Last Dance

by Lurlene McDaniel

  Naturally, Ben was talking with Jenny, so her friend never even heard the question. Still, Rachel had to smile at the thought of Jenny’s most recent imitation of Mrs. Brady giving fire drill instructions.

  Suddenly she heard the unmistakable voice of Brandon Mitchell. She looked up to meet his brown eyes squarely. She felt herself blushing and looked back down quickly. Oh, no, she thought. He saw me staring at him! But if he did, he didn’t show it. Instead he walked directly over to Melanie, who was nibbling on her lunch and reading a book.

  Rachel watched them. They looked good together. Pretty Melanie, smiling up at Brandon. Brandon sat down across from Melanie and leaned over to whisper something to her. She laughed out loud. Then Rachel could swear that they both looked over at her. She blushed again.

  That did it! They were talking about her for sure. She stood up quickly and yanked her lunch tray up. But when she spun toward the dirty tray window, the tray slipped from her hands.

  CRASH! The noise echoed throughout the cafeteria. And all life stopped. Every eye in the entire cafeteria turned to stare at Rachel. She wished she could die. Brandon and Melanie. Jenny and Ben. It seemed that every person in the whole school was staring at her. Rachel fled, tears welling up in her eyes.

  She stopped in the bathroom and splashed cold water on her burning face. She tried to get a grip on her nerves. What was wrong with her? People dropped lunch trays every day. She gathered her courage and headed for Mr. Levenson’s science class?

  Rachel stood at the barre, deep in concentration. Plié. . . first, second, and fifth positions. Battements tendus . . . battements déga-gés . . . ronds de jambe en l’air . . . over and over Rachel performed the familiar exercises. Then she moved into center floor practice. The same movements, this time without the barre, over and over.

  She tried to keep her mind blank. Form, position, extension, stretch. Try not to think about the day. Keep time with the music. Up and stretch. In spite of the way she felt physically, Rachel knew that her barre exercises were flawless. The open admiration in the eyes of the younger girls told her so, too. She finished her class, changed, and gathered up her things. She headed for the door.

  “Rachel!” her smug, good feelings were chased away by the sound of Madame Pershoff’s voice. Rachel froze.

  “Y–yes?” she stammered, catching her breath.

  The frail woman leaned heavily on her silver-headed cane. “I wish to speak with you.”

  Silently Rachel followed her into her cramped office. The walls were filled with photos of a young, smiling ballerina in various classical dance poses. There were many other photos of familiar ballet stars, signed: “To Tasha . . .” “Best Wishes . . .” “Good Luck . . .” Rachel had often wondered what terrible accident had halted Tasha Pershoff’s soaring career and how she had come to settle here in Miami.

  Madame sat down in her swivel desk chair and motioned Rachel toward the old sofa. “I watched your barre work today,” she began. Rachel stiffened. “It is very good.” Rachel almost sighed. “But, I wonder. . . how is it that you feel?”

  “What?” Rachel tried to sort out the woman’s words. “Oh, I’m okay. I’ve been tired lately. Ever since I had the flu. But I’m better today.”

  “This concert,” Madame continued. “I expect good things from you. I will have a friend there. He is most important for a dancer’s career. Of all my students, you and Melanie show the most promise. You do want a future in ballet, yes?”

  “Oh, yes!” Rachel cried. “More than anything! Dancing is my whole life.”

  “Oh, no, my dear,” the silver-haired woman said. “You do not know yet what dedication is. But you will. You will. Now, no more today. You come to tomorrow’s class prepared to work. Because there is much preparation before the tryouts. I need you here every day, working very hard.”

  After Rachel left the office, she was puzzled. Why had Madame Pershoff given her the pep talk anyway? Maybe there was a lot more going on than just the annual Christmas concert. Who was this friend of hers? Had she said the same things to Melanie? Was she trying to keep them competitive? No, for some reason, this upcoming showcase was very special to Madame Pershoff. Very special indeed.

  “I’m telling you it’s impossible!” Jenny wailed into Rachel’s ear through the phone receiver. “I’m too young to spend the rest of my life chained to a history book. I mean, who cares what the Romans did? Doesn’t Mrs. Matthews know that there’s more to life than who-ruled-Rome-when?”

