Someday Dancer

by Sarah Rubin

  “Where have you been?” she asks Andrea.

  “I just went down to get Casey.”

  Linda looks at me like she hadn’t noticed I was here before.

  “Mom and Dad will be here in four hours and I haven’t even put the turkey in yet.” She looks around wildly. “David has gone to watch the football game down at O’Brien’s bar and is picking up his parents after. So you” — she points at Andrea — “need to help me in the kitchen.” She turns to me. “You hold Alice,” she says, and plunks the screaming baby into my arms and disappears into the kitchen.

  Alice kicks and bucks and is much stronger than something that small should be. My ears sting with her screaming, and I worry something horrible about dropping her.

  Andrea rolls her eyes at me and sighs. “This is the first Thanksgiving dinner she’s had to cook, and she’s at her wits’ end.”

  “Is she a good cook?”

  Andrea shakes her head. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Alice kicks and howls again. I wrinkle my nose, because she doesn’t smell very nice, either.

  “Oh, I’ll change her,” Andrea says, taking the baby out of my hands and disappearing back into the bedroom.

  I wipe my hands on the front of my skirt and slouch into the kitchen. Linda is sitting at the table, reading a big white cookbook and looking very confused. She glances up sharply when she hears my footfall on the linoleum.

  “Where’s Alice?”

  “Andrea went to change her,” I say. There are bowls of half-peeled vegetables all over the counter and the biggest turkey I’ve ever seen in an aluminum tray on the table. Linda looks like she’s going to cry.

  “I don’t know why I said I’d host Thanksgiving this year. I thought it would be easier than trying to travel with a baby, but I was wrong.”

  I open the fridge and look inside. Everything you could ever want for Thanksgiving is stuffed inside.

  “I can cook,” I say. I don’t know why I say it, but I do.

  Linda sniffs. “Well, I can cook, too, but it’s Thanksgiving dinner.”

  “I’ve cooked Thanksgiving dinner before. I always helped my gran in the kitchen.” I stop then because it suddenly feels like there’s a whole stuffed turkey sitting on my chest. I breathe out slowly and look up at Linda. “Let me do it. Andrea will help, and you can look after Alice and get the rest of the house ready.”

  Linda’s eyes are hopeful, and I can tell she wants to believe me.

  “Really, I can do it. Just tell Andrea she needs to help me.” I rinse my hands and then roll up my sleeves like I mean business. I start peeling the sweet potatoes just to show her that I can.

  Linda drifts quietly out of the kitchen, and a moment later Andrea comes in.

  “We’re cooking?” she says, her eyebrows raised way up high.

  “Yep,” I say. “Put on an apron and start peeling.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” Andrea salutes like a soldier, but she’s smiling.

  I set to work on the turkey. Gran always said the secret to the perfect Thanksgiving turkey is in the stuffing. So I stuff it full of everything delicious I can find: chestnuts, cranberries, lots of herbs and spices, and bread crumbs to hold it all together. It makes me feel good. Like Gran is with me, showing me what to do. But it also makes me miss her and miss Mama, and it hurts to think that Mama is all alone in Warren without me. We could only afford one bus ticket, for Christmas, but it still hurts.

  “Wow, you really do know what you’re doing,” Andrea says.

  “My gran was the best cook in the world,” I say. The words seem to stick in my throat, and I swallow hard. I can feel the tears building up behind my eyes.

  “Are you OK?” Andrea asks.

  I nod and wipe my eyes, but they won’t stay dry.

  “You don’t have to keep cooking if it makes you so sad,” Andrea says.

  “No, it’s fine.” I say, and it is. Gran loved to cook because her food made people happy. And she taught me how to cook so I could make people happy, too. I rub some butter on the turkey skin and sprinkle it with salt, then I put it in the oven and shut the door.

  “It’ll be the best turkey ever,” I say, and for some reason we both start laughing.

  Then it’s on to the vegetables while the turkey cooks. Linda sticks her head in to see if we’re really working, but when I show her the turkey going golden-brown in the oven she hugs me close. Then Alice wails again, and she disappears back into the living room.

