Last Dance

by Lurlene McDaniel

  “Why did you do that?” she asked softly.

  “How could I kiss you goodnight with all that light shining in my eyes?” he answered.

  Then, very gently, Shawn pressed his lips against hers. They were very warm and very soft . . .

  Rachel lay in bed awake. She watched the moonlight pour in through her half-raised blinds. She could still hear the music from the dance in her head. She could still feel Shawn’s arms around her. This was the greatest night in my life! she thought happily.

  She wished she could store this night away forever. What would become of her and Shawn? And all her plans to become a ballerina? She still wanted that. But she wanted to be with him, too.

  Well, in three months she would compete in the auditions. Maybe she’d even win a scholarship to the School of American Ballet. It was all still very important to her. But she also knew that if she didn’t win a scholarship this time, she would live through it. And she’d try again. All because of Shawn.

  He’d made her realize that life was beautiful. And that even having diabetes wasn’t going to stop her. Nothing could keep her from fulfilling her dreams.

  -ELEVEN-

  The lobby was a whirlwind of activity. Over 200 nervous would-be ballerinas paced, sat, stood, and lounged against the walls of the North Miami Dance Studio. Rachel could hardly believe her eyes.

  Where had so many dancers come from? “As far away as Atlanta,” Madame Pershoff had warned them in the car during the long ride over. “The competition will be very stiff.”

  Rachel believed her. Every dancer who had ever dreamed of a career in ballet wanted a scholarship to a leading ballet school. And the School of American Ballet of the New York City Ballet was one of the best.

  Rachel was nervous. She and Pat and Melanie had ridden over with Madame in subdued silence. It had been raining. And now, amid all this confusion, Rachel’s months and months of work might pay off for her.

  She finished filling out the card the staff had given her. “Let’s see,” she said, reading it over quietly to herself. “Name, address, age, years in training, instructor, weight, height . . .” Yes, it all seemed to be there. She handed in the card and a woman handed her a number. 78. They would call 35 girls at a time. So that meant she’d be in the third group to go into the studio for the audition.

  Darn! She had to go to the bathroom! Whenever she was nervous, her blood sugar got higher. And higher blood sugar meant more trips to the bathroom. Well, Rachel thought, I’ve had my extra shot and my extra snack. I know I can make it through my audition without any problems. She didn’t want the judges to know about her diabetes. Not yet anyway. If she got a scholarship, then they could know. But she didn’t want anything to count against her.

  “You can do it.” That’s what Shawn had told her last night on the phone. She felt that she really could—then. But now, with all these girls trying for such a small number of scholarships . . .

  “Ladies! Please. Numbers 71 through 106,” a petite woman announced from the studio doors. Rachel caught her breath and glanced anxiously at Madame Pershoff. The white-haired woman nodded and smiled at her. Rachel took a deep breath and filed into the large studio. “Here goes my future,” she whispered.

  She stood there looking like a goddess. Rachel could hardly take her eyes off her. The chief judge for the auditions was one of the foremost ballerinas of the New York City Ballet. From the corner of her eye, Rachel could also see Michael Tolavitch, Madame Pershoff’s friend from the Christmas concert.

  The suspense was agonizing. All the contestants stood lined up at the barre while the judges stared at them. Rachel knew they were each being appraised and evaluated on body type. Some of the girls wouldn’t make it past the test alone. They just wouldn’t have the right look—the right shape or posture. And even so much as one extra ounce of fat meant instant dismissal.

  Rachel stood very still. Her head was erect. Her back was straight. Her arms hung gracefully at her sides. Why is she staring at me so hard? Rachel felt the judge’s eyes going over and over her. Oh, please, God, don’t let me lose it like this, she prayed silently. The judge jotted notes on Rachel’s card and then surveyed her again.

  “Very well,” the judge announced suddenly, “79, 90, 84, and 101—you may be excused.”

