Last Dance

by Lurlene McDaniel

  “Because I don’t want to be around a bunch of sick people!” she shot back. “And stop telling me about the Great Shawn McLaughlin. I’m sick of hearing about him!”

  Her mother stiffened. “Suit yourself. But you’re making a silly mistake. Everyone needs help at one time or another. Now get dressed. The concert starts in an hour and we are all going. I won’t have your selfishness interfere with your sister’s big evening.” Then she left the room.

  The old Olympus Theater was beautiful. Rachel thought of it as being left over from another era. The building was adorned with graceful curves and decorative stonework. Inside was plush pile carpeting in deep ruby red, thickly padded theater seats, and an enormous red velvet curtain. Rachel thought it was absolutely beautiful. And that night it was crowded with more than three hundred people.

  Parents, families, and friends had come to watch Madame Pershoff’s best ballet students perform. The people laughed, talked, and chattered in the crowded lobby, and then proceeded down the aisles to their seats. Everyone was eager to see the talented young dancers perform.

  Rachel sat rigidly in her seat. She stared ahead at the huge curtain, hearing the sounds around her, yet knowing what it was like backstage. She imagined wild activity as dancers stretched, tied on pointe shoes, and preened in front of the makeup mirrors. And Madame would be hobbling around, tapping her silverheaded cane to the frantic pace. Rachel thought of the lovely costumes—with feathers, lace, sequins, and colors like a kaleidoscope. There would be last-minute problems to be fixed and tears of anticipation and stage fright. It was all happening back there—and Rachel sat out front. Cut off. Out of it. In another world. It was more than she could bear.

  Then she saw him. Brandon Mitchell. He was standing close to the aisle, about five rows in front of her. And her agony was complete. Naturally he was there to watch Melanie in her triumphant moment as the Dying Swan. I’m the one who’s dying, she thought. Melanie has it all—Brandon and the part.

  The concert was beautiful. The dancers were talented, and their performances were excellent. The music was intoxicating. Chris did her little part as well as could be expected, Rachel thought. But by the time the finale came, and with it, the Dying Swan solo, Rachel’s stomach was in knots.

  Melanie’s performance was flawless, so smooth and well done. Yet Rachel couldn’t help but think how she would have interpreted the role, how she would have moved to the soulful music. She would have danced it differently. When the curtain came down and the audience cheered, Rachel knew that she could have danced it better. That was something for her to hold onto.

  “Come on,” her mother urged. “We’re going backstage to get Chris.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Yes, you know what a madhouse it will be. I don’t want her getting lost in the shuffle.”

  So Rachel ended up backstage after all, amid the excited squeals and the shouts of “It’s over. . . and I didn’t throw up!” She heard the laughter and sighs of exhaustion and watched dancers scurrying everywhere. Parents with cameras followed after little girls, big girls, and boys in colorful costumes and stage makeup.

  “Here I am, Mom,” Chris called excitedly. “Did you see me? Did I do all right?”

  “Yes, you did, honey,” Mrs. Deering announced, giving Chris a big hug. “Didn’t you think so, Rachel?”

  “Oh, yes. Fine.” She could see Melanie standing in the center of a cluster of people. There were all congratulating her. Brandon smiled broadly. And Madame Pershoff nodded her approval. An unfamiliar man was standing at Madame’s side.

  “Rachel! Mrs. Deering!” Madame Pershoff’s voice cut through the backstage noises. Rachel wished she could hide. But it was too late. Madame and the tall gentleman came toward them. Rachel could tell by the way he carried himself that he was a dancer.

  “Rachel, I want you to meet Michael Tolavitch. We once danced together in Europe. Now Michael is with the New York City Ballet as an instructor and choreographer.”

  He was quite tall, with a mane of snowwhite hair. He had dark blue eyes and the unmistakable grace and form of a dancer’s discipline.

  “So pleased to meet you.” He nodded graciously while giving Rachel a penetrating look. “Tasha tells me that you’ve been ill, Rachel. A pity. She speaks highly of your talent. I wish I could have seen you dance tonight.”

