by Sarah Rubin
“Don’t tell me now, save it for the table,” says Gran.
Mama serves me with a plunk of mashed potatoes that looks like the mountains of snow they get up north. Gran’s plunk is smaller, more like the snow we get here in South Carolina — which is hardly any at all. She gives Mama a look, but Mama ignores it. Gran is supposed to be minding her figure.
“How was your day, Casey?” Mama asks.
I wrap my tongue around a bite of potato. “Good,” I say. Then I swallow hard. “I want to get a job.”
“What?” says Gran. “Don’t be silly, girl. You’re still in school.”
Mama just looks at me. I can tell she’s thinking. She’s trying to read my face and figure me out. I go innocent with my eyes.
“An after-school job, Gran.”
“What for?” says Mama.
“I want to earn some money.” I say. Tappity-tap go my toes under the table, giving me away.
“What for?” says Mama again, her voice heavy as a rain cloud.
I pull the folded audition notice out of my pocket and slide it across the table. The kitchen goes quiet. I don’t dare look up. It’s getting dark out now. The bluebottle flies bang one-two-three against the screen door, trying to get in to the light.
Mama picks up the paper in her strong, long fingers and reads it. Her lips press into a tight frown, and I stop tapping my toes on the floor — I just wiggle them around the space at the end of my sneakers.
Mama passes the paper to Gran. “Casey,” she says, “we don’t have the money for a fancy ballet school, you know that. We don’t even have the money for Vicky’s.”
“That’s why I want to get a job,” I say.
“Casey, you can’t earn that much money in just two weeks.”
Gran finds her glasses and slides them into place. And I watch her with hopeful eyes, ’cause if I watch Gran thinking yes, then maybe I won’t hear Mama saying no.
“I know, but if I do good . . .”
“If I do well,” says Mama. She’s annoyed with me.
“If I do well,” I say, “they’ll give me a scholarship. And I know I’ll do well. I just need to earn the bus fare to New York City.”
New. York. City. The words trip off my tongue like magic beans. I think it must be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever said.
“Well,” says Gran, folding the audition slip and handing it back to me. “That seems fair.”
Now it’s Mama’s turn to give Gran a look, and it’s Gran’s turn to ignore it right back.
Gran is the best person in the whole world. I love my mama, but she’s serious. She’s always trying to nail my two feet to the floor to prepare me for the real world, to make me earthbound. If Gran says, “Reach for the stars — that way, if you miss, you’ll land on the moon,” then Mama says, “If you spend all your time reaching for the stars, don’t come crying to me when you walk right into a tree.” She doesn’t understand, not like Gran.
I gotta reach for the stars. If I spent my time looking where I was going, all I would see is no-good, nothing-ever-happens, no-one-ever-changes Warren.
“Please, Mama,” I say with big eyes. “I’ll work hard. I promise. And if I get in, they have really good schools in New York, and I could go to museums . . .”
My fingers dance over the table like the corps de ballet, and as Mama watches me, her face goes soft. Mama knows how much I want to be a dancer, and how I practice every morning. I just need a chance, and this is it.
“Please?” I just whisper it now, the ballet shining so bright in my eyes I know Mama can see it.
Mama is quiet for a moment. Then she sighs heavy and smiles.
“I swear, Casey. You could convince a rock to roll uphill if you wanted to. I’ll ask Mr. Crampton about any extra work that needs doing at the hospital.”
My heart falls down to the bottom of my feet. The hospital?
I remember one day when I was eight years old. Mama had come home from the hospital all wrung out like a wet rag. Her hands red and raw. She looked at me and said, “You work hard at school, Casey, you work harder than everyone, or else someday you’ll end up cleaning the hospital just like me.”
I didn’t cry right then. I’m not a big crier. I didn’t even cry when we got the notice that my father died over in Korea. That doesn’t really count, though, since I was only two and I didn’t really know about him, or the Korean War. But later that night, after Mama put me to bed, I thought about Gran’s swollen ankles and Mama’s aching back. I didn’t want to be scrubbed thin like Mama. And I cried then. I cried and I promised myself that I would never, never work at the hospital. So how can I work there now?