  Number 90 burst into tears and fled the room. Rachel felt very sorry for her. But she breathed a deep sigh, grateful that she was allowed to progress to the barre work.

  The piano music began and the judge called out various steps and directions. “Fifth position! And battement battu . . . and battemont fondu . . .” Rachel moved through the familiar steps with ease. How exciting! She was sure of herself now, so she danced in total confidence.

  Again, the judge stared at her. Again, she marked the card. Muscle control . . . placement . . . turnout—Rachel knew that this was what she was being judged on. Mr. Tolavitch stopped in front of her. He appraised Rachel carefully. Then he stepped over to the judge and said something.

  I hope it’s not a dismissal, Rachel thought. But her fear never showed in her dancing. She followed each direction carefully.

  “Number 72, 75, 86 . . .” When she had finished, 12 more girls had been dismissed. Rachel surveyed the remaining dancers. Only 11 of them left. At least I’m one of them, she thought.

  “Please move to the center floor,” the judge directed. The girls obeyed quickly. “We will do half of center work in soft shoes, then we will switch to pointe,” she announced.

  The piano began and so did the exercises. Rachel knew that this was the place that her muscle control would really count. She was glad she’d always been a strong person. A flash of memory brought Shawn to her mind. He’s strong, too. A diabetic soccer player. A diabetic ballerina. They could both beat their disease.

  The small group advanced onto pointe. Rachel tied the new ribbons on her pointe shoes and went through the combinations. They keep staring at me, she thought. But she refused to let it upset her and throw off her performance. I’m still in the running, she told herself as she and the other girls danced across the floor.

  “Thank you, ladies!” the judge announced.

  It was over! Rachel breathed a sigh of relief.

  “In about three or four weeks each of you will be notified by letter whether you have been awarded a full or partial scholarship, or you will be encouraged to try again. Your instructor and studio will also be notified of our decision. We would like to thank all for you for coming to today’s auditions.”

  Rachel had been the last of Madame’s students to audition. They all rode back home together in silence. Pat was red-eyed. She had been dismissed from her group after the barre work. So it came down to Rachel and Melanie. Again. It was possible that both of them could be offered scholarships—but unlikely. Or perhaps neither would win one.

  Rachel glanced over at Melanie. Cool, calm, aloof. As if she’d just sat through a not too interesting movie. Ho-hum. Well, I remember when she wasn’t quite so composed, Rachel thought sourly. That night Brandon made a fool out of her. Immediately Rachel felt ashamed of herself.

  Nothing was ever going to change Melanie. And that was too bad from Rachel’s viewpoint. Because being “perfect” all your life would be a very boring thing to be.

  The first person she called about the auditions was Shawn.

  “Well, I didn’t get kicked off the floor!” she told him jokingly.

  “Hey! They know talent when they see it,” he reminded her. “When will you know something?”

  “About a month. I don’t think I can stand it.”

  “What if you win?”

  “I’d go to New York for six weeks and take classes at the School of American Ballet with the New York City Ballet Company. And when you take classes there, you have a chance to be seen by some of the best Ballet Masters in the world!”

  “I guess that would be like me studying with David Beckham,” he said. “He’s a great soccer star.”

  “Oh, who knows? We may bo
th be famous yet.”

  The next person she called was Jenny, who talked nonstop until Rachel thought her ear would fall off.

  “New York! Oh, I bet you get it, Rachel. I know you’re the best there is.”

  “Thanks. But I was one of 200 trying out. Besides, even if I don’t win this time, I’ll go back next year.”

  That night at the dinner table, Rachel recounted every detail to her family. Even Chris listened, enthralled. Her parents didn’t say too much. Just, “That’s nice, dear.” That was strange. She would have thought they’d have been more enthusiastic. After all, they’d wanted her to go back to dancing. Now they acted like they didn’t care one way or the other if she got a scholarship. Parents were strange people sometimes!

