Our tentative friendship has begun to grow,
Maybe because my lust for Rem
Has made it easier to be in the house
With this other boy.
I show him the paperwork, the permission slip.
“Who should sign this?”
“Is Rem going?”
He asks right away.
My eyes shoot down to the ace of spades.
He laughs. “Simone has a big mouth.”
“Does that make her a good kisser?”
I am surprised at my boldness.
Julio’s ears turn red.
He laughs but
Tosses the deck of cards
A little too roughly my way.
“Nosy!”
“You started it!”
I won’t tell him
About Papa Bear.
“Just give the form to my dad.
He’ll sign it.”
Like a million times before,
I realize how free I have become
Since being dropped off
At Señor Medrano’s doorstep.
The first school on the tour is a dump
With a floor like cinder blocks.
Every step hurts my shins.
After the performance-opening demonstration
Of ballet barre exercises,
I rush back to the dressing room
To change into Mama Bear.
Peel off my leotard.
As I turn to look for some Tiger Balm
To relieve the ache of my legs,
I see Rem staring
At my topless body
Through the gap in the makeshift dressing-room curtain.
And I hesitate
Before I wrap my arms around my chest.
Afterwards, riding the bus to the motel,
Rem guides me to the last row.
Concealed by the seat back
He draws me close,
Reminds my lips
Of his kisses,
Does things that make my tights damp between the legs.
The chaperones are strict,
Assigning us girls
Four to a hotel room,
Where everyone doses up on Advil
To beat back the pain
Of the unforgiving floors.
The room stinks of Bengay,
Lisette’s leotard
Rinsed and drying on the towel bar.
On television
Old men tell jokes behind desks.
In the bathroom, Bonnie
Vomits again.
Beneath the covers
My body aches
For Remington.
On the last day of the trip,
As we are leaving the studio
Of the city ballet company
Where we took a grueling class,
Rem says in the most offhand way,
“I’m staying with friends in the city tonight.”
My mind does a quick calculation.
Bonnie sits with Lisette,
Madison with Simone,
Fernando with no one,
Staring out the window
Or perhaps at his own reflection
In the fingerprinted pane.
I curl up alone in the seat.
The bus swerves cruelly
Around sharp curves,
Lurches
Over potholes.
My stomach revolts.
My body misses
The comfort of wrapping fingers,
The distraction of kisses.
Back at the studio
I watch Jane
Work with company dancers and students.
Her face, friendly and professional,
Does not look like she is lost, missing a piece
Of something. Her heart must be fine
And I comfort myself, recalling that morning
Not long ago
When Rem stalked into the studio
Leaving her in the doorway’s shadow.
The tape measure
Is unforgiving:
My legs are shorter than Lisette’s,
My waist thicker than Bonnie’s.
The Nutcracker costume mistress pushes me this way and
that.
I try on a shimmering white unitard, a sash of gray chiffon,
A tight silver cap.
He hasn’t come back to the studio yet.
I sit with the other girls in the hall,
Sewing ribbons on my new pointe shoes.
Every time someone comes through the door
I jump.
Is Simone watching?
Can Madison see my desperation?
My mind travels to a horrible place
Where he has simply disappeared.
No one knows what has happened.
And I am left here
Alone.
The second hand rond de jambes
Around the clock.
Rehearsal begins in nine minutes.
One slipper sewn.
One bloody finger prick
Dotting red-brown spots
On the pink satin ribbon.
I put my finger in my mouth.
Suck off the dirty blood.
Start on the other shoe,
Though there’s little chance
I will be finished in nine minutes.
At eight minutes
He swoops through the door,
Face shadowy with unshorn beard,
Coat bundled over his arm.
“Friend’s car broke down on the highway,”
He says to no one in particular.
Dashes toward the costume shop.
I wait for his gaze
To rest specially on my face
But there is nothing.
Am I lonelier now
Than when my sad imagination
Had him disappear?
Heart torn,
Loosing tiny droplets
Of sorrow
No tape can measure
No needle can mend.
Señor Medrano puts me in the front row
To learn the steps for the Snowflake ballet.
They are not very difficult;
What is hard is matching with the other girls,
Counting out the music exactly right.
My toes push down on the hard floor,
Nearly unprotected
By the worn boxes of my old pointe shoes—
The price for failing to finish
Sewing the new ribbons.
But Señor smiles, encouraging.
The music carries me
As I lead my line,
Glance up at my fingertips
In a glorious port de bras,
Loneliness, for the moment,
Forgotten.
At Upton it is all about
The PSAT score reports that have come in.
Katia and Anne are planning a trip
To visit colleges along the Atlantic coast.
I stare at the envelope
From the College Board.
“Open it.”
Anne laughs
Her superior laugh.
The intellectual
With the well-cut
Ralph Lauren
Burgundy jacket
That nods to Upton’s dress-code standard
Without seeming uniform at all.
I slide my finger under the flap
Pull out the thin, computer-generated page
Read and pass it over.
I barely remember taking the test in October.
Can’t think if anyone told me it was happening
Until that day.
Had to borrow a pencil
To fill in the monotonous ovals
That made me late to ballet class.
Yet, even in my disinterest,
I can see the very high percentile marks
That draw the smile
Off of Anne’s lips,
Ma
ke Katia’s pale eyes bulge.
“So what colleges are you thinking of?”
Anne asks.
“I haven’t really thought about college,”
I confess.
And we can be friends again.
Could it be that high PSATs make me lighter?
