by Sarah Rubin
“Are you playing penguin or something?” one of the girls shouts at me, and I straighten up slowly and shut the icebox door. I’m not hungry anymore.
My eyes sting, but I breathe in the crying with a deep breath because I will not cry in the kitchen in front of Miss Priss Ann-Lee. I give her the most hateful look I can manage, then walk out of the room like they ain’t nothing more than lazy flies gathering in my way.
I’m only halfway up the stairs before I can’t hide the sadness anymore and the first fat teardrop hits my shoe. Suddenly the tiredness is gone, and my feet start running, trying to race the crying back to my room.
We get there at the same time and I sob facedown into my pillow. My tears are hot and angry, because it’s not fair that Her Majesty can have everything when I can’t. It’s not fair that her family can come to New York City when my mama will be home alone for Christmas. The crying makes me think of Gran and the big empty space she left in Warren, and in my heart, too. And I cry until all of the tears in me are on my pillow and there is nothing left inside.
I lie very quiet on the bed with my face turned away from the door and toward the window. I lie that way for a long time.
Outside the room, I hear footsteps and people going past. And then I hear the sound I am dreading beyond dread. The door opens and the Priss comes in.
“Casey?” she says. Her voice is like a rusty nail on a rock.
I keep my mouth shut tight.
She sighs and I can hear her rolling her eyes at me, which makes me grind my teeth.
“I brought you a sandwich,” she says. But I am still zipped up tight.
“Fine, pout all you like,” she says, and the plate goes down with a clatter. I can feel my stomach folding in on itself, but I wouldn’t touch that sandwich if it was the last food on earth.
The other bed creaks and the covers crease and rustle, but I still don’t move. The room is quiet. But it is a heavy quiet, like the air in Warren when a big storm is brewing. That quiet sits for a long time, and then it breaks.
My stomach growls like thunder and the Priss says, “Just eat the sandwich. I don’t want to listen to your sorry stomach all night.”
“I don’t want it,” I say. My voice is ugly, sticking and stretching in my throat.
“Why are you like this? Why are you always so prickly to me? It’s just a sandwich.”
“I don’t want your sandwich,” I say. And as I say it I know I am being a baby, but I can’t stop.
“What is your problem with me, Casey Quinn? I was just trying to be nice because you looked upset. I’ve been trying to be nice since we moved here.” Her voice sounds hurt, and that makes me angry, because what right does she have to be upset with me?
I sit up on my bed so fast my head spins. “It’s a little late to be nice to me now. You were horrible to me in Warren, so why should I be your friend now, just ’cause you don’t have all your pinky-pink ballet bees anymore?”
She hugs her knees to her chest. “I know,” she says, soft and quiet. “But you made me so mad, always acting like you were better than me.”
I laugh, a mean sound at the back of my throat. “Me acting better than you? I wasn’t always showing off a new dress, or toy, or anything my father bought me. I didn’t trip you in the cafeteria, or tell you that you smelled bad.” I can feel all the hatefulness pouring out of my mouth, lemon and vinegar over my tongue.
“I’m sorry I was mean to you,” the Priss says, swinging her feet onto the floor and standing up. Her words shock me as much as a slap in the face. “I know I was horrible, and I’m trying to make it up to you. Can’t you see that? But you’ve been just as bad to me since we moved here. You never talk to me, and you ignore me at school at lunch . . .” Her voice cracks and I can feel myself going soft, and it makes me so mad at myself because I am not gonna feel sorry for that stuck-up Ann-Lee Ryder. Not ever.
“I’m not the one bragging about my parents coming to visit and every little thing we’re gonna do together.”
It’s the only thing left I can think of to say, but the words taste bitter.
“I’m not bragging. I’m just excited. You’d be excited, too, if your mom was coming.”
“Well, she’s not,” I say as loud as I dare.
“She is,” Miss Priss says.
“She is not!”
“She is, Casey! She’s coming in the car with my mom and dad. I would have told you before, but you sulked off and wouldn’t talk to me!”