  The first two weeks dragged by. Rachel raced home from ballet every day and checked the mail. No letter from the School of American Ballet. The story was the same the third week. By the start of the fourth week, she was depressed about it.

  “Maybe it got lost in the mail,” Chris suggested. But Rachel didn’t think so. Shawn encouraged her every night on the phone. Madame Pershoff said nothing to her about it during classes. Wasn’t she ever going to hear from them?

  School began to wind down. Exams began. In only two more weeks, school would be out for the summer. Even though Rachel was making all A’s and B’s again, she didn’t feel satisfied. “I can’t stand this waiting!” she told Shawn angrily one night on the phone. “I think a rejection would be better than waiting like this.”

  “No it wouldn’t,” he said. And she knew he was right. So the days dragged by. School, dance class, a soccer match with Shawn . . . but no letter.

  Rachel avoided both Melanie and Brandon like the plague. Besides, things were considerably cooler between Brandon and Melanie anyway. Brandon had developed a sudden interest in pretty Gail Lawler and pointedly ignored Melanie at school. Naturally Melanie acted like it didn’t matter one bit to her. But sometimes Rachel caught her staring at him across the cafeteria. I’ll bet she’s dying inside, Rachel often thought to herself.

  Rachel shut her history book and flipped off her stereo. “There!” she said. “If I don’t know it now, I never will.” She heard the phone ringing. Her mother called, “Rachel! It’s for you!”

  “All right!” she called back.

  “It’s Madame Pershoff,” Mrs. Deering said, handing Rachel the receiver. Rachel’s heart began to pound.

  “Y–yes?”

  “I just got to my mail,” the accented voice explained. “I got a letter today from the School of American Ballet.” She paused and Rachel could hear her own breath.

  “They only awarded five scholarships this time. Two full ones and three partials. I am very proud that one of the full scholarships went to one of my girls.”

  Sweat poured off Rachel’s hands. The phone receiver was damp and slippery. “Melanie?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Why no, my dear. They have offered it to you.”

  For a few seconds Rachel was speechless. Then she shouted, “I got it! You really mean it? They gave ME the scholarship?”

  Madame Pershoff’s voice danced as she confirmed the news. Rachel leaped up and down clutching the phone. “I can’t believe it? It’s wonderful! Me! Going to New York! Oh, Madame Pershoff! Thanks so much for calling!” She hung up. She had to find her mother.

  She hurried down the hall toward the spacious kitchen. Her mother stood at the sink loading the dishwasher. “Mom! Guess what? Mom! I won! A full dance scholarship . . .” Rachel’s voice trailed off. Her mother seemed to be ignoring her.

  “Mom? Did you hear me? I said, ‘I won.’ Aren’t you glad?”

  Mrs. Deering turned around slowly. Her face contained a controlled smile. But Rachel could tell by the look in her eyes that something was wrong. “Of course I heard you. And naturally, I’m very pleased for you.”

  “Well, you don’t act like it,” Rachel accused. Fear suddenly clutched at her heart.

  “It was very thoughtful of Madame Pershoff to call you, Rachel,” Mrs. Deering said. “But I need to talk to you about it.”

  Rachel stood staring at her mother’s face. It wasn’t her imagination. Something was wrong. “I thought you’d be thrilled for me,” Rachel began in a quiet voice. “They only gave out five scholarships. And I got one.”

  “Rachel,” her mom began, taking her by her shoulders, “I am happy for you. I know that you’ve received a great honor. But I’m sorry, honey. You absolutely, positively cannot go.”

  -TWELVE-

  Rachel recoiled as if she’d been slapped. All the color drained from her face. “What?” she whispered in disbelief.

  “Your father and I discussed it at great length. We talked a long time about what we’d do if you won. We can’t send you off to New York—”

  “But why?” Rachel moaned, tears starting down her cheeks.

  “How can we let you go to a strange city?”

  “But the school’s set up to help students get adjusted. They help you get an apartment. They help you—” “Rachel,” Mrs. Deering interrupted. “You’re not going and that’s final.”

