Someday Dancer

by Sarah Rubin

  After a while, the fire turns back into cool, fresh air and I feel strong enough to walk to the changing room. I stand up slowly, using the wall for support and wincing just a little because I am sore.

  “Tough first day, huh?”

  I look up sharply and see Edith standing next to me.

  “Yeah,” I say. I feel shy and shabby standing next to Edith. She’s wearing a beautiful green dance-dress that sings of summer, and her legs and arms are full of grace.

  “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Casey Quinn,” I say, sticking out my chin and trying not to breathe too hard.

  “Well, Casey Quinn, you did really well.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Even Martha was impressed.”

  “She didn’t say anything,” I say.

  “Martha won’t say if she likes you, but if you’re doing something wrong, she’ll let you know. Believe me.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  Edith moves back into the middle of the floor and starts stretching again.

  “Aren’t you going home?” I ask, moving toward the studio door.

  “No, I’ve got rehearsal with the company in ten minutes.”

  “Oh,” I say softly.

  “I’ll see you on Wednesday,” Edith says. “And don’t forget to stretch before you go to bed tonight, or else you’re going to be sore in the morning.” And with that she disappears back inside her dancing.

  The changing room is empty, and I take a long shower, not too hot and not too cold, stretching and flexing my muscles under the water.

  I dry off double-quick and pull on my street clothes. My hair is a mess. I try to pat it back into place with my fingers, but it doesn’t do much good. Gran would say I look like a ragamuffin. Next time I’ll remember to bring a comb. I look hard at my face in the mirror. I wonder if I look different now that I’m dancing in New York City, if anyone could tell. But I’m still freckly old Casey Quinn, as far as I can see. I just wear a bigger smile now.

  When I step back into the hallway, there is music coming from the dance studio. I know it isn’t my place to pry, but I can’t help myself. I push the door open a sliver and peek through.

  There is Edith, dancing with the company. Miss Martha is sitting in the director’s chair in the corner of the room. Her back is to me, but I don’t dare open the door any farther.

  I squeeze my face close to the crack in the door and watch the dancers. They move together like the leaves on a tree being blown by a single wind, or a swarm of starlings twisting and turning through the evening sky, all making a single shape. The dancers swooping across the floor, all making a single dance. My middle feels empty with the want to join in, and silently I stretch and bounce along with them.

  The music ends and I shut the door before I’m seen. I walk down the stairs slowly, light as a feather on a breeze. I am already itching for it to be Wednesday, to dance again. And now I’m itching for something else, too. I step onto the city street and breathe in the rush all around me: the traffic, the chatter of feet, the flutter of pigeons cooing like they think they’re doves. I am itching to dance with Miss Martha’s company.

  I sway down the sidewalk, weaving in and out of the other walkers like we are all dancing together — like I know where they’re going to be before they move their feet.

  I do stretch before I go to bed, but it doesn’t make one lick of difference. I am still sore in the morning, like I’ve been stretched out on a taffy hook and left hanging. I can hardly hobble down the stairs. Each step feels like red-hot pokers are hitting my legs.

  I shuffle slow and steady to school, not looking up from my feet for fear of tripping. I get to school as the first bell rings, and creak like a rusty hinge into my homeroom seat. Andrea isn’t here yet. I watch the door, waiting for her to come in.

  The second bell rings, still no Andrea.

  We are all halfway through the Pledge of Allegiance when she opens the door. The whole room looks at her, and Miss Spitz frowns hard.

  Andrea turns bright red and takes the seat next to me. I smile, but she just glares, and when the bell rings for us to go to our first class she doesn’t wait for me.

  Andrea ignores me all day, and by the afternoon the worry worm in my middle is writhing around, making me feel green-sick.

  After school I try to wait so she’ll walk with me, but she just looks very busy with her locker and I know she won’t leave until I’m gone.

  The school steps are steep and I wince, taking one at a time. I can feel Andrea behind me, moving slow so she doesn’t have to walk with me.

  We head down the sidewalk like a pair of shadows.