I sit on the bed, my mouth a perfect O. My mama is coming to New York City. I look at the Priss staring at me, her hands on her hips. And then I leap.
I have my arms around Ann-Lee’s neck, but I am not punching or pulling her hair. I jump back double quick when I realize that I just gave the Priss a hug. But I am too happy to care.
“You are so weird,” she says, her hair all ruffled from my squeeze, but even that doesn’t worry me.
My mama is coming to New York City for Christmas. My mama is gonna see me dance!
I can’t sleep a wink.
Tomorrow is dress rehearsal.
Tomorrow is the day Mama is coming, late at night ’cause she’s driving all day with the Ryders.
My heart has run away to play in the fresh fall of snow and my mind is racing with everything I want to do.
Morning creeps up slow and steady, and I can almost hear the sky changing colors as the sun gets closer. I sit in the windowsill, watching as the frosty patterns light up. They look like diamonds sparkling in the orange morning light. I never got to see them when I had to get up for school, but now that it’s Christmas break I can sleep in and watch the sun. Dance class starts earlier, ’cause Miss Martha says we all need the practice. But I don’t mind, not one bit. Dance is why I came to New York City, and I could happily dance all day long.
After class, Miss Martha tells me to put on my coat and meet her downstairs. I bundle up quick and race outside, two steps at a time, and see her hail a taxi with one beautiful flick of the wrist.
She holds open the yellow door.
“Well? What are you waiting for? Get in,” she says.
The inside of the taxi is dark and warm, and it smells like some sort of exotic spice. I imagine this is what frankincense or myrrh must smell like, and it fills me up with Christmas. I shuffle across the seat to make room as Miss Martha slides in next to me like a ship sailing in from sea. She tells the driver to take us to the Imperial Theater, and the taxi starts to move.
I press my nose to the window, staring at the lights as they fly past. The faces of other people riding in the back of other taxis are like a million moving pictures, and I want to watch every one.
“You’ve done well, Casey,” Miss Martha says. “You are really dancing the Maid now. I’m very pleased with you.”
Miss Martha is never free with her praise, and her words make my heart flutter inside my chest, stirring up my middle and making me feel all dizzy inside.
“My mama is coming to watch me dance,” I say, like this explains everything. And in a way, it does. The thought of Mama in New York City makes my muscles feel strong and full of jump.
“Is this the first time she’ll see you perform?”
I nod. Mama’s been watching me dance all my life, but not like this. Not on a grand stage with red velvet curtains.
“She’s coming tonight, after rehearsal.” I whisper the words like they’re a secret.
Miss Martha’s face is very steady and still, and it is hard to tell what she is thinking, but I believe she is happy for me. I smile at her, and then, when she looks away, I stare out the window at the bright neon city drifting by. Miss Martha has done so much for me, and I think I will dance better than ever and that will be the best way to say thank you.
It is dark outside when the taxi pulls up outside the theater. The Imperial is lit up like a Christmas tree. I tip my head back and look up. Above me, written in white round lightbulbs in letters that must be as tall as me, is MARTHA GRAHAM AND COMPANY. I
t ain’t exactly my name in lights, but it’s close enough. Miss Martha doesn’t look up. She sweeps past me and I follow her into the theater.
The rest of the company is already there, stretching and jumping on the stage. They see me coming in with Miss Martha and think I’m just a teacher’s pet, but I am too stuffed full of wonder to worry. My name is in lights and my mama is gonna see it.
It’s dress rehearsal, so everything has to be just like a real show. The front of the theater is full of musicians, and the sound of them tuning their instruments plays along as we warm up. Each note makes a different part of me twitch and itch as I stretch alongside everyone else.
In the dressing room, our costumes are laid out. I hold up the plain white leotard with its long draped skirt in front of me. As I put it on I can feel my heart beat in my fingers and toes. There is a long mirror surrounded by lights, and I walk over to it slowly. I look different. The other dancers are putting on makeup. I look closely at my face. I’ve never worn lipstick before, not really, but I pick up a tube and run it gently over my lips. A different face looks back at me. A face that looks like my mama’s. When I see this, me and my reflection smile.
