On Pointe

by Lorie Ann Grover

  He runs his bumpy finger

  around the bowl.

  “You don’t need that salt, Grandpa.”

  He raises an eyebrow above his glasses

  and licks his finger clean.

  “You’re right,” he says. “One more lick.”

  I dump our empty microwave dinner plates

  into the garbage.

  Enough time left for a bath.

  “Night, Grandpa.” I kiss him

  on the forehead.

  “Night, Clare.” He slips back to sleep

  in his chair.

  In the pink-and-black bathroom,

  I peel off my cold leotard and tights

  like a layer of skin.

  While the soaking powder dissolves in the water,

  I sit on the chilly toilet lid

  and pick the tape off my toes.

  I step into the tub.

  Yikes! It burns, burns, burns

  the open sores

  on my feet.

  Then it stops.

  Hey.

  The tub seems shorter

  than ours at home.

  I shiver

  in the hot water.

  Everyone is sacrificing

  so my dream to dance

  with City Ballet

  comes true.

  Mom and Dad pay for shoes, clothes, and lessons.

  Grandpa helps pay for them too,

  and lets me live here for the summer.

  So much money is spent on me,

  I have to sacrifice

  my whole body.

  I can’t waste a dime.

  I dial,

  tug the sheet

  up between my legs,

  and leave my throbbing feet poking out.

  The cool night air slips around the room,

  but I’m too beat to get up and close the windows.

  I don’t know if I have enough energy

  to even talk to Mom.

  But here goes.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Clare! How was class?

  Was it fun and energizing?

  Did you do well?”

  “It was fine.”

  “Great! And

  is everything going smoothly

  with your grandfather?

  Are you two still getting along?

  No problems now, I hope.”

  “No, we’re doing okay.

  It’s still easier staying here

  than taking the bus every day

  from our apartment.”

  “That was the plan.

  A good plan.

  I knew it would be.

  You’re getting the best instruction

  right in my old hometown.

  I’ll never figure out

  how Ballet Conservatory

  ended up there.

  Someone liked the setting,

  I suppose,

  at some point.

  So there you have it.

  And it’s all worked out for us.

  Tell me,

  how are your new shoes holding up?”

  “They’re okay.

  Mostly.

  I, um, I’ll need another pair

  in a couple weeks.”

  “I’ll put in the order, Clare.

  Happy to do it for you.”

  “Sorry I’m wearing them out so quickly.”

  “Now, now. None of that.

  Anything for our dream.

  Any word on the audition, sweetheart?

  You must be so excited.

  I bet it’s only days away.

  I understand

  they wait to post the announcement

  till just before the tryouts,

  to keep nerves at bay.

  So, Clare,

  have you heard yet?”

  “Not yet, Mom.” I scrinch the sheet

  into my fist.

  She talks a hundred miles a second

  through every minute.

  “Well, when all goes as planned,

  are you ready to spend the school year

  with Grandpa?

  It would be a perfect location for you.

  Think about—”

  “Definitely. I’d like to stay here.

  It’s close to the conservatory.

  Rosella is psyched that I’d be in her school.

  And it’s not like I’d be leaving

  a ton of friends behind.”

  “No,

  ballet study hasn’t left time

  for friendships, has it?

  But then, that’s completely understandable,

  and you do have Rosella.

  She’s such a dear.”

  “Yeah. But, Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “I would miss working at the bookstore

  with you and Dad.”

  “That’s nice of you to say, Clare.

  But like we discussed,

  you could come home after class

  occasionally,

  on Saturdays,

  and earn some money.”

  “That’d be good.”

  “I drove by your and Rosella’s

  old dance school today.

  You both have certainly outgrown

  their little yearly performances for parents.”

  “Definitely.”

  “And now you are at the conservatory,

  ready to audition

  for City Ballet Company.

  Next it will be Pacific Northwest Ballet,

  or even New York City, Clare!

  Our dream is about to come true, honey!”

  “Mom, you sound like a sappy commercial.”

  “Well, I’m so proud!

  But since it’s late, I’ll let you go.

  You need to get your rest.”

  I let go of the sheet

  and try to smooth it out.

  “Oh, and Dad sends his love, Clare.”

  “Love to him too.”

  “And he says to remind you, ‘Work hard.

  Failure is not in your future.’ ”

  “Yeah. Right.” Dad’s favorite line. “Night, Mom.”

  “Good night, my little ballerina.”

  Click.

  Little?

  Ballerina?

  Why can’t Mom focus

  on one thing?