  Rachel half-heard her through her haze. She was so tired. Much too tired to listen to Jenny prattle on. But it was only eight-thirty, and Rachel really didn’t want to go to bed yet. Besides, she hadn’t finished her homework.

  “Uh, Jen, I’ve got to go. Chris is begging for the phone. And you know how that goes.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure. See you in homeroom.”

  Rachel felt a little guilty about her white lie. She went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. She felt flushed, and her complexion looked a little pink in the mirror. Oh, I can’t get sick, she thought. I just have to make dance class from now on.

  “Are you in the bathroom again?” Chris’s voice cut through her thoughts.

  “Oh, go away!”

  “Well, every time I go by the door, you’re in there.”

  “So what? You got the toilet paper concession?” Rachel shot back at her.

  “Mom!” Chris shouted. “Rachel’s talking mean to me.”

  Mrs. Deering materialized from out of nowhere. “Now what?”

  Suddenly, Rachel felt too tired even to argue. “It’s nothing. I think I’ll go to bed early tonight.”

  “Honey, are you feeling all right?”

  “Good grief, yes,” Rachel snapped. “Can’t I just go to bed early if I want?”

  “Rachel, let’s go into your room. I want to talk to you a minute,” her mother said.

  Rachel tossed herself across her bed and braced for her mother’s lecture. Mrs. Deering closed the door behind her and stared at her daughter.

  “Rachel . . . ,” she started. “Honey, Dad and I are concerned about you.”

  “What for?”

  “You just look so tired lately. And you’ve been drinking so much . . . and the bathroom routine—”

  “Oh, Mother.”

  “I mean it, Rachel. We think you may be pushing yourself too hard. After all, eighth grade is a big adjustment in itself without all the dance classes.”

  “Well, I won’t stop dancing!” she cried defensively.

  “No one is asking you to stop,” her mother said soothingly. “But your father and I both want you to go by Dr. Stein’s office tomorrow right after school. You can still make ballet class,” she finished quickly.

  “Dr. Stein! The baby doctor?”

  “Rachel, he’s a pediatrician. You’ve been seeing him for years.”

  “But that’s when I’ve needed shots or something. I don’t want to go to a baby doctor. Especially when I’m perfectly fine.”

  “No, Rachel, there will be no arguing about this. I’ve already made the appointment. I’ll pick you up at two-thirty and drop you off at his office. Then I have to take Chris down to the dance store for new ballet shoes. If you finish early, you can catch the number six bus to ballet class. I won’t embarrass you by sitting in his office with you. I’ve already told him some of your symptoms, and Dr. Stein wants to see you. He’ll probably do some tests, and you’ll be out in no time. He’ll phone if there’s anything wrong.”

  Rachel knew by the finality in her mother’s voice that there was no use fighting about it. She would have to see Dr. Stein. After her mother left the room, Rachel felt like crying.

  Why did they treat her like a baby? Madame Pershoff considered her a top ballet student, accomplished enough to perform in an important concert for “an important friend.” But her own parents still thought of her as a little kid.

  “I can’t wait ’til I’m grown up!” she said aloud. “I’ll have my own
apartment with no one telling me what to do.”

  She went to the bathroom one more time and then returned to her soft bed, where she fell into a fitful sleep.

  -THREE-

  “You smell funny.” Chris wrinkled her nose in Rachel’s direction at the breakfast table. “Thanks a lot,” Rachel countered dully. She felt so tired. Too tired to argue even.

  “Did you put on fingernail polish in the middle of the night? I’ll bet you did!” Chris added.

  Rachel held up her unpainted nails and dangled them under Chris’s nose. “See, smarty. No polish.”

  Chris sat back and gobbled down her cereal. Rachel felt sick to her stomach. She couldn’t face her breakfast, so she drank her juice and gathered up her books. “Bye, Mom . . . Dad. I’m headed for the bus stop.”

  “Just a minute,” her mother called and followed her to the front door. “Now, don’t forget. I’ll pick you up at two-thirty sharp by the front entrance. Then I’ll drop you off at Dr. Stein’s.”