I am about to say no, thank you very much. Then I think about New York City. My heart crawls back up into my chest, beating like a soldier’s drum.
New. York. City. Beat. Beat. Beat. I gotta get there, no matter what.
Click go my teeth as I close my jaw. I won’t wind up mopping hospital floors for the rest of my life. But if I can earn my bus fare working at the hospital for two weeks, then I have to work there for two weeks. It isn’t breaking my promise to myself, not really.
“OK, Mama,” I say. Then, “Thank you, Mama,” when she gives me a stare.
“You can come by tomorrow after school, and I’ll see you started.”
“Well, that’s settled,” says Gran. “You can give the patients a recital, Casey.”
Mama frowns. “If she’s gonna work at the hospital, she needs to work.” She looks at me. “No capering around.”
I start to nod my head to show her how serious I am, but Gran interrupts.
“Nonsense. She can work and dance, too. It’ll be good for those people to see someone lively. Now, pass me the gravy and another drumstick.”
Mama doesn’t move.
“Caroline, I said pass the gravy.”
I know Gran is angry now, and Mama’s face goes hard when Gran says her name. They always fight about food. And Gran always wins.
Gran reaches across the table and gets the gravy herself. I try my best to sit still so I don’t upset Mama more. She can’t get mad at Gran out loud, but she can get mad at me.
I hold every muscle tight against my bones, but inside my head I am leaping up and over the table, past the gravy and through the ceiling. I am leaping all the way out of Warren, straight to New York City.
At school, I feel like I am floating on a secret pillow of air. Everything around me is very far away, and all I can think is, New York City. My toes tap under the desk in a rapid pitter-pat of steps as I watch the rest of the class come in from the playground. I never stay outside. Not with Miss Priss holding court under the monkey bars while all the girls come to kiss her feet. But not me. I’d rather sit in a snake pit.
I cross my arms and put my head down on my desk, feeling the cool laminated wood against my cheek.
Mr. Richards walks in, but he ignores me. I’m not a grade-A student, so he doesn’t waste his time on me. That poor Casey Quinn, he must think, his eyes swimming like fish behind his big black glasses, she’s none too bright. Well, maybe I’m not, but I’ll be bigger than he’ll ever be. I’ll be dancing with the stars before he can count to ten. I smile now. I’m on my way to audition for the School of American Ballet. My heart flutters every time I think of it, hopping in my chest like a jackrabbit.
The tardy bell rings and the doors open wide. I can hear the room flooding with the sound of students rushing in to find their desks. Stamping and laughing, and the clattering of lunch boxes against the floor.
I lift my head just as Priss Ann-Lee walks past my desk and stops for a moment, wrinkling her nose again like she smells something bad. She was in fine form this morning, all twirling and girly in a new dress. Her father must be back from another big business trip. She’s always bragging about the presents he brings back for her: a china doll from New Orleans, pearl earrings from Little Rock, and now a new designer dress from somewhere up north.
“Do you smell that?” she whis
pers to Beth, who is her favorite today.
Beth and Sally giggle as Prissy lifts her feet, one then the other, checking under her saddle shoes.
“Nothing on my feet,” she says, all snotty and stuck-up. “It must be someone else.”
She looks around the room with big cow eyes and then smiles at me. I don’t look at her. We might be poor, but I do not stink. I feel a growl forming in the back of my throat, and I glare at the top of my desk.
Priss Ann looks at Beth and Sally, smirking, then leans close to my ear.
“What’s the matter, Bigfoot? Can’t you afford soap?”
My eyes shoot up, and I wish my stare could shred her like tissue. I wish the Bomb would land on her fat head and vaporize her so that all that was left were her two stupid saddle shoes. How dare she call me poor? How dare she sniff at me like I’m something stuck in the gutter? I glare at her hard, and she glares right back. We’re like two cowboys at high noon, each waiting for the other to draw.
“All right, everyone,” Mr. Richards says from the front of the room. “Go to your seats.”