  Andrea sits at the kitchen table, snapping off the hard ends of the green beans while I stir the gravy on the stove.

  “So are you gonna ask her?” Andrea suddenly says.

  My stomach flip-flops and my stirring hand stops. Miss Martha and the company are giving a Winter Recital, and Edith says I should ask Miss Martha to make me an understudy.

  “What if she says no?” I whisper.

  “So she says no,” Andrea says. “You have to ask! What if you’d never auditioned in the first place?”

  My heart hammers hard every time I even think of asking Miss Martha about dancing with the company. I can see her raise her eyebrows and scowl down at me. Andrea snaps the last bean and brings them over to me to put on the stove.

  “Come on, Casey. Look, I’m auditioning to be in The Nutcracker on Friday, and that’s terrifying, too. Be brave!”

  I take a breath. Edith says I’m good. And Edith is the best dancer in the whole company. She’s performed with Miss Martha all over the world. She’s been to Paris and London. I may have made it to New York City, but Edith has been everywhere. And if she says I can dance with the company, I know I can do it.

  “OK,” I say. “I’ll ask.”

  And Andrea squeals and hugs me, almost tipping over my gravy pan.

  At ten to three Andrea’s parents arrive. We’re still cooking, but Andrea pulls me into the living room. One look at her mother and father, and she leaps over the coffee table and into their arms.

  It stings my eyes to look at them.

  After a moment, she stands up straight and wipes her own eyes dry.

  “This is Casey,” she says to her parents, waving me over to say hello.

  Andrea’s mother is dressed up in her Sunday best, and I look down at my clothes covered in cooking spills and feel more than a little shabby, but Andrea’s parents don’t seem to mind.

  “So you’re Casey. Andrea has told us so much about you. We’re very glad she’s found such a good friend in the city.”

  I blush to the tips of my ears, but Andrea just drags me back to the kitchen while her parents play with Alice.

  “I swear the baby always stops crying as soon as they get here. They think she’s perfect,” Andrea whispers. “Little do they know . . .”

  Linda’s husband, David, comes home with his parents at three o’clock, and we are all sitting around the table in the living room by three thirty. The turkey sits in the middle of the table, looking as perfect as can be, and I am all aglow with pride.

  Andrea’s mother asks us all to bow our heads, and says grace. Then she asks us all to say one thing we are grateful for. Linda says she’s grateful to be with her family, David says he’s grateful for his beautiful wife and baby, and the grandparents are all grateful for Alice. Andrea says she’s grateful she got into ballet school and that she’s grateful she met me.

  It is my turn and I am not sure what to say. I am grateful for so many things: for getting into Miss Martha’s school, and Andrea, and Mama and Gran. I’m grateful for New York City and having a family to eat Thanksgiving dinner with. But it is too much to put into words, and so I smile wide and tell them all, “I am grateful I didn’t burn the turkey.”

  David says amen, and everyone laughs. But I think they understand what I really mean.

  On Friday, I can hardly sit still, waiting for school to be over so I can get to the studio and ask Miss Martha about being an understudy for the company. I’ll ask her after class, so I need to make sure I’m extra-good today. The l
ast seconds of the school day seem to take hours, but when the final bell rings I am out of my chair like a leaf on a breeze.

  “Wait up, Casey!” Andrea calls, and I slow down ever so slightly. We throw on our coats, scarves, hats, and mittens. My back muscles clench up just thinking about the cold outside.

  The air is like a frozen punch in the gut. It makes my eyes water, and little icicles form on my lashes. Andrea and I scuttle along the sidewalk, bending our heads against the wind.

  “So you’re definitely going to do it, right?” Andrea asks, like she’s daring me to be brave.

  I nod. “I’ll ask after class.”

  “You better!”

  Andrea has gone all graceful since she started training at the School of American Ballet. I watch the turn of her feet on the sidewalk; she’s placing them onto the slush like she’s waltzing on water. She wears her hair in a bun now, too, but there are always curls escaping and they make a perfect halo around her face.

  I wonder what I look like next to her. Back in Warren I was just awkward Casey Quinn, with knobby knees and high-tops that were two sizes too big. But they aren’t too big anymore. I look down at my feet. My high-tops fit me just right — like I fit New York.

