by Sarah Rubin
The door opens, and I walk in to face Principal Haydon. He hands me a tissue.
“Fighting in school is very serious, Casey,” he says.
I nod. There is nothing I can say. She gave me her old ballet clothes is not an excuse for a fight. He wouldn’t understand that it was the way she did it. Like I needed her help. I don’t need help from no stuck-up Prissy, who thinks she can dance just because she has new shoes.
“You’re going to have to stay after school for detention,” he says.
Now I start to panic. “I can’t,” I say. “I just got a job after school.” I keep talking before he can interrupt. “I’ll come in early,” I say, “before school.”
He looks at me for a moment. He’s thinking that my family is poor and I have to help. Normally, I would be angry about this. Mama and Gran take good care of me. We do just fine. But today I don’t care. I need that job to go to the audition.
Finally, he says, “All right, Casey. Come in twenty minutes early, for a week. And be on time, or else it will be after school.”
I sigh with relief whooshing up to my ears.
“You’ll stay inside for recess, too,” he says, just to prove he’s still in charge.
But recess doesn’t matter to me, not one bit. I can keep my job. My heart floats up with relief and I look down at my toes to hide my smile. I don’t want Principal Haydon to think he’s being too soft on me.
When I leave the office, I am surprised to see the Priss waiting her turn to see the principal. She’s in trouble, too. Her hair is all snarled and stringy, and her eyes are red like a crocodile’s from crying. She looks at me quickly. Then she turns her head away, sniffing hard. Like she’s trying not to cry. I turn on my heel and walk back to the classroom. She doesn’t even deserve a second glance.
Back in the classroom, I am alone. The air is hot and sticky, and the shades are drawn against the afternoon sun. Three flies buzz hopelessly against the glass; I can see their shadows. Bashing themselves to pieces trying to get free. I know how they feel. The brown paper bag is still on my desk. Since I am alone, I look inside.
Folded neatly at the bottom is a small pile of pink. Tights, leotard, a floaty skirt, and a pair of pink satin slippers. It is all so perfect. I want to reach out and touch the fabric, to try on the shoes, to spin around the classroom with beauty and grace and never stop until I’m dancing in New York City. Then I look again and see the name tag sewn into the back of the leotard: Ann-Lee Ryder. The words feel like a punch in the gut. I will not wear her old clothes. It’d be like putting on a snake’s old skin.
I carry the bag to the window and shoo the flies into the air outside. I watch them fly away in giant loops. Then I lean out the window and tip the bag over. I watch Her Majesty’s ballet clothes fall into the open dumpster below, landing softly on top of the mound of trash. I don’t need her to get to New York City. I don’t need anyone or anything except myself, my dreams, and my two feet.
It’s not Mama who makes me go back to the dumpster. It’s Gran.
I tell her about the fight at school because I think she will understand. But when I tell her about dropping the ballet clothes into the dumpster, she stops me.
“I’m ashamed of you, Casey,” she says.
I expected Gran to laugh until her arms wobbled, to hug me and be proud. I stood up for myself. I stood up for our family.
“She treated me like a beggar,” I say. “In front of the whole class.”
“And you’re going to let a little thing like that get in the way of your dreams?”
We’re sitting in the janitor’s office on Gran’s ten-minute break. Everything smells of coffee and bleach.
“Casey, you have a dream, and you have a chance to make it come true. A true-blue chance. Not everyone gets that. So don’t tell me you’re gonna throw that chance away, girl, just to spite Ann-Lee.”
It smarts when Gran says that. I hate thinking Gran is disappointed in me. That’s lower than anything. But I still don’t understand why she wants me to take charity from that Priss, Ann-Lee. Mama says we don’t need to take nobody’s charity, that we get along just fine. Mama’s real proud because she’s real strong. She takes care of all of us.
After my father died, the church ladies tried to bring us food for Thanksgiving, but Mama would have none of that. She said there were plenty of people worse off than us, and that as long as she was alive her family wouldn’t go hungry. Besides, she said, they never offered any help while he was away fighting, so why should we take their help now that he was dead? Mama hated their smiles, like they were doing us some big favor, like they were going to go home and give each other big smug pats on the back. Mama stopped going to church after that. And after a while the church ladies stopped dropping by to see if we needed help. It’s a long walk to our house from the middle of town. But Mama always says it doesn’t matter, that we have each other and we don’t need help from anyone else. I want to be strong like Mama. I want to get to New York City on my own. I clench my fists hard against my sides.