Miss Priss sniffs one last time. I refuse to flinch. I just stare at her as she slinks away, pretending like she’s won. My eyes are hot and dry.
The PA system crackles to life as Principal Haydon comes on for the Pledge of Allegiance. Seats scuff the floor as everyone stands. I watch The Priss go all prim and proper with her hand over her heart. Then I look up at the flag, limp stripes of red and white, the blue square in the corner falling in folds. Principal Haydon starts us off, and the rest of our voices blend together.
“I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”
Some of the boys at the back of the room snicker; they’ve made up their own words, but none of them are brave enough to say them out loud. Mr. Richards would have their hide. When we’re done, Principal Haydon turns off the PA system, and Mr. Richards tells us to take our seats.
Mr. Richards isn’t old, but he looks tired and moves slow, as if his whole body hurts. His thick, black-framed glasses are just like Buddy Holly’s, but he isn’t cool at all.
We all open our history books to page 253. I open mine, but I don’t read along. I can’t concentrate. Miss Priss thinks she’s better than the whole world, but she’s not. She’s nothing but a toad. I grind my teeth as I remember her smirking face daring me to go to the audition. I’ll show her. I’m a better dancer than she’ll ever be. And when I think about dancing, the Priss slips away. My head is full of whirling images, me in New York City, standing on a stage, people smiling and applauding, bouquets of roses falling at my feet.
I can almost hear the music, a huge orchestra like Gran sometimes listens to on the radio, with all the strings and everything. And there I am dancing, the prima ballerina, long arms and full of grace. My legs stretch through the air as I leap higher and higher, impossibly high as the audience gasps with amazement, and I curtsy . . .
“Casey!”
I crash out of the air sharply and back into the classroom. Everyone is looking at me, waiting for something.
“Pay attention, Miss Quinn,” Mr. Richards says in his quiet creaky voice. He takes off his glasses and cleans them slowly with the end of his tie. Two angry red marks stare at me from where the glasses pinch his nose. “We’re on page 255 now. Please read.”
I look down at my book and shuffle through the pages quickly. I can feel everyone waiting, holding their breath. It seems like forever before I find the right page, my face redder and redder as they watch. Finally I find it. My voice squeaks a bit as I begin to read. Prissy snickers quietly two rows over, but I can hear her just fine. I grit my teeth and keep reading. My stomach quivers like a raw egg.
I finish the page just as the lunch bell rings and everyone scrambles out of their desks, grabbing their lunch boxes and lining up by the classroom door.
Mr. Richards looks at me, and I know I’ll have to stay behind. He wants to have a talk. I put my head down and shuffle the books on my desk, trying to look busy. When I peek up with one eye, Mr. Richards has gone to open the cafeteria doors. I get up and scoot to the back of the line, my brown bag clutched tight against my chest.
But as we march down the hall, Mr. Richards is there next to me. He puts his hand on my shoulder, and we stop.
“Casey,” he says, “you need to stop daydreaming in class. If your grades don’t improve, I’ll have to call your mother in for a conference.”
I nod hard. I don’t want him calling Mama. She wants me to work hard in school more than anything, work hard and be smart so I don’t end up cleaning floors for a living like her. She’d never let me go to New York if she knew that dreaming about it got me in trouble at school.
Mr. Richards looks at me hard, like I’m the history book. His eyes are baggy at the edges, and I wonder what makes him so tired. Maybe me. He sighs again, like he’s doing me a big favor.
“All right, Casey, I’ll give you another chance, but try to apply yourself a little harder. You’ve only got a few more months before high school, you know. You need to get your grades up so you can start on the right track.”
I nod. And Mr. Richards gets a look like he’s just saved the world. I want to roll my eyes, but I don’t want him to call Mama, so I hold it in until he turns around. Then I stick out my tongue at his back and spin on one heel to march myself into the cafeteria.
Mama has packed me leftovers from last night, and I hold them tight to my chest. I don’t care if I can’t afford hot lunch. Mama is a better cook then those cafeteria ladies by miles.