  Rachel blushed. “Thank you.”

  He scrutinized her carefully. “Yes, I can tell that you must have great form on the dance floor. Your head—it sets well. Your carriage is very good. And your height! Perfect. You know, we like a girl in our company to be at last five-foot-six or seven. Perhaps you will grow even taller.”

  Rachel could hardly believe her ears. Praise for her from a man like this! If only she could have danced for him . . .

  “I will be returning in the late spring, Rachel. Perhaps you will be well enough to dance for me then?” He smiled.

  “Maybe,” she said and nodded.

  Then he turned and walked away. But Madame lingered. She clasped Rachel’s hands and said, “I knew he would like you. He has an instinct for talent. Rachel, he will be returning in May for the southeast regional auditions. I know they have several scholarships available for promising young ballerinas. And I would like so much to take you and Melanie and Patricia to the auditions. But you must get back into classes as soon as possible if you’re to be ready for them. Think of it! A full scholarship to study all summer with the School of American Ballet of the New York City Ballet! Isn’t it worth the work?”

  Rachel was speechless, her head spinning with the excitement of the suggestion. “Once you told me,” continued Madame Pershoff, “that you wanted to be a ballerina— ‘more than anything!’ Is that still the truth?”

  She had so much to think about. Rachel sat in her living room and watched the Christmas tree lights twinkle and glow. A dance scholarship! It was every dancer’s dream. There was a time when she’d have moved heaven and earth to go to the regional auditions for a company like the New York City Ballet.

  But now? Now she had diabetes. Now she was afraid. Why did this have to happen to me? she thought with disgust. If only I was well again. If only there were no more shots and special diets and testing. And no more insulin reactions.

  “What are you doing in the dark?” Her sister padded across the carpet and sat down on the floor in front of her.

  “Wishing my fairy godmother would come along,” Rachel said. Then she added, “I’d really like to be alone.”

  Chris ignored her request. “Wasn’t tonight exciting, Rachel? I mean, to be asked by someone like Mr. Tolavitch to come to regional auditions. I hope I get asked someday.”

  “Sure. It was great.”

  “Aren’t you going to do it?” Chris asked, wide-eyed.

  “I’m not sure. I mean this diabetes thing—”

  “Oh, good grief! People get diabetes every day.”

  “What do you know about it, smarty?” Rachel was angry.

  “I know that you haven’t been fit to live with since you came home from the hospital.”

  “Well, it didn’t happen to you—”

  “So what? I’m sorry you have to get shots every day and I don’t. Does that make you feel better?”

  “Oh, just shut up and go away.” Tears sprang to Rachel’s eyes.

  “You bet I’ll go away.” Chris stood up. She was starting to cry, too. “But you want to know something? You’re nothing but a big fat coward! You’re just a quitter! You hear? A quitter!” And she ran from the room.

  Rachel sat for a long time, watching the Christmas tree lights through her tears.

  -EIGHT-

  The Saturday after Christmas, Rachel was showing Jenny her presents when Shawn called. He told Rachel he had a soccer game later that day.

  “So I just wondered if you’d like to come along to the game and watch me play,” he asked.

  Rachel turned to Jenny and whispered what he’d said.

  “Go on!” Jenny m
outhed.

  “I don’t know, Shawn—”

  “Then after the game we’ll stop by McDonald’s and have some lunch. My treat,” he added, laughing. Jenny made a big face at her and dropped to the floor in a pretend faint.

  “Okay, Shawn. What time?”

  “Let’s see . . . it’s nine o’clock now and the game’s at eleven. How about my dad and I pick you up about ten?”

  “Sure. That will be fine. See you then.” Rachel turned off the phone and said, “All right, Jen, you can cut it out. I’m going.”

  “I should hope so!” Jenny exclaimed. “I watched him at the game at school. He’s a terrific player. Cute, too.”

  Rachel went into the kitchen to tell her mother, who nodded her surprised approval, and then went to her bedroom to get dressed. Jenny picked up the new Christmas skates she’d been showing Rachel and followed along.