  “Can’t you go any faster?” Andrea calls after what seems like forever.

  I turn around slowly. “No,” I say, angry and tired and sore.

  We are staring at each other.

  “Where were you this morning?” Andrea scowls.

  Her words hit me hard, knocking the breath out of my lungs, and I can’t say a thing.

  “I waited for you forever. We were going to walk to school together, remember?”

  My mouth is desert dry. “I’m sorry. I forgot,” I say, but it doesn’t make things any better.

  “You forgot?” Andrea is giving me the stink eye now, and I can feel my heart sinking. I thought I was going to have a friend in New York.

  “I’m really sorry,” I whisper again, then someone bumps into me and my legs sway like Jell-O. The wobble hurts, and I scrunch up my face with pain.

  Andrea scowls again, but I can see the corners of her mouth twitching. I crunch my face harder, peeking at her through tight eyelashes. I can’t believe I forgot about Andrea, and I think the truth must show on my face.

  “You’re a strange one, Casey Quinn,” Andrea says, rolling her eyes. “OK. I forgive you, but don’t forget again. Friends don’t leave each other waiting on the street.”

  She slips her arm through mine, and I wince a little.

  “So, tough class?” she asks, grinning as we limp down the sidewalk.

  “Everything hurts,” I say.

  “Tell me about it. Our teacher made us lie on our stomachs with our legs bent like frogs, and then he stepped on our backsides to make sure our hips are flexible enough.”

  “How could he tell if they aren’t?” I ask.

  “If your feet pop up in the air, you need to work harder,” Andrea says grimly. “Hey, don’t laugh, it isn’t funny.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, “but I can’t help picturing all of your legs . . .” I can’t finish talking because I’m laughing too hard. Andrea laughs, too.

  “Stop it. It hurts,” she says, holding her sides, but I can’t help it. We have to stop walking and lean against the nearest building to hold ourselves up.

  “Hey, want to come to my house to do homework?” Andrea asks when we can breathe again.

  “OK,” I say.

  Andrea’s sister lives in a walk-up on 58th Street. Their apartment is on the fifth floor.

  “Are you crazy?” I say as I look up the steps. “I’ll never make it.”

  “Don’t be silly!” Andrea says, and practically drags me behind her. I am out of breath by the third floor, and we have to stop on the fourth because we are so hot.

  “You do this every day?” I say once my lungs start working again.

  Andrea nods. “I’m gonna have the best legs by the end of the month. I’ll be able to grand jeté over the other dancers’ heads!”

  We giggle our way up the last flight and burst through the door to Andrea’s apartment, still laughing.

  “Shhhhhh! You’ll wake the baby!” Andrea’s sister hisses loudly at us from the sofa. She’s holding a small bundle of white all wrapped up in a blanket. I think if anything is gonna wake a baby, it’ll be the person holding it and shushing us, but I don’t say a word.

  “Casey, this is my sister, Linda,” Andrea says, rolling her eyes. “Linda, this is my best friend, Casey Quinn.”

  I sm
ile wide. Best friend. The words just about make my heart glow, and my toes start to tap over the floor. Linda looks at me with squinty eyes, and I stand still. She’s very beautiful, but she looks very tired, too, like she hasn’t slept well her whole life.

  “It’s very nice to meet you, Casey, but I just got Alice to sleep, and if you wake her up, so help me I will box your ears.”

  “We’ll be quiet,” I say, because Linda looks like she might be serious.

  Andrea and I go to the kitchen, which is a tiny room the size of a pickup truck, crammed full with a sink, a stove, a refrigerator, and a table to sit at.

  “Linda’s not so bad, really, she’s just been really grumpy since Alice was born. You want something to drink? We’ve got lemonade.”

  Andrea pours us each a glass while I get out our books and set them on the kitchen table. Homework goes fast when we put our heads together. Andrea is good at math and helps me with the tough problems.

  “So, tell me all about your first dance class,” she says.