  “I’ll be waiting,” Rachel said crossly.

  She walked the two blocks to her bus stop. It was a beautiful October day, and the air smelled pure and fresh. Two months until Christmas. It didn’t seem possible. Only two months to practice until the concert.

  I’m going to have to feel a lot better soon, when I get that part instead of Melanie, she told herself. Madame Pershoff didn’t play favorites. The best talent always got the role. Sometimes Rachel won them . . . sometimes Melanie. But this was one part Rachel intended to have.

  Frankly, she was glad in a way that she was going to the doctor’s. Even if it was Dr. Stein. She really had been feeling rotten lately. She’d noticed that morning that she’d lost four pounds since last week. And she’d been eating like a horse, too.

  Why, when she’d put on her top that morning, she could count most of her ribs! And the dark circles under her eyes—she had cheated. She’d put on some of her stage makeup to cover them up. She’d known that her parents would never have let her go to school if they had seen how bad she looked.

  “Hi. Knew that was you coming,” Jenny called. “You always walk so straight. Honestly, I look like I have curvature of the spine next to you. What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, nothing. I don’t feel so hot today.”

  “You don’t look so hot either. Maybe you should go back home. Wish I could. Talked to Ben half the night instead of studying. Sure hope I don’t have any pop quizzes today. At the rate I’m going, I’ll be repeating eighth grade for sure.”

  Rachel listened to Jenny go on and on. But she didn’t feel much like talking back. She hoped she’d feel better by ballet class.

  The day dragged on and on. Rachel’s thirst was unquenchable. She drank water before class and after, but her thirst was so intense that it hurt. And the bathroom visits were even more urgent than before. And she felt like she was going to be sick. By lunchtime Rachel was afraid she wouldn’t make it through the day.

  She was climbing the stairs to her one o’clock class when she got so woozy that she staggered. Strong hands grabbed her from the back.

  “You all right?”

  Rachel turned and looked into the brown eyes of Brandon Mitchell. He held her arm and steadied her against the wall.

  “I–I think so,” she mumbled.

  “I think you should go to the clinic,” he said and helped her walk toward the office.

  She felt too weak to protest. And Brandon’s guiding hands felt so strong. She didn’t even feel embarrassed. It was nice to have him help her. Deep inside she wished Melanie could see her now.

  The nurse took over from Brandon in the clinic. She made Rachel lie down. Rachel heard the tardy bell ring, but she couldn’t have cared less. “I can call your mother,” the nurse offered.

  “No, that’s okay. She’s picking me up at two-thirty anyway. Maybe if I just lie here for a while . . .”

  “Fine. Let me know if you need anything.”

  By two-thirty, Rachel did feel better, a little stronger and more rested. She took a long drink, thanked the nurse, and headed toward the entrance to meet her mother.

  The halls were teeming with kids, and Rachel thought she saw Brandon. She wanted to thank him, but suddenly she felt very shy. He’d helped her. Put his arm around her! She couldn’t wait to tell Jen. Well, maybe she wouldn’t. Jen was used to having a boy put his arm around her. It would be no big deal to her.

  “Rachel!” Her mother called from the car. Rachel forced a smile on her face as she got inside, and they rode in silence to the doctor’s office.

  “Now, here are your leotard, tights, and ballet shoes,” her mother said as Rachel got out at Dr. Stein’s office. “If I’m not back when you’re ready to go to class, just catch the bus. Do you have the fare?”

  “Yes, Mother,” Rachel sighed. And then, dreading every minute of it, she went into the air-conditioned building.

  Babies! Crying, gurgling, climbing . . . the office was full of babies and toddlers.

  “Anthony! Stop that!” an impatient women called to a little boy who was teasing his sister.

  The racket made Rachel’s head hurt all the more. She couldn’t wait until this was over. She signed in at the nurse’s window.

  “Well, hi, Rachel,” said Miss Wimberly with a smile. “Look, it’s going to be a while. As you can see, we’re knee-deep in business. Why don’t you wait in the older children’s waiting room?” She motioned toward another door.

  “Wait!” Rachel exclaimed. “I have ballet class. I can’t wait long.”

