In a neat pile at the end of my bed.
Julio watches me lug a damp armload
Of tights I could not wait to finish drying,
Dump them on my bed
While he stands in the doorway.
“Prospero Año Nuevo!”
He snorts at my confusion.
“Happy New Year.”
“You too.”
But it is no different
From any other day,
Except that this is the end of The Nutcracker.
There will be a party after the performance tonight
And Remington will be there.
I lead my line of Snowflakes
In a series of ports de bras, tendus, soutenu turns.
We run in delicate, toe-pointed circles,
Arms open in second,
Faces bright.
Finally pose
In low first arabesque,
Heads inclined
Toward the gracious Snow Queen and her consort.
One last time, we hold still
In two neat rows of eight,
As paper snow wafts down
Onto our silver-capped heads
Gently as burnt ash
From the tips of a thousand cigarettes.
In the dressing room
Lisette says a tearful good-bye
To her beautiful Dew Drop dress,
Tearing one tiny flower
From the shoulder strap.
A memory that looks
Like it will break her heart.
I want nothing from my costume
Except to forget it.
Will he give me another chance?
I think I have disgusted him
With my childishness,
Even though I am more afraid
Of being lonely
Than of losing anything
Rem could take from me.
At the party he hangs out
With Paul and Don,
Vincent, Marie, and Galina,
Until our eyes meet
Over the top of his beer.
He glances around quickly.
Is he looking for Jane?
Some disapproving teacher?
An escape
From my desperate gaze?
But no,
He comes over to my side,
Gives me a sort of fatherly hug.
Though his wide hands grip my forearms,
It is my heart
That feels the tightening
Of his fists.
“Long month, huh?”
I nod. “No more white unitard!”
He grins. “I liked it.”
“That gaudy horror? How could you?”
“Well . . .”
I feel him trace my body
With his eyes.
Panic
Numbs my fingertips.
Desire
Makes my face burn.
“Want to go somewhere else?”
I hear my voice say.
A short, cold motorcycle ride,
Up the dingy steps again,
Past the tie-dyed sofa,
To Rem’s bedroom,
Where I start the new year
Changed.
Afterwards
There is not much pain
But a surprising amount
Of blood.
The second of January
Is a Sunday.
I stay in bed pretending
I have nothing to hide.
At lunchtime Julio knocks,
Pokes a deck of cards
Through my cracked-open door.
The giggle in my throat
Surprises both of us.
Can I be hungry for something other than Rem?
The kitchen smells of refried beans,
And strangely delicious.
We gorge ourselves on laughter,
Scoring thousands of Rummy 500 points
Across the gold vinyl tablecloth
That always feels a little sticky
Despite Señor Medrano’s fastidious housekeeping.
The television shouts in Spanish,
Battling the ferocious hum of the teacher’s vacuum cleaner.
Señora has left again today.
I suspect that Señor is waiting for a phone call, too.
Can you still feel
Abandoned
After years of marriage, a child, artistic acclaim?
“Rummy!”
Julio jumps up.
Cards scatter.
I laugh again.
I can’t help myself,
Though it makes me ache.
At the studio on Monday,
I am early for class, as usual,
Thanks to Ruby Rappaport’s lack of regard
For speed limits.
I stand alone at the barre,
Work my feet
Through a series of slow tendus,
Try not to look in the mirror
For the girl
I can’t get back.
A shadow passes
Over my shoulder.
Rem’s hand is on the barre behind me.
I feel the breath of his words
Against my back
So I know he’s not looking
In the mirror
Either.
“I’m working on a new piece
After Variations tonight.
If you want to . . .”
I steal a peek
At his reflection
On the far wall.
Rem’s voice is casual but
His spine has an electric straightness that makes me dare
Regard my own silhouette as I say,
“Yes.”
Señor Medrano doesn’t mind
My change of schedule
As long as I can get another ride home
So he can get back to the dusting, the supper,
The world outside the dance studio
Where he seems almost joyful
To relinquish his teacher crown.
Other dancers sometimes stay later, too:
Vincent and Fernando,
Simone,
Company dancers working on projects
Of their own
While Remington makes dances
Then flies me
On the back of his motorcycle,
Pulls me
Up the three flights of stairs,
To the surreal world of the musty couch,
The orange chairs.
Señor doesn’t wait up,
Doesn’t comment
On the lateness of the hour
That Remington returns me.
Though often,
When I tiptoe up the stairs,
Light seeps through Julio’s cracked-open door.
In the morning, Julio doesn’t ask
With anything but his eyes.
Bess emails me a picture
Of her and Stephen
On a snowshoe date,
Grinning and rosy against powder-white drifts,
Bundles of coats, hats, boots.
“His brother drove the truck,”
She writes.
“We made out the whole way home.”
Rem laughs
When I show him, asks,
“Could he even find her
Under all those clothes?”
I giggle.
Roll against him.
There was no rehearsal tonight,
Just a made-up excuse
So Señor would leave me late
At the studio.
I like real rehearsal nights better.
Rem’s eyes turn luminous
When music and steps collide,
His grip velvet steel
When he leads dancers
Through his choreography.
And after, he is gentler,
Unwound.
When he doesn’t make dances
He is silly, but less tender.
Mumbles more often questions
I don’t want to hear or ask myself.
“What am I doing with you?”
I feel like a distraction
Between his sheets.