  “So, what do you wear to a soccer game?”

  “Jeans,” Jenny answered. “And it’s kind of cool today. How about that baby-pink sweater of yours?”

  Rachel pulled it out of her closet and put it on. She brushed her shiny brown hair and slipped a pink headband on to keep it out of her eyes. She put some blush on her cheeks, added some lip gloss, and looked at herself approvingly in the mirror.

  “You look terrific,” Jenny confirmed.

  In spite of the way she felt about Shawn sometimes, Rachel was really pretty excited. It was a date. And the first real date she’d ever had. She’d always been too occupied with ballet and school to think much about dating anyway. Except for dreaming about Brandon Mitchell.

  Funny, with the dance concert and Christmas vacation and everything, she hadn’t thought about him once—until now. “Maybe I’d better eat a snack before I go,” Rachel told Jenny. She didn’t want to have a reaction today. “How long does a soccer game last anyway?”

  They rode to the field quietly in the back seat of the car. Mr. McLaughlin didn’t seem to notice they were back there, but Rachel felt self-conscious.

  “The game’ll last about an hour if there’s no overtime. Then we’ll hit McDonald’s. I’m glad you decided to come,” Shawn said.

  She looked up at him shyly. He looked really cute. His uniform was a long-sleeved yellow jersey with a bold black stripe over one shoulder. The shorts, socks, and soccer shoes were black. He also wore black wristbands.

  At the field, Rachel climbed up on the bleachers along with a small number of spectators. Even though the sun was shining, it was a colder-than-normal December day in Miami.

  She watched the team do stretching exercises and noticed that many were the same kind of exercises that dancers did! She watched the boys kick the ball into the goal net. Shawn seemed very good. He slipped the ball past the goalie every time. By the time the whistle blew for the game to start, Rachel was impressed with Shawn’s skills.

  She became even more impressed as the game went on. Several times Shawn got the ball and raced up the side of the field, dribbling it all the way. He dodged his opponents artfully, sometimes passing the ball to a teammate, sometimes shooting the ball at the goal. Late in the first half, he scored. The people watching cheered. And so did Rachel. Suddenly she felt very proud to be the date of an athlete like Shawn.

  And she noticed something else, too. The game of soccer was strenuous. Almost a full hour of non-stop running. No time-outs, except for injuries. And Shawn played every minute of the game. He ran as much as any of them. And he never once had an insulin reaction. By the time the game was over and Shawn’s team had won it 3–0, Rachel was very curious and very excited.

  “I’ll have a double cheeseburger, a vanilla shake, and French fries,” Shawn told the girl behind the service counter.

  “I’ll have the same,” Rachel said.

  “Hey,” Shawn said, “I’m the one who played a soccer game. You’d better have a Diet Coke.”

  Rachel’s cheeks burned. She’d forgotten. How rude of him to remind her in front of everybody.

  They sat down and she stared out the window. “Mad at me?” he asked, unwrapping his burger.

  “Of course not.”

  “Yeah, you are,” he stated. “I know it’s a drag having diabetes sometimes. I don’t eat this way often. But I really poured it out in the game today. Dr. Malar doesn’t see anything wrong with eating like this every once in a while.”

  She smiled at him and began to eat her lunch. “You know so much more about it than I do,” she said, half to herself.

  “I’ve had it longer.”

  “You know,” she began haltingly, “you exercise hard in a game, but you don’t seem to be afraid. I mean, don’t you ever have insulin reactions?”

  “Nope,” he said flatly.

  Rachel looked surprised.

  “That’s because I plan for it. When I know I’ve got a game or even practice, I eat extra carbohydrates. And I always have Gatorade at the field.”

  She looked at him skeptically. It seemed too simple.

  “Rachel, I decided a long time ago that I was going to control my diabetes—it wasn’t going to control me. Sure, it’s a hassle—the shots, the diet. But I won’t let it tell me what I can and can’t do.”

  “And you think I let it control me?” she asked defensively.

  “Are you still taking dance classes?”

  “I’m going to start back right after Christmas break. When school starts again.”