It is time to begin.
Miss Martha waves us to the wings on either side of the stage. We stumble and bump in the dark. The red velvet curtains close and we take our places on the stage, feeling our way to the right spot even though it is hard to see. Everything is painted black, and it feels like I’m walking with my eyes closed. The air is full of energy and nerves, like the sky before a storm.
The curtain and the music rise together, and Miss Martha starts the dance. Her body is full of music. I watch her in awe. Then I am dancing with her, leaping so high I could brush the lights with my fingertips.
And then I blink and my part is over. I step, graceful in my white dress, back into the shadows, and disappear offstage.
I stand silent and tall, watching from the wings as the rest of the company perform. I can’t see Miss Martha from where I’m standing, but I can see the other dancers moving through the space behind her. They swirl and soar, their strong legs digging down into the floor and pushing way up high.
And then everything stops, sudden and hard. One moment the dancers are flying across the stage, and then they’re still. The music stops, too. The sudden silence is so loud it makes my ears buzz. The look on everyone’s face makes my knees tremble. Their mouths perfect O’s, their faces white with worry.
I step forward, my heart drumrolling as I twist my head around the edge of the curtain. The stage lights are sharp and bright, making my eyes sting, and I blink and step forward with my arm up in the air like a shield. I have a bad feeling inside.
Miss Martha is on the floor, all crumpled like a rag doll. Time freezes.
For a second I think she is dead. But then she moves and I breathe again, a sigh of relief as big as the ocean.
Someone runs up out of the darkness where the theater seats are, and hands Miss Martha a bag of ice.
“Are you all right?”
“Do I look all right?” Miss Martha snarls, like she is a raccoon caught in a trap. Her eyes are wild and no one is getting too close. But from where I’m standing I can see she’s hurt bad. Her ankle is swollen up double its normal size, and the skin is all angry purple and red.
People are whispering about sending for a doctor, but Miss Martha won’t hear of it.
“I’m fine,” she snaps. “Just get me a chair.”
But no one believes her. Someone disappears to the front of the theater to call a doctor, and the rest of us stare at Miss Martha, wishing there was something we could do.
Miss Martha looks at us and I know what she is thinking, that she doesn’t want us staring and pitying her. Her mouth is all thin and determined, and she tries to stand up, but the ankle is having none of that and down she goes again. My heart feels like it is splitting in two, and when Miss Martha looks at me, it shatters.
We sit there silent for what seems like forever, Miss Martha refusing to talk, and everyone else too scared to say a word. Then there are more footsteps in the darkness and a doctor arrives, tsking and tutting.
“Now, young lady, let’s have a look at that ankle,” he says, and Miss Martha practically growls.
“Who are you calling ‘young lady’? I’m fine. I just need to let it rest for a minute.”
The doctor doesn’t pay no mind to Miss Martha saying she is fine. He hums and haws and pokes at her ankle, making Miss Martha wince. Finally, he stands up.
“I’m afraid it is a very serious sprain, Miss Graham,” he says. “You’re not going to be able to dance on that for some time.”
Miss Martha’s face is whiter than white, but she doesn’t say a word.
The doctor calls a taxi to take Miss Martha home. Her face is frozen, like she’s wearing a mask of herself. Helen gets up to give Miss Martha her shoulder, but Miss Martha refuses the help. “Don’t touch me,” she snaps at Helen, swatting her away like a bottle fly. The whole room flinches.
“You should let someone see you home,” the doctor says. “At least to carry your bag.” He says it kindly, but he doesn’t understand what has happened. Not really.
“Casey,” Miss Martha says, and I jump in my skin and look side to side. Then I step forward. “Get my things.”
I nod but I don’t offer any other help, because Miss Martha doesn’t want any.