  “It was amazing,” I say. “Really hard, but I can’t wait to go back. And after class, I saw the company practicing. They are better than amazing.” I am on my feet and dancing in the tiny square of free floor in the kitchen. Showing Andrea how they swoop and turn and twist their bodies. “But they’re all doing it together, and someday I’ll dance with them, too.” The words are out of my mouth before I realize it, and I stop suddenly, because I never dared tell people my dreams in Warren. But Andrea doesn’t laugh, she just glows.

  “I know you will, and I’ll be a New York City Ballet principal, and we’ll be famous dancers touring the world!” she says, curtsying low and graceful, every inch a ballerina. “And then we’ll come back and live in the penthouse at The Ritz and have our own show on Broadway!” Andrea spins in a perfect pirouette, but the room is too small and her hand knocks the back of a frying pan, sending it clattering across the kitchen floor.

  “SHHHHH!” Linda hisses at us from the other room, and we cover our mouths to quiet our giggles.

  “I should go. I need to get back to Mrs. Everton’s.”

  “OK,” Andrea whispers. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t forget to meet me! And don’t forget to practice. I don’t want to get to The Ritz before you!”

  I nod hard. I will practice. I’ll dance until I turn blue, and then I’ll keep right on going.

  After school on Wednesday, I can’t wait to get to Miss Martha’s studio. I practiced the basic drills in my room Tuesday night when the Priss was out, and I can feel them running through my veins.

  I’m into my dance clothes and in the studio quick as a flash. I start warming up right away. Every bounce still hurts, but the more I move, the more I can feel my muscles loosen. Trudy and Robin warm up with me, and slowly the other students come in and join us. It feels good to dance with other people and not just by myself. I shift positions, and the room seems to shift with me. I count ten bounces with my feet together, and then I spread them wide, trying to do it like we’ve been taught. I count ten bounces and change again, and everyone else changes, too.

  Edith comes in at four o’clock sharp, just as we all change positions again. She stares at me and I can feel heat rising to my face, but I keep going. Then she claps her hands just like Miss Martha.

  “OK, we’ll start with basic drills, just like on Monday. Do you all remember them?”

  I nod my head proudly. I could remember basic drills in my sleep. But not everyone looks so sure.

  “It’s OK if you don’t remember everything. It’s only your second class,” Edith says. Then she looks at me. “Casey, maybe you can demonstrate.”

  My face flushes radish-red as I walk to the middle of the room where Edith is pointing for me to stand, but when the music starts I forget all my worries and just move.

  “Good,” Edith says. “Now all together. Casey, stay where you are.”

  We go through the exercises again, Edith walking around us and correcting small mistakes, reminding everyone to keep breathing.

  After dance class, I am weak and wobbly as a kitten. But I am smiling.

  “Hey, Casey, would you show me how you do your falls?” a boy with short blond hair asks. His name is Kevin.

  “OK,” I say. I’m not used to people talking to me and asking me for help. In Warren, no one hardly gave me the time of day. “Will you count it for me?” I feel shy, but I take a deep breath and listen to Kevin’s counts, coiling my body into a spiral until I am flat on the ground. Then I reverse the move, growing like a bean sprout winding its way toward the sun.

  I count for Kevin while he tries the fall. He rests too heavily on each beat, freezing in place instead of contracting in one smooth motion, but I don’t say anything. I just smile.

  “Thanks,” Kevin says. The other students have left now, and I can see Edith watching us as she warms up for her rehearsal with the company. “I think it makes more sense now. I’ll see you Friday!”

  I wave as he walks out the door.

  “Casey,” Edith says, “can I see you before you leave?”

  My heart leaps up into my mouth and I swallow hard to get it back into place. “I’m sorry,” I say fast as the words can come off my tongue, because it isn’t my place to teach at all. I’m just a beginner, and Edith must think I’m way too big for my britches, showing Kevin how to do a fall when I only just learned it myself.

  “Don’t be silly,” Edith laughs. “We all help each other. That’s how we learn. I just wanted to ask if you had a few minutes. I want to teach a new floor sequence next week, and it would be great if you could help me demonstrate again. That way I can really look at how everyone is doing instead of trying to see them in the mirror.”