I square my shoulders and walk into the room, past long tables full of boys trying to make each other snort milk out of their noses, and girls giggling about the boys. The air is hot with cooking food and laughter, the other kids talking about Rin Tin Tin or squeezing around a brightly colored comic book. Girls giggling over the pictures of boys in Teen Parade. No one looks at me as I walk past, no one but Miss Priss.
She’s sitting at the edge of a table, eyeballing me. Sally and Beth sit with her, like two bad shadows. I turn up my nose and walk past. I won’t waste my time being sniffed at by a pig.
I see it out of the corner of my eye, snaking toward me, but it’s too late. Priss’s foot wedges in front of me, and I fall, hard, landing on my brown-bag lunch. Potato and fried chicken squeeze out against my chest. Then she laughs. I can feel the cafeteria going quiet, and then a dull roar fills my ears. They are all laughing.
I bite my lip to keep my eyes dry as I stand up. I turn on my toes and face the Priss. I can feel my front greasy with food, but I don’t care. I won’t let her see me upset. Not now, not ever.
“Aw, poor baby,” she sings. “You fell down.”
Beth and Sally giggle behind their hands, but I just glare at them.
“Maybe you should take some dance lessons,” Prissy hisses. She’s all pretty on the outside, but inside she is rotten. I want to tear out her hair and claw out her eyes, but I don’t. I don’t do anything. I stand there for a minute, and then I run.
I run hard and fast and away. I just want to be out of that room, with the clattering trays and the echoing laughs. All the faces twisted into horrible openmouthed sneers. How dare she trip me? How dare she treat me like I’m no better than dirt?
I rush outside into the sun. The playground is empty. I want to scream my hate into the silence. I gulp at the air and slam my feet into the ground, stomping and twirling and letting out all the rage. They’re still in there laughing, but I don’t care.
I wipe my eyes angrily with the back of my hand. And then I sit on my own, my back wedged tight against the school wall, and eat what is left of my lunch. When the other kids come out for recess, I go inside to the bathroom and scrub at my white dress until it’s as clean as it will get. Then I sit alone in one of the stalls and wait for it to dry.
I take a long time lacing up my high-tops after schoo
l. I don’t want Priss Ann and the ballet bunch to see me take the road to the hospital. I want her to be surprised when she shows up to audition and they say, “We’re sorry. We already found our next prima ballerina, one Miss Casey Quinn.” I imagine the green look on her face, and I smile. Then I sashay outside, turning my toes toward the hospital.
All around me the other kids are scattering. Some rush down to the baseball field to pick sides for a game; others skip past me toward town, where they’ll sit at McFarland’s counter and sip a soda pop. Gran took me there for a treat on my birthday once. I loved the mint-green plastic counter and the silver barstools that swiveled. The pop was sweet and sticky, but the fizz seemed to burn my throat and made my insides go all jibber-jab.
I float down the street, building speed as I go. I turn right at the station, toward the hospital, not the dirt road home. My feet pound the sidewalk all the way. Rapping out a rhythm like excited drums. I’m on my way to work, on my way to money, on my way to the School of American Ballet. I rush past men mowing their old, dry lawns. They try to make them neat and green with bottles of Miracle-Gro, and spray their hedges using metal cans, to shoo away the flies.
The houses all look the same here, not like down the dirt road where Mama, Gran, and I live. Little white boxes, with little green squares of lawn in front, and white picket fences that stretch along the sidewalk. I run my fingers along the fences and feel the rat-a-tat-a-tat pattern vibrate up my arm. I don’t think I’d like all this sameness. How can you be yourself when you look just like everyone else?
I move faster until the houses are a blur and the fence moves past like the dotted lines on the road out of town. I race around corners until I can see the hospital, a big red building made of old brick. I’m up the steps two at a time, the sun shining warm against my back. Then I take a deep breath and go inside.
The hospital looks clean, with white tile floors that make my heels go click, click, click with crisp echoes. But it smells stale and sticky, like an old slice of cheese left too long in the sun. You can tell they’ve tried to scrub the smell away. That’s what Gran and Mama do all day, but the cheese smell is still there. It makes the air horrible to breathe.