  “Are you?” His look was penetrating and made her uncomfortable.

  “Yes, I am!”

  “Why don’t you come to a diabetes meeting with me?” he asked, changing the subject. “You’ll meet some great kids. Honest. We all have diabetes. We all have played little games with ourselves. Like juggling insulin so we can pig out on pizza. Skipping shots if it’s not convenient to give them. Being scared a reaction will hit at the wrong time and place.”

  Her eyes met his squarely. He knew! He knew her greatest fear. And he wasn’t laughing at her about it. He really did understand. A flood of relief swept over her.

  “I–I don’t know. . .”

  “Come on.” His hand touched hers. “We’re getting together tomorrow afternoon at the bowling alley. It’ll be fun. Then we’ll all be going back to Molly Levine’s house for pizza.” Shawn leaned closer, his eyes twinkling. “And the proper assortment of fresh fruit on every diabetic’s diet.”

  She laughed out loud. “Okay. I’ll come. What time are you going to the bowling alley?”

  “I’ll pick you up at three o’clock—just in case you try and change your mind.”

  He might have been a whiz in soccer cleats, but in bowling shoes, Shawn was a real klutz. Rachel laughed so hard watching him that she got the hiccups. But he had been right about one thing—she was having fun.

  The kids in the group were between twelve and sixteen years old. They were just plain, normal kids who all had one thing in common—diabetes. Some were outgoing while others were on the shy side, but they talked and acted just like all the other kids Rachel knew.

  She liked the adults who came along, the Levines, the McLaughlins, and Mrs. Swartz. Everybody bowled at least one game, and Rachel was glad that she didn’t look too stupid.

  But Shawn—he was a different story. He just couldn’t get the hang of it. It didn’t take her long to realize that he was the most popular one of the group, and that more than one girl was looking at her with real envy. She was very glad she had come.

  Back at the Levines’ home, they all sat around and ate and talked and shared their problems.

  “Just once, I’d like to gorge on a hot fudge sundae—and not feel guilty,” said a girl named Lori.

  “Guilt didn’t stop you from pigging out, though,” someone teased.

  “Diabetics cannot live on fruit alone!” she joked back. Everybody laughed.

  “And I hate these gross lumps under my skin from giving myself shots all these years,” said another girl.

  Rachel looked at her, surprised.

  “It�
�s atrophy,” Shawn explained in her ear. “Fatty layers start building up under your muscles after a while.”

  “Great,” she said.

  “And if my kid brother doesn’t stop hiding Twinkies in our bedroom, I’ll scream,” said another.

  “Aren’t non-diabetic brothers and sisters the worst?”

  And on and on it went. Rachel heard more about living with diabetes that afternoon than she had in the entire time she’d had the disease. It was good to have it out in the open, to talk about it and hear other kids’ fears and problems. She was glad she’d come. Rachel was very glad Shawn hadn’t given up on her.

  She watched him out of the corner of her eye. He was not only cute, but he was smart and funny and very, very nice. She felt ashamed of the way she’d treated him before. Rachel knew that she wanted to see a lot more of him.

  Rachel climbed the familiar stairs and peered inside the huge rehearsal studio. Afternoon sunlight streamed in from the high, overhead windows and bounced off the banks of mirrors.

  “One and two . . . yes, yes, dancers. Lead with your heels.” Madame Pershoff gave instructions from her straight-backed chair while Miss Lucy played the piano. “Now, glissade devant and pas de chat . . . again! Good!”

  Rachel paused and watched the class work out. She was ready. More than anything, she wanted to get back to work.

  “So you are ready to dance again?” Madame asked her after the class had left.

  “Yes,” Rachel said. “I want to be ready for those southeast regional auditions for the New York City Ballet.”

  Madame gazed at her hard. “You have been out a long time, Rachel. Almost three months. It will be very hard to get back into shape. Are you willing to work harder than ever before in your life?”

  “Yes, I am.” And she meant it.

  “Good,” Madame said and nodded, “because I want to take you to those auditions. I think you can be a very fine dancer.”