  Why can’t I think about City Ballet

  without the pressure of PNB

  or some New York company

  in the way far-off future?

  City Ballet is what I’m working for.

  Isn’t that enough, Mom?

  “Clare,” Grandpa calls

  through my bedroom door

  in the morning.

  “Clare.”

  I don’t answer

  and wait for him to give up.

  He cracks the door

  and peeks in.

  I close my eyes and lie

  perfectly still.

  He closes the door

  and heads out to church.

  Every week he tries this.

  I take class six days out of seven.

  Let me at least chill out on Sunday!

  Even Mom said I didn’t have to go to church.

  Everyone agreed to that

  before I moved in.

  We’ve never gone.

  Why should I start

  because I’m staying with Grandpa?

  I snuggle down

  under my covers.

  After I wake and eat lunch,

  I go out and weed

  in Grandpa’s garden.

  I rip out the clover enthusiastically

  to make up for not going with him.

  “Hi.” I wave as Grandpa pulls in.

  “What’re you doing there, Clare?”

  “Some weeding.” I beam,

  ready for sure praise.

  “Oh.” He shuts the car door.

  “Want to help me?”

  “No. But thanks
. I don’t work

  on the Lord’s Day.”

  The trowel slips from my muddy hand.

  “Oh, right. Sorry.”

  “Why don’t you come in,

  and we’ll have a simple lunch.”

  “I—I already ate.”

  He nods and goes inside.

  Ugh. I stab the dandelion roots

  with the weeder stick

  and yank the plant out of the dirt.

  I heave it at the wheelbarrow.

  Why can’t I ever seem to do the right thing

  to please Grandpa?

  He naps

  then goes back to church at night.

  For evening service

  he doesn’t bother knocking on my door.

  Just leaves me a note saying

  he’ll eat dinner with his friends

  afterward,

  and I can find something

  in the freezer.

  I hide out in my room

  through the afternoon.

  Reading and napping to avoid him

  till he leaves again.

  Come on.

  Everyone needs a down day.

  Right?

  “Morning.”

  “Morning, love.”

  Since Sunday’s over,

  everything will be normal again between us.

  Not weirdo stressed.

  It’s been the pattern since I moved in.

  Grandpa’s smiling,

  which helps me smile back.

  I kiss his cheek

  and smell warm prune juice.

  Yuck.

  He dabs his mouth. “Aha!”

  “What?”

  He fills in the last squares

  on his crossword.

  “Not in unison is discordant.”

  I stir my breakfast drink.

  This is it for me.

  Rosella vomiting makes me feel too guilty

  to eat anything else.

  “D-i-s-c-o-r-d-a-n-t,” he spells.

  “When something doesn’t fit in

  with the rest. Like a note in music.”

  He looks up at me.

  “Right,” I say.

  Discordant.

  Like one girl who’s taller

  than the rest.

  The skin on my back

  crawls against my T-shirt.

  My tights squeeze my legs.

  My leotard encases my body.

  I wind my ponytail tighter and tighter

  and pin it to my head.

  I’m a ballet student

  who feels like a lean linked

  sausage.

  I shove over the covers,

  sit on my bed,

  and cut foot holes

  in my new tights.

  Snip, snip.

  Perfect.

  Just the right size.

  And the tights aren’t running.

  At least something on me

  is perfect today.

  Even if

  nobody will see.

  Yeah.

  It’ll be fun to spend the school year

  at Grandpa’s.

  I like the little town,

  and I’ve always loved this house.

  The same one Mom grew up in.

  It has a rich full smell

  with smooth wood floors.

  The small window panes

  make things look ripply

  because the glass is curvy,

  from 1926,

  when the house was built.

  I love all Grandpa’s family’s antiques

  that were passed down to him,

  like the iron bed

  and antique dresser in here.

  And now this room,

  which used to be the guest one,

  looks like mine:

  clothes on the floor,

  bed unmade,

  stuffed animals

  lining the wide baseboard,

  books overflowing the shelves,

  and the giant poster of Mikhail Baryshnikov,

  the perfect dancer of all time—

  and drop-dead gorgeous, Rosella and I say.

  This room feels like mine

  already.

  By the time I double stitch

  a torn ribbon on my toe shoe

  and snip the loose threads,

  Grandpa’s calling me to eat lunch.

  The protein bar

  should hold me through class.

  “You sure that’s enough food, Clare?”

  “Yes,” I say with my mouth full.

  If he only knew what Rosella gets by on.

  Grandpa pats my back

  as I head out the door.

  “Bye, Clare.

  Have a good time.”