“Casey,” says Gran, “I know you don’t want to take help from Ann-Lee, but what if you can’t get ballet clothes? What then? Will you forget about the audition? That would be like letting Ann-Lee take your dream away herself.”
“But if she sees me wearing her clothes at the audition . . . ,” I try to explain.
Gran cuts in. “What? Why are you so worried about what Ann-Lee thinks, Casey?”
“She called me a hayseed and trailer trash.” The words are so hateful, my voice wobbles as I say them.
“Well,” says Gran. “Are you?”
“No,” I say. I can feel the bad feelings shrivel up inside me, and somehow I feel very small without them. Gran puts her arms around my shoulders, and I let out a big sigh.
“Then don’t worry what Ann-Lee thinks,” Gran says. “She’s got her own problems to worry about.”
I laugh. Ann-Lee has a mother and a father and money for lessons. What does she have to worry about? But Gran just shakes her head. She shakes it like she feels sorry for the Priss. Then she sighs.
“You need to decide what’s more important, Casey. Your pride. Or your dreams. That’s all. Once you decide that, the rest will be easy.” Gran smiles. “Now, you get to work. Mr. Crampton won’t take kindly to too much chitchat in the office.”
I start to go, then I remember the Priss’s mother. “Gran, what about Mrs. Ryder? Won’t she be mad about the fight?”
“She’s been here since eight this morning, so Ann-Lee can’t have blabbed to her yet. You’re safe, honey-bear, for today anyhow.”
I know Gran is always right, but I still give a start when Mrs. Ryder’s voice says hello from the nurses’ station.
“Hello,” I say, quiet and cautious. The Priss could have run here straight from school just to get me in trouble.
“I thought you’d like to know that Mr. Homes isn’t in his room today.” Her eyes twinkle at me, and crinkle up into a smile. “So you can practice your dancing all you want.”
I smile back. I feel a little guilty. Not about beating up the Priss — she had that coming to her, in spades! But it seems wrong to be having such a nice talk with her mother and not telling her what happened. I bet she wouldn’t be so nice if she knew. It doesn’t really matter, though. The Priss will tell her soon enough. I bet she’s sitting at home just waiting to snitch on me. I don’t understand why Gran feels sorry for the Priss at all. She’s a no-good rat. And that’s that.
I say thank you to Mrs. Ryder and disappear up the hall. I grit my teeth hard, and then I get to work.
I start sweeping the rooms, working my way up from the very end of the hall. At first I just go hard and fast, scrubbing angry. But soon I’m back to my broom dance, sweeping each room in time to the beeping machines. Today some of the people in the rooms are awake.
At first, I am careful. I don’t want to annoy anyone like I did with Mr. Homes. But I can’t help moving to the beat. None of these patients seems to
mind, though. Some of them even cheer me on. I forget about the Priss and our fight. I even forget how angry I am. All I feel is the rhythm in my toe bones, tapping up through my spine.
When I am done with all the rooms, I feel like I’ve just given a performance on a royal stage. I curtsy low and imagine applause filling the air. And there is applause. The woman in the bed is clapping for me.
“You’ve brightened up my whole day, dearie,” she says.
I smile, bow again, and sweep out of the room. I call back over my shoulder as I go, “Encore performance, same time tomorrow.”
Is it worth giving this up just so the Priss doesn’t make fun of me? It seems like a silly question now. I stop at the white desk where Mrs. Ryder is filling out forms. “Mrs. Ryder,” I say. “I forgot to thank you for giving me Ann-Lee’s old ballet things.”
She smiles at me, and this time I don’t feel so guilty. As I leave, I wonder how such a nice woman ended up with such an annoying daughter. A stinkbug must’ve crawled into the Priss’s crib when she was a baby.
I walk back to the school without even realizing it. My feet point me to the dumpster and I follow them. Step. Step. Step. Left. Right. Left. Gran. Is. Right.
