because I didn’t get into the Junior Corps, and I’ll be lucky if anybody ever lets me audition again!
Gracias gooseness, a nurse comes right in and starts poking around. “We have to take some blood samples,” she says nicely. “And if you could fill out these forms—and make sure to include your insurance card.”
Mom takes the clipboard and starts scribbling stuff.
The nurse takes out the needle and sticks me in the arm. I keep my eyes closed real tight. Even though I hate needles, I’m not going to show Mom that I’m afraid.
Cuchifrita, Ballerina Page 7