  At the next corner, Andrea stops.

  “Well, good luck,” she says, and stands still, waiting.

  I feel unsteady, like I’ve forgotten something. But my feet are already tapping to get to class, and I need to keep moving or I’ll never be brave enough to talk to Miss Martha. So I skip off down the street, waving over my shoulder as I go.

  I fall gratefully through the door of the school, stomping my feet and clapping my hands like a one-man band to get the feeling back into them.

  In the changing room I wriggle out of my clothes. I’ve already got my dance outfit on underneath — another layer to keep me warm. It’s warm enough inside the studio, but I am bone-cold, like a turkey in the freezer, and it will take some time to thaw out. I shiver and shudder and shake my way into the studio. Edith is there at the front, warming up as usual. She smiles at me as I take my place in the back of the class and begin my own warm-up.

  Miss Martha comes into the room and claps her hands without waiting for a second. We line up on the floor, ready.

  “Basic drills,” she says. Her voice is sharp and I can tell it’s going to be a hard class. The music swells and we’re moving. I breathe with the sound, filling my limbs up full and letting them float on the sound of the piano.

  “Now, let’s move across the floor!” Miss Martha claps her hands again.

  One two three, leap. One two three, leap!

  “Come on, Casey, don’t be lazy. Jump!”

  I suck in my breath and try harder, even though my legs don’t have much jump left in them. We go around the room two more times, and then Miss Martha claps for us to stop.

  “Enough. Enough!” she shouts. She is not happy with us.

  I’m hot and sticky and gasping for breath, but her voice makes my soul cold.

  “I thought you were dancers,” she says. “Not a herd of cows.”

  Everyone hangs their heads, but Miss Martha doesn’t stop.

  “How many times have I told you? You must think about everything you do. Every breath should be a part of the dance. Come back on Monday. And come back dancers!”

  And with that Miss Martha storms out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  There is still half an hour left of class, so Edith takes us through the exercises again, but the room feels empty without Miss Martha watching us. I stretch and kick, but I can’t shake lose the feeling that Miss Martha is disappointed in me. And I know I can’t ask her about being an understudy in the Winter Recital now.

  When the clock hits five, we stop. I lean against the cool wall to catch my breath. Edith smiles and waves as she leaves the room, but I don’t feel much like smiling. I pull my clothes back on over my tights and leotard. I’m too warm, but I know I’ll be freezing again once I go outside. I bundle up tight and drag-shuffle-step out of the room, down the long, dark stairs toward the door.

  I am halfway down the stairs when Miss Martha’s voice stops me.

  “Casey Quinn, in my office, please.”

  She says it like an order and I move double-quick to obey. Heart all a-flitter-flutter with fear. I trip up the steps and through the red-painted door into Miss Martha’s office. I know she is not happy, not one bit, and I feel weak with worry that she might send me back to Warren.

  Miss Martha’s office is full of pictures of her dancing. In every one she looks like she might leap off the wall and into the room. Miss Martha sits in the middle of it all, glaring at me, her face white as New York snow.

  I take a big breath and hold my chin up high. I made it this far and I am not going back for no one.

  “Yes, ma’am?” I say, and it is a question.

  “Edith thinks you’re good enough to be her understudy for the Winter Recital,” she says, raising an artful eyebrow.

  My heart pounds so loud it fills up the whole room, but I can’t say a word.

  “What do you think? Are you ready?” She looks at me hard, and I stand up even straighter to show her that I am Casey Quinn and every inch of me is ready.

  “Yes,” I say, almost leaping with the word. “I can do it, I know I can.”

  Miss Martha nods slowly.

  “Well,” she says. “We shall see.”

  Miss Martha tells me to be at the Imperial Theater tomorrow morning for rehearsal, and waves me away. I float on excitement down the stairs. The cold barely touches my skin as I skip down the sidewalk around all the hunched-up, bunched-up souls hurrying home. I have dance to keep me warm.