The playground is empty now; all the other kids have gone home. I scramble into the dumpster without even thinking about it. My dream is what’s important. And I’ll make it come true any way I can.
When I crunch into the dumpster, I discover that other people have thrown things away since this morning. The pink ballet tights and leotard are smeared with Miracle Whip, and something greasy has slid into one of the slippers. The sloppy joes no one finished at lunch squelch around my toes, and the smell makes me gag. I am tempted to leave the clothes there. Even when they were clean they were like Miss Priss’s discarded snakeskin, and now they are just gross, but I remember what Gran said and carry them home holding my nose.
When I get home, Gran is cooking dinner because Mama is working the night shift this week. The kitchen is full of the sound of Perry Como crooning on the radio. Gran doesn’t say anything when I come in with the smelly pink mess, but I see her smile. I know she’s proud of me. I put the ballet clothes and everything I’m wearing right in the washtub, then scrub my hands until they’re pink. I put on clean clothes and go back to the kitchen to help Gran with dinner.
She is making macaroni with extra cheese and real butter, not the vegetable oil Mama uses. There’s sweet potato mash with sour cream to go on the side, and a mountain of sweet baby peas. And since Gran is cooking, I know there’ll be dessert.
I set two places at the table. Dancing with the plates as I lay them out. Then I go sit on the counter to watch Gran’s great arms wobble as she mashes the potatoes, swaying in time to the music. Mr. C’s voice, rich as gravy, sings “Catch a Falling Star.”
“Here, Casey.” She hands me the pot. “You mash for a bit. Your gran needs a rest.” She sits down huffing and puffing while I finish the potatoes.
“Don’t be stingy with the sour cream,” she says. And I’m not.
“Mama’s not gonna be happy,” I say.
“You leave your mama to me,” says Gran.
“I mean about me being in trouble at school.”
“So do I.” Gran winks at me.
We eat as soon as I finish the potatoes. I don’t say anything when Gran has seconds, and she doesn’t say anything about my toes dancing under the table. They slide side to side. Everything is too delicious to keep them still. I go to bed too full to think about what to tell Mama when I have to leave early for detention in the morning.
I wake up when Mama comes home after the night shift.
I can hear her cooking me breakfast before she goes to bed. I shuffle-step down the stairs, trying to keep my steps light and happy. But I always dance how I feel. And I feel guilty. Mama’s gonna be mad when she finds out I got detention.
I eat breakfast without a word. I can tell Mama is tired because she doesn’t even look to see why I’m being so quiet and sitting so still. Two sure signs that I am up to something.
I am about to blurt everything out when Gran comes in.
“What are you doing up so early?” Mama asks her.
“Casey said she’d get up early and take a walk with me before she goes to school.”
“Well, it’ll do you good after the dinner you ate last night. You know what the doctor said about cheese. And all that butter. It isn’t good for you.”
“Don’t nag, Caroline,” Gran says as she shoos me out the door.
This is how it is.
Every morning Gran and I go straight to school. I go to detention while Gran sits at Willy’s General Store counter drinking cups of coffee with cream and making small talk with the other customers. It seems like everyone knows Gran. Every afternoon I go to the hospital, clean the recovery ward, and dance for the patients. I stop feeling so guilty, too. Now that I’m sharing my secret with Gran, it feels like less of a lie.
Mrs. Ryder never gets mad at me about the fight, and I learn that the Priss didn’t tell her about it because she got in trouble, too. She couldn’t tattle on me without telling on herself. So everything is fine. Or at least, everything is fine until Thursday, two days before the audition.
I’m cleaning the hospital and giving the patients a beautiful recital. I forget to check that Mr. Homes is gone before I go inside. I burst into his room with a flying leap. It is payday and I am on my way to New York City. No more sweeping smelly hospital floors. No more nothing-ever-happens Warren.
Mr. Homes is sitting in his bed, buttoned up in his striped pajamas. He smiles as he presses the blue button that calls the nurse.