I am down in the dark part of the theater, my eyes all dazzled with leftover lights. I feel a hand on my arm, and I spin around in the darkness.
“Don’t let her cancel the show,” a voice says. I think it is Kevin, but I’m not sure, we’ve hardly spoken to each other since all those weeks ago when I showed him how to do falls. But now’s no time for reminiscing.
“Cancel the show?” I say.
“If she can’t be in it, she’ll cancel it,” he whispers. His voice is husky and harsh. “She needs to let someone else dance her part. Edith.”
The doctor and Miss Martha are waiting for me at the lobby door. I can see them framed in the yellow rectangle of light, and I pull my arm away.
“Promise me you’ll try,” he says.
“I’ll try,” I say, and then I am racing up the aisle toward Miss Martha and the doctor, Miss Martha’s coat and bags heavy in my arms.
I take one last look at the company behind me. The dancers stand together like they are huddling against the cold. They look so worried and suddenly I am worried, too. What if Miss Martha does cancel the show? What will I tell my mama? It feels like my dreams are dripping down the drain, and I won’t let that happen. I wave with one hand at the company, a soldier’s wave, like a salute. Then I am out the door.
My second ride in a taxi is not as good as my first.
I sit on the corner of my seat, trying not to take up any room at all and definitely trying not to touch Miss Martha, who sits in the other corner like she is made of stone, while the doctor tells me about the importance of ice on a sprain.
“You’ll have to get her a fresh pack once we get her home, and then she needs plenty of rest.”
I nod but I’m hardly listening. I can still feel Kevin’s squeeze on my arm, like it’s reminding me what I’ve got to do.
The taxi pulls to a stop outside a tall brown building and I hop out, feet splashing in the slush and arms full of stuff, and race around to open the door for Miss Martha. She slides out, and the doctor helps her up the steps.
“Here, take her keys and get everything opened up. Find a chair and a hassock so Miss Graham can put her foot up.” The doctor gives orders and I jump to obey, running on ahead. It is warm inside. I find the light switch quickly.
I walk down the hall, opening doors until I find the living room. There’s a large chair there, and I put a plump hassock in front of it and wait. The doctor and Miss Martha hobble through the door. The doctor helps her into the chair, then he lifts her ankle gently onto the cushion.
“A pillow.” He snaps his fingers, and I hand h
im one.
Miss Martha’s ankle looks so sore and swollen it makes my eyes sting again, but Miss Martha doesn’t make a sound. And she certainly doesn’t speak to the doctor, because she has no words for someone like him.
“You need to keep that ankle elevated,” he says, “and ice it for twenty minutes every other hour. I’ll send a nurse with some crutches for you in the morning. For now just try to get some rest.”
He puts his hat back on and hands me an empty ice bag from his bag. Then he tips his hat to us and leaves. The door clicks behind him and I am alone with Miss Martha.
I stand very still because it’s like being in a cage with a tiger. Miss Martha doesn’t say a word, but the room is throbbing with pain. Not from her ankle, but from not dancing.
I don’t know what to say, because nothing is going to make that hurt go away, so I walk quiet as a mouse into the kitchen to look for ice. I get a block out of the bottom of the freezer. It is heavy, and I balance it against my chest until I can tip it into the sink. The sides are slick from where it’s starting to melt. There is an ice pick in the drawer by the sink. I start to chip away at the block. It is loud work, and I wince and worry about annoying Miss Martha. But ice will help her swollen ankle and chipping ice will busy me, so I take a deep breath and try to do it as fast and quiet as possible.
I am all nerves because I know what I need to do. I need to ask Miss Martha not to cancel the show, to let Edith dance her part. And I feel low inside, because it will be like stabbing Miss Martha in the back. But I have to do it just the same.
I fill the ice bag with the chips in the sink and screw the lid on tight. Miss Martha is still a statue in her chair. She stirs oh-so-slightly when I put the ice on her ankle. She turns her eyes on me, slow, as if just remembering I am there. She looks at me for a long time and I let her look, because what else can I do?