  I turn and wave until he goes inside.

  The air is still cool.

  My clogs crunch the fir needles,

  sending a Christmas smell

  out into the summer air.

  I weave through the garden.

  I piqué and glissade

  where no one can see me.

  I jeté around the giant sunflowers.

  A chickadee

  hops in the birdbath.

  One last double pirouette,

  and I’m out the gate,

  onto the sidewalk.

  Nothing is better

  than Grandpa’s garden.

  I dig out the dill pickle

  I stashed in my bag earlier,

  unwrap it,

  and take a big bite.

  Mmmm.

  Not many calories and delicious!

  I munch and cut through the alley

  behind the bakery and gift shops

  to avoid the window shoppers.

  I try not to kick up dirt

  onto my tights.

  I run across Main

  when the traffic breaks.

  The last bite of pickle

  makes me burp garlic.

  Up the front staircase,

  I pull hard

  on one of the heavy wooden doors

  and step into the brick conservatory

  that pulses with music

  and movement.

  The door thuds closed.

  My heart skips a beat

  and is out of sync

  with everything around me.

  In the foyer

  I smooth my hair

  and mash my bun

  until I feel the bobby pins

  jab into my scalp.

  Hairspray sticks to my fingers.

  I press one stray pin

  back into the center.

  It pops halfway out again.

  I press it in,

  but it won’t stay.

  I shoulder my bag,

  pull the bobby pin all the way out,

  pry it open with my teeth,

  and shove it into the other side

  of my bun.

  Sometimes

  things don’t stay

  how you want them.

  With a deep breath,

  I step into the barre room,

  where the adult class teeters

  to keep their balance.

  The instructor looks over at me.

  “And hold it, hold it,”

  he directs them.

  I cast my eyes down

  and rush along the opposite wall

  to get to the dressing room.

  This place has a lousy design.

  People are always coming through

  at the end of someone else’s session

  to change and get ready for their class.

  Everyone knows to scurry by silently.

  Even if it is

  just the adults.

  In the dressing room,

  I glance sidelong at Ellen;

  she’s looking at Margot,

  who’s sneaking a peek at that new girl, Devin.

  Rosella’s not here yet.

  Except for me and her,

  no
one’s really friends

  with anyone else.

  Ballet students at the conservatory

  don’t hang out at each other’s houses

  or even call to chat.

  The only time we speak

  is to ask

  to borrow a bandage

  or to say, “Excuse me,”

  before pushing past.

  Everyone is someone

  trying to be better

  than you.

  It’s risky to make friends.

  Or to care.

  Rosella and I met

  back in kindergarten.

  My mom drove me across town

  to an uppity preschool.

  The only really good thing about it

  was Rosella.

  We’ve been friends

  since the first day.

  We both drew ballerinas

  in the art corner.

  We took classes together for years

  at our old ballet school.

  Sharing the same dream when you’re kids

  is fun.

  But here,

  everyone is completely serious.

  Each person at the conservatory

  shares our dream.

  Each is a threat,

  trying to be one in sixteen.

  If sixteen of them

  make it,

  my dream dies.

  I slip off my jeans and T-shirt

  and tie on my black chiffon miniskirt.

  I kick off my clunky clogs

  for thin, leather, flat shoes

  that glove my feet.

  My bones and muscles

  poke out all over.

  Here

  everything has to be uncovered.

  Margot walks by

  in the dressing room,

  wearing nothing

  but a dangling tampon string.

  Is she so used

  to people staring

  at her body,

  correcting and directing,

  that she believes

  it doesn’t matter

  if anyone looks anymore?

  Is she so confident

  of her body

  that anyone can look

  at everything?

  Why am I the only one

  blushing?

  Willow never gets ready alone.

  Her mother swoops into the dressing room

  for final touches,

  like a splash of rose water.

  We are bumped aside

  for Willow’s completion.

  “There.” Her mother sighs.

  “Now go dance,

  my prima ballerina.”

  Willow parades out to the barre room,

  wearing the only smile around.

  Yeah, my mom might call me

  her little ballerina,

  but at least she doesn’t smother me

  like Willow’s mom.

  Shoving in,

  telling me what to do

  and how to get better.

  That’s got to be a ton of pressure for Willow.

  Her mom needs a life.

  At least mine’s got the bookstore with Dad.

  She has something other than me.

  Doesn’t she?

  Willow’s mom scuttles out

  while Rosella charges in.

  “I guess Prima

  is ready for class,” she mutters.

  “Mommy made her smell like a rose today.”

  Rosella snorts.