  “Me?” I say, ’cause it’s too good to be true.

  “Yes, you. You’re a quick learner, and I can tell you’re dedicated.”

  I nod hard. There is no one more dedicated to dance in the whole wide world.

  “So will you be my assistant?”

  “Yes!” I just about shout it, and Edith laughs. Her laugh is gentle and kind, like water rippling down a brook, and it makes me like her even more than I did before.

  “OK. If you can stay an extra twenty minutes or so after class, I can teach you the routines, and then the next week you’ll be my demonstrator.”

  So on Wednesdays, I stay late after class and Edith teaches me something new before she starts rehearsals with the company. Sometimes, when Miss Martha is away, she even lets me stay for the company rehearsal, and I sit quiet as I can manage in the corner of the studio, soaking up their movements and dreaming about the day I’ll be dancing with them.

  It is November, and there is snow everywhere. New York City is cold. And I don’t mean cold like a little shiver or a shake. I mean cold like you’re freezing all the way down to your bones and five days in front of a fire wouldn’t warm you up.

  I walk along the sidewalk, clutching my coat close. The wind is hollering at me and trying to push me back, but I am on my way to Thanksgiving dinner with Andrea and her family, and nothing would turn my toes around. I see Andrea waiting for me up at the next corner, and I put some more pep into my steps, stomping through the slush in my high-tops like it’s nothing but dry dust.

  “Hi, Casey,” she says, her breath making perfect round puffs of steam with every word. “Are you sure you want to do this? It’s crazy in there! Alice won’t stop bawling and I think Linda’s gonna explode. We could just go hide in Central Park or something.”

  “It’ll be great,” I say. And I want it to be true. It’s my first Thanksgiving away from home, without Mama and Gran, and it hurts every time I think about it. I try to smile but the air makes my teeth feel brittle, like shards of ice, and I close my lips tight. “Come on, let’s get inside!”

  Andrea laughs and puts her arm around my shoulders. She says I feel the cold more on account of my thin Southern blood, but I can see she feels it, too. Her shoulders are all hunched up like an owl.

 
We hurry along the sidewalk, weaving in and out of the other people, their heads down and bundled up against the frost. We stick close to the building side of the sidewalk. I learned the hard way what it feels like to be splashed by street slush when a yellow-checkered cab drives by.

  The wind digs its fingers through the thin spots in my coat and makes my freckles stand on end. I may be on a scholarship, but I still need to pay Mrs. Everton room and board. Mama sends me money once a month. It’s enough for rent, but not for extras, and it certainly ain’t enough for a brand-new coat with rabbit-fur lining like the one Miss Priss says she’s gonna bring back from home after Thanksgiving.

  Still, I don’t let Ann-Lee bother me much anymore. I’ve got Andrea and Edith. And who does she have? No one. Not even the ballet girls at Mrs. Everton’s like her. I guess new shoes don’t count for much in New York City. I can hear Mama inside my head telling me to be more kind, and Gran saying I should be more Christian, but I don’t want to listen.

  Andrea and I bustle through the door of her apartment building. The warm air hits me hard. My nose starts to run, and my fingers and toes quiver and itch like they’re crawling with fire ants. And by the time we climb all the way up to the fifth floor, I am so hot I could drop on the spot.

  “Get ready for trouble,” Andrea says, opening the door to the apartment.

  It’s a mess. Baby clothes and toys are spread all over the living room, and I can hear a wailing sound that must be coming from Alice. Or maybe from Linda.

  I shut my eyes and sniff the air, but there aren’t any Thanksgiving smells. No turkey, or gravy, and certainly none of Gran’s candied yams full of cinnamon and spice. Part of me is glad there aren’t any good smells, because good food would make me think of Mama and Gran even more. And how can I enjoy a big turkey dinner and all the trimmings without them?

  Andrea shuts the door softly behind us. But not softly enough.

  Linda comes rushing out of the back room. Alice is squirming in her hands, hollering so loud it hurts my ears, her face almost purple as an eggplant.