  The sky is dark and New York City shines twice as bright because of it. The yellow headlights and red taillights of all the rush-hour cars twinkle like a lake reflection under the Christmas lights shining out from storefront windows. The clock in a church on the corner chimes six times, and I need to hurry to get back to Mrs. Everton’s for supper. I double my steps, sweeping across the city streets like a skater on ice.

  The air inside Mrs. Everton’s Boarding House is ever-so-slightly warmer than it is outside. I wrinkle my nose. It smells like boiled cabbage. The food in New York can’t hold a candle to what Mama can cook, and it doesn’t even dare stand in the shadow of Gran.

  I want to call Andrea and tell her the news, and then write it all down in a long letter to Mama. Mrs. Everton has one phone in the downstairs hall by the bottom of the stairs. She keeps a long black book next to it, and anyone who makes a call has to write it down in the book so she can charge it back. “I’m not running a charity, you know,” Mrs. Everton says. “This is a respectable house for respectable ladies who pay all of their own bills.” Gran would have called Mrs. Everton a tartar, but she’s all right as long as you stay two steps on her good side.

  I hang up my coat in the hallway and hurry inside. But when I get to the stairs, Miss Priss Ann-Lee, who doesn’t need to count her pennies, is already on the phone. She’s leaning against the wall, all twisted up in the phone cord like she means to stay there.

  Her face shifts down into a scowl when she sees me tapping my toe at her, and she turns her back on me, winding another loop of phone cord around her back. She’s wearing bright pink lipstick, and I hope as hard as I can that Mrs. Everton comes by and makes her scrub her face with carbolic soap. “Mrs. Everton’s Boarding House for Young Ladies is for respectable girls, not hussies with painted lips.”

  I cross my arms and sit down on the bottom step. The Priss is giving me a this-is-a-private-conversation look over her shoulder, but I don’t care. I am almost at bursting point, and I need to tell someone my news, and the Priss ain’t gonna stop me. I lean my head against the banister and wait.

  I don’t mean to eavesdrop, Mama and Gran raised me better than that, but Ann-Lee is talking so loud I can’t help hearing.

  “You promise you’ll come? And we’ll celebrate Christmas in New York and stay at
The Ritz?”

  I roll my eyes. I bet The Ritz can’t make gravy like my mama. And then there it is again, the unsteadiness from this afternoon, something twitching at the back of my brain, like a sour crab apple in among the sweet ones. Why is the Priss staying in New York for Christmas?

  I twist the shadow thought around for a bit, trying to make it take shape, but the closer it gets the less I want to look at it, and I push it away as hard as I can.

  After an eternity, the Priss hangs up the phone.

  “Finally,” I say.

  She tosses her blonde hair at me.

  “I wasn’t on that long, Casey. Can’t you ever wait your turn?” she snaps, and I glare at her, because who is she to talk to me like that? We’re both here, aren’t we? She might dress all fancy, but she’s a South Carolina girl, just like me.

  “Why are you staying for Christmas?” I ask.

  “What? You were listening in?”

  “Well, you talk louder than a water buffalo. It’s not my fault I heard you.”

  The Priss seems to breathe steam. “I’m staying because I’m going to be dancing Clara in The Nutcracker. It’s the main role.” She sniffs at me like I’m just a stain on the shirt. “The ballet runs until January, so my mother and father are going to come see me perform, and we’ll spend Christmas at The Ritz.” She crosses her arms like it’s a challenge. Other girls from the boarding house are standing on the stairs now, coming down for dinner, and they’re watching us. I can feel their beady eyes on my back. But I don’t care.

  I forgot about the ballet auditions. I forgot to wish Andrea good luck.

  My heart feels low, like a snake slithering in the grass, and there’s something else, too, something even worse. But I don’t want to think about it. I just want to be angry, so I stamp my feet down — one two — and cross my arms.

  “Well, I’m performing at the Imperial Theater in Martha Graham’s Winter Recital.” The words come out of my mouth before I can stop them. I stick out my chin and bite down hard, daring Ann-Lee to call me a liar, even though deep down I know I am one. Miss Priss just raises an eyebrow like she doesn’t believe me. And that makes me even madder.