“Want some water?”
He sits up.
The blanket twists around me.
I shake my head, no,
Roll over,
Lift Bess’s picture
From the nightstand.
Smile back at the frosty faces.
City water gurgles from the kitchen sink.
A glass smacks against the tabletop.
I straighten the brown quilt, the beige sheet.
Wonder what I’d be doing
If I’d stayed home, in an orchard
Softly buried in Vermont snow.
At Upton I am asked to talk
To my classmates
About being a dancer.
“An opportunity for leadership,” says my adviser.
Though I think he just worries
I don’t have any real friends.
I sit in the Upton library
Rifling through index cards
On which I have written meaningless words
About discipline
Technique
Dedication
Strength
Resolve
Fiction
Not as powerful as Crime and Punishment
Nor as funny as Never Cry Wolf.
Dare I tell them that since I came here to dance
I have been giving pieces of my body away
To ridiculous diets,
To repeated injuries,
To Remington?
And that maybe
I think
With each bit of my body
I lose a little piece of my soul.
Instead I write a story
About the Sleeping Beauty variation.
How you have to understand
That the littlest développé of your foot
Contains the enormity
Of the most giant pirouette.
How in the small step,
The plié,
The beginning,
Is the climax,
The end.
I read it out loud
To a sea of blank faces.
They are thinking
Perhaps
How my thin, white neck pokes
From my dark red blazer.
My fingers slide up,
Crawl over
Pronounced tendons.
My voice fades away.
From the back of the room
My English teacher, Professor O’Malley,
Clears his throat.
“A little louder, please, Sara.”
He speaks in an Irish brogue,
Usually strong,
Though today his voice
Sounds nearly as strangled
As mine.
Still my name
Lilts off his tongue,
Draws my hand
Back down to the page.
I read on.
Despite how much I hate The Nutcracker,
January at the studio
Is all rambling melody
Without harmonic interruption—
Flat.
I am exhausted from December,
More exhausted from stolen hours
In Remington’s bed,
Where I am the princess of everything,
Also the palace slave.
At school we are reading
Paradise Lost,
Which is mostly amazingly dull
Even though it is about Adam and Eve
And all that trouble.
I understand that I have bitten
The forbidden fruit.
Still I cannot quite see
What the paradise was
Before.
Was it only the hope
Of being the chosen girl
Of being the great ballerina
Of being special?
Is paradise only
Possibility?
I write this question down
For Professor O’Malley.
(Not the part about my own sin,
But about paradise
Only being the hope
Of something else.)
It’s really just because
I cannot do the assignment—
Something about imagery
That leaves me cold.
Plus I haven’t finished reading
Milton’s endless poem
By the date
On the syllabus.
In the margin of my graded essay
Is a handwritten request
For me to come see him
During office hours,
Which means I’d miss my safe ride
With Ruby Rappaport,
So maybe another time.
Denardio’s is a crowd tonight.
Paul, Don, Galina,
Fernando,
Even Jane,
Who sits by Paul
Nursing a glass of white wine,
A soft smile behind her eyes
That once in a while
Takes in Remington
Even though, beneath the table,
He holds my hand.
Despite my efforts
To avoid her gaze,
I nearly walk straight into her
As I come out of a ladies’ room stall.
“Hey, Sara.”
Jane’s voice is steady, casual.
My mind scurries around corners
Of embarrassment, fear, guilt,
Then leaps to a self-righteous memory
Of Rem and Jane arguing on a Saturday morning—
To Remington assuring me that there’s no more romance
Between them.
I should at least say hi,
But my voice is stuck.
All I can do is run my fingers,
Slimy with industrial pink soap,
Under the cold water.
“It’s okay.” She runs a comb
Through her unruly curls,
Considers her reflection,
Adds lipstick.
In the sanitary stink
Of the pizza-place bathroom
My heart forgets to beat.
“You know, though, maybe you should be more careful
About Rem than you are about your shins.”
She snaps the lipstick tube shut,
Takes a compact from her purse,
Consults the mirror.
Without stopping to sort
The meaning of Jane’s words,
Just grateful for the turn of her back
That releases my frozen feet,
I tiptoe out
Through the narrow corridor
Into the comforting blare
Of Denardio’s
Where I can bury my thoughts
In the buzz, grease, heat,
The press of Remington’s thigh
Against mine.
Remington’s apartment is cold
But he says that I inspire him
When I lie naked
On his bed.
He is choreographing
A new dance,
Though I cannot see
Where my scant, white self
Is reflected in the driving leaps,
The syncopated footwork
Of his ballet.
He didn’t ask me
If I was having fun
Amidst the pitchers and pizzas tonight
While he grinned and laughed
In his easy way
Around the table.
I call him Rem
Because everyone else does.
In my head
He is always Remington.
Large, expansive, smiling,
Fine-haired
Fatherly
Kind
Cruel.
Dancing Aurora’s Variation,
The lovely princess steps of the Sleeping Beauty
Wake my mind from its stupor
Of confusion.
We are given rehearsal skirts
To get the feel of our legs
Peeking from below the frothy folds
Of tulle.
I love learning this dance.
My arabesques are growing stronger
But my arms are never quite right.
I twist my wrists too much,
Bend my elbows too little.
Sometimes I cannot time
The ethereal, swirling ports de bras
To match my legs’ sixteen soft développés.
Audition Page 10