Because I can barely remember the windy ride
Down Harris Avenue,
Do not even celebrate
Ruby Rappaport’s fight with Adnan,
Which means I sit in the front seat.
My poker hair does not resist
Being twisted into the bun.
I do not feel hungry,
Despite a lunch of six orange wedges.
The dark green leotard
Slides over my stomach
Like silk.
I choose the far end of the barre
But, unlike the first day,
I know the routines.
My back held straight,
Arms taut but graceful,
Clenching my feet into perfect arches.
After the barre, ballet class moves to center,
The pretend, practice stage
Where we tendu, plié, jeté
All over again.
But this time, we dance for our mirror audience,
Posing coquettishly in effacé,
Twisting and angling,
Morphing from student to performer
For forty-five minutes or an hour.
Inside my new pointe shoes,
A bleeding blister
Burns delightfully
Through a grueling adagio combination:
Arabesque into an epic promenade
That somehow does not cause a cramp in my thigh.
Then an allegro: sauté, chassé, piqué turns.
I hover over myself
Watching.
Mind and body separated,
Each in control
As though there are two puppeteers
Working the strings of my marionette self.
Perfection.
I even feel the muscles of my face
Draw my lips
Up into a smile.
Ballerinas are often compared to butterflies.
I understand today
As I flit across the black floor,
Feel Simone’s eyes on my back,
A dark brown version of Katia’s gaze,
As if jealousy begets more jealousy,
Perfection more perfection.
We come to révérence,
A curtsy to thank Señor Medrano
For teaching our class.
The piano smacks its final chord.
Silence shatters the magic.
Señor pauses in the doorway to speak to a parent.
Students drop to the floor, pack up shoes and gear.
Remington steps into the room.
Behind him
No sign of Jane
But I watch his careful eyes
On Señor’s back.
Señor gives the classroom
A curt farewell nod,
Strides out
On character shoes,
Soft and black.
Chatter rises.
Rem saunters over,
Slides onto the floor beside me.
“Whatcha been up to?”
As if I had not been counting every hour
Since his last touch,
Calculating the depth
Of his rejection.
Twenty minutes ’til the next class
And all around us
Dancers trickle in and out.
I sit immobilized,
Pointe shoes half untied.
Remington launches into
Words.
I watch his lips move,
Hands gesture.
The dark brown hair on his forearms lifts
As he swings through a giant
Port de bras
Describing some dance he is making.
He picks up my hand,
Draws me to standing,
Demonstrates a parallel promenade.
I try to imitate,
Satin shoe ribbons trailing behind me on the floor.
“No. No. Like this, ballerina.”
His chuckling words waft through
The smoke in my ears.
I let him show me
Steps I have not seen in ordinary classes,
His expression all fire
As he shares his pas de deux.
He releases my fingers
That weep for his touch.
I look down.
My feet are still in parallel,
Trying to make
The stylized, geometric
Steps
Of Remington’s ballet.
“Nice.”
His voice approving, low,
Inviting.
What does he want?
What do I want?
Remington leans against the barre,
Looking at me
As the clock ticks toward Variations.
I cannot read the expression in his eyes.
The studio begins to fill.
Bonnie and Madison drop onto the floor beside me.
“We’re going to the movies tonight,”
Bonnie says.
“Wanna come?”
“What movie?”
My voice shatters the fine glass air
Between Remington and me.
I see him, through the spiderweb cracks,
Turn away.
“We’ll figure out what’s starting
After we get to the mall.
My dad’s gonna drive.”
Madison looks at me.
“Sounds like fun,”
I manage.
Push my voice into air
That still snaps.
“Cool.” Bonnie stands up,
Heads for the rosin box near the door
To coat her pointe shoes
Against slipping.
“So, we’ll meet up after Variations.”
Madison follows Bonnie.
Remington leans away from the barre,
Gives his back a casual stretch.
“I can give you a ride
To the movies.”
I focus my energy on wrapping the retied end of my pointe
shoe ribbon
Under the knot. Thoughts and feelings jumble
While my heart hiccups, my breath sticks in my chest.
“Okay.”
In Variations class,
We are working on Sleeping Beauty,
Much more formal, familiar
Than the forward-toed, eclectic gait
Of Remington’s promenade.
Aurora, the Sleeping Beauty,
Is supposed to be sixteen, like me.
Her dance, light with anticipation of all that is to come,
Giddy with childish glee
At her birthday celebration.
I love the gentle build
Of Tchaikovsky’s music.
Joyful, precise développés en tournant
That explode into a line of piqué turns,
Tough and spectacular.
Every girl dreams of performing them—
Lisette and Bonnie, Simone and Madison—
All of us tendu and spin
Again and again.
This will be the last Variations class
Until The Nutcracker is over.
A long time to remember
Even delightful steps
To delicate music.
I try to drive them into my muscles
Beside the incessant ache
Of yearning.
“Tonight, Madison, Bonnie, and I Are going to the movies.”
I tell this to Señor Medrano.
Try to keep my eyes casual
Like I do not really care
Who else is going out tonight.
Or that I will get a ride with Remington.
Like I’m a little girl.
I watch him push through the metal door,
Disappear from the studio.
Turn back to the strange adventure,
Uncertain bed
I have made for myself.
Madison’s dad comes
For her and Bonnie.
“You sure you don’t need a ride?”
Madison heaves her chic, black, quilted ballet bag
Over her shoulder.
I look at the solid, suited man
Standing in the doorway,
Poking at his cell phone,
Audition Page 8