Mrs. Ryder isn’t here today, and another nurse comes in. She is a sour woman with steel-gray hair and a mouth like all she eats is lemons. She’s big, too, but not big like Gran. Gran is happy and wears her weight well; this woman just lumbers in like a bear. The buttons on her white nurse’s uniform look like they might pop off. She looks at Mr. Homes and asks him what he wants.
“I would like to speak to the man in charge of cleaning,” he says, still smiling. I growl inside my head. He’s having fun getting me in trouble.
The nurse just grunts and walks away.
I bite my tongue, but I can’t keep quiet. “How old are you?” I ask.
“Excuse me?” He squints his bug eyes at me.
“I said, how old are you?” I’m tapping my right foot. My arms are crossed. I am mad. Who does he think he is?
“That’s none of your business.” Mr. Homes crosses his arms right back at me, all brine and vinegar.
“Fine,” I say. “You look about seventy.”
“I’m fifty-six!” I can see I got him there. His face goes tomato-red — a real prizewinner, too.
“Well, bad temper makes you age.”
“Do you have a point?” He’s red enough to take the blue ribbon now.
“Yes. You are too old to have such bad manners. You enjoy making other people unhappy. And that is just sad.” I turn on my heel and skip out the door. What do I care what cranky Mr. Homes says? They can fire me today if they want to. The hospital still has to pay me for all my work. That’s the law.
I smile and carry the broom in a victory dance all the way back to the janitor’s office. But when I open the door, my insides fall down into my high-tops. Mr. Crampton is waiting for me, and he doesn’t look happy.
Slap. Stamp. Splash. My feet hit the earth in time with my tears, kicking the red dust along the side of the road.
Mr. Crampton did not fire me. He docked my pay. I am fifty cents short of a bus ticket, and New York City is drifting away. I kick out hard, trying to stab my heels into the dirt. It isn’t fair. I even offered to apologize to Mr. Homes, but Mr. Crampton wouldn’t listen. I roar inside, thinking how on earth could that measly man be the one to tie my toes here in no-good, nothing-ever-happens, no-one-ever-changes Warren.
When I burst through the door, both Mama and Gran look at me. I am a shuddering mess. M
y eyes feel red-raw and my nose is running. When I see their faces, my knees collapse. But I don’t hit the floor. Mama’s by my side in an instant.
She catches me up in her arms. And when Mama gets her arms around me I start crying, and how, because it’s too much to hold on to by myself.
“Casey, what’s wrong?”
I blubber, too upset to care about tears or my runny nose. I tell them about Mr. Homes and Mr. Crampton, and how I’m not going to New York City after all. Even after fishing Priss’s stinky snakeskin ballet clothes out of the dumpster. Even after cleaning the recovery ward every day. When I am finished explaining, I take a deep breath and let Mama rock me back and forth. I am too worn down to rock myself.
Gran is very quiet. She looks at me, then she makes a noise, harrumphing like a settling hippo. She pulls her shawl off the hook where she hangs it every night when she comes home from work.
“Listen here,” she says, wrapping that shawl around her shoulders like a bullfighter going into battle. “Casey, you eat something and get to bed. You’ve got a big day tomorrow. I’ll be back.” Then she walks out the door, letting the screen slam behind her.
I look at Mama, but Mama is quiet as a raindrop. She sits me down at the table and puts a bowl of soup in front of me.
“Eat,” she says, turning back to the ironing.
I am not hungry, but I fill the spoon and put it in my mouth. The warm broth slides past the lump in my throat, and I fill the spoon again. All I can think about is having to go back and beg Mrs. Ryder for a ride, and she’ll probably say no. The Priss will tell her about the fight. I can feel the tears starting to leak down my face. I sniff hard and push away the rest of the soup. Mama leads me to my room.
I feel light as I float along the hall, but not with joy. I am empty, less than empty. I am a bubble that has just burst but still remembers its shape.
On the chair in my room, Gran has laid out Ann-Lee’s ballet clothes, but they aren’t Ann-Lee’s anymore. Gran has given the leotard a deep V in the front and the back. She has taken the floaty, wraparound skirt and sewn it to the leotard, gathering it together in the back. It looks like something an Egyptian princess would wear. Only the shoes still look like they belonged to someone else, and now that I know I can’t wear them, this stings even more.