  “Oh, it won’t be that long. And I know Dr. Stein wants to see you. How about giving us a urine sample before you sit down?”

  After Rachel turned in her sample, she took a seat in the waiting room for older kids. It wasn’t half as full. But after twenty minutes she began to fidget. What was taking so long?

  She was starting to feel a little sick to her stomach again. But she had to make ballet class. Madame Pershoff was expecting her. She just had to practice for that part.

  She watched the clock. It was 3:15. The bus came at 3:20. It was a thirty-minute ride from Dr. Stein’s office to the studio.

  If I leave right now, I can make class on time, she told herself. Sure, her parents would be mad, but it wasn’t her fault that Dr. Stein was so busy. Besides, if she told the nurse she was leaving, they’d only try to talk her into staying. No, she decided. I can come back tomorrow. I’m sure I’ll live another day.

  The bus was early and made good time. She had a full fifteen minutes to dress for class at the studio. It was just as well, too. She was feeling awfully weak.

  “You don’t look like you’re sick.” The voice was Melanie’s. Rachel looked up from her struggle with her pink tights into Melanie’s cool, blue eyes.

  “I feel fine now,” Rachel lied.

  “Yes, Brandon told me he had to help you to the clinic. That you almost passed out in the hall.”

  Rachel hated the accusing sound in Melanie’s voice. As if she’d been faking it! As if she’d thrown herself at Brandon instead of almost fainting! Suddenly she hated Melanie Hallick. She turned back to pulling on her tights and hurriedly put on her leotard and ballet shoes. She went out into the studio determined to do her very best. She was going to get that part if it killed her! She’d show Melanie a thing or two.

  Rachel took her place at the barre. She began stretching exercises and felt a wave of dizziness come over her. She gripped the barre for support and cautiously looked around. Good. No one had noticed. But her legs felt kind of rubbery, and she took deep breaths, trying to regain her composure.

  Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes. Why was this happening to her? All she wanted to do was feel good and dance her very best. All she had ever wanted to be was a ballerina. And now, at thirteen, she was close to obtaining her goal. By fifteen, she could be in a ballet corps with a famous company like the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo or the New York City Ballet. They were always looking for young, promising dancers.


  And by seventeen, she might even be dancing solo parts. If she was good enough, she might even get a dance scholarship to an important ballet school. True, Madame Pershoff was good, but Rachel knew that someday she would have to move on if she wanted to become a ballerina. And she had to keep working at her goal!

  Rachel gritted her teeth and concentrated on her barre work. Relevé . . . plié . . . again . . . stretch . . . bend . . . again. In the mirror, she saw Melanie take her place at the barre. She heard other girls go past her to take their positions. She saw everything as if it were moving in slow motion.

  The floor—why was it tilting? That’s strange, she thought, the barre is wrinkled. Pinpoints of light burst behind her eyes, and she felt herself sinking to the floor. But she had no control over her own body.

  Vaguely she could hear people yelling . . . voices calling her name, “Rachel . . . Rachel!” Over and over. Hands touching her. Blackness engulfing her. Always the voices. And from somewhere, the sound of running feet.

  A siren wailed. Strong hands lifted her onto something that rolled. A man’s fingers forced open her eyelids. A bright light pierced her vision. A tight squeezing on her arm. And voices. She had to get up. No, she couldn’t. She was being lifted into the back of a...car?

  A truck . . . an ambulance? “Why?” she asked. “Sh–h–h,” voices said.

  They were pushing her down a hall. Lights zoomed by overhead. A large room. More faces. Men and women in white coats and . . . doctors? Nurses? “I want my mother.”

  “BP. . . temp . . . pulse.”

  “She’s dehydrated. Get the IVs hooked up.”

  “Smell that acetone?”

  More voices. “Lab? Blood stat. Give me those numbers.”

  Pricks on her arm . . . so tired . . . pricks on the backs of her hands. Metal clanking. There was a long tube and a plastic bag hanging by her head.

  She could smell alcohol. “ICU...Get her on monitors. BP every thirty. . .”

  “I’m cold.” She was falling. She was fighting not to sleep. The sounds were fading. The voices were far away. Everything was swimming into blackness . . . then there was nothing.