  Suddenly, a nagging thought hit Rachel hard. “It’s because of my diabetes, isn’t it?” she asked between sobs.

  Her mom said nothing, but Rachel could tell she’d discovered the truth. “You’re afraid I won’t take care of myself. But I will! I promise, I will!”

  “No, that’s not it . . .”

  But Rachel knew that she was right. It was her diabetes.

  “Honey,” Mrs. Deering tried to reason, “you’ve done a wonderful job handling your diabetes. You take excellent care of yourself. But think about it. You’d be over 1500 miles away from home. Away from your doctor, your friends, your family. I plan all your meals and cook them. I know just what you need—and when you need it. And what if you got sick? What if your blood sugar went out of control? How would you manage?”

  Suddenly Rachel was angry. “All along, you’ve nagged at me to keep dancing. You kept after me to accept my illness and to go on with ballet classes in spite of it.”

  “Yes, and we still want you to. Dancing is so good for your diabetic control—”

  “But what about me?” Rachel burst out. “I want to dance for ME—not for my control! Don’t you see? I want to be a professional dancer!”

  “And you still can, honey. But later. After you’ve had more time to adjust. Why, you can get another scholarship next year—”

  “Next year!” Rachel exploded. “But they’re offering it to me now! I can’t wait a whole year. They want me now. And if I’m good enough for them this summer, they could ask me back next year to dance in the ballet corps. But I’ve got to go right now.”

  “I’m sorry, Rachel. But it’s out of the question. Your father and I can’t let you go. We can’t take the chance. Something might happen to you.”

  “Please!” Rachel sobbed. “Why won’t you trust me? I’ll be fine, I know it.”

  “I won’t discuss it any more. Your dad’s working late, but when he comes home, he’ll come talk to you. Maybe he can explain it better.”

  “I’ll NEVER forgive you if you don’t let me go! You’ll ruin my whole life!”

  Rachel ran from the kitchen in tears. She made it to the safety of her bedroom and flung herself across the bed. And she cried and cried . . . as if her heart were breaking . . .

  Rachel stayed in her darkened room for over an hour. Her eyes were red and swollen. She felt all cried out. It just wasn’t fair! How could her parents do this to her? After all her hard work and all her dreams . . .

  Shawn! She’d call him. He’d help her. With shaking fingers, she dialed his number. But the minute she heard his voice, a huge lump rose in her throat, and she could barely speak.

  “Rachel?” he asked. “Is that you?”

  “Y–yes,” she mumbled.

  “What’s wrong?” He sounded concerned.

  Numbly, she told him the whole story. Yes, she’d gotten th
e scholarship. But her parents refused to let her take it. They were afraid. Afraid of her diabetes. Afraid to let her be on her own.

  “It’s a bummer,” he said. “I don’t know what to say. Listen, why don’t you call Dr. Malar? Maybe he can get them to change their minds.”

  “I don’t think it will help. They won’t give in,” said Rachel sadly.

  “Give it a try, Rachel. It can’t hurt. I know he’d like to hear about it anyway.”

  “Well, maybe,” she said softly. Dr. Malar had told her to call him whenever she needed him. Well, she sure needed him now.

  “Thanks, Shawn,” she whispered and hung up.

  She’d never called a doctor before. Her parents had always taken care of those things for her. But she looked up his number and dialed it. His answering service picked up the call.

  “May I help you?”

  “This—this is Rachel Deering. I need to speak to Dr. Malar.”

  “Is this an emergency?”

  “No. I mean, yes. I just have to talk to him! I’m one of his patients.”

  “Could you tell me the nature of your problem?” The woman sounded impatient.

  She felt like saying, “I’m dying!” But instead she said, “I must talk to him right away—about a problem with my diabetes.” There! That got some results.

  “I’ll have him call you. What’s your number?”

  Rachel told her and then waited by the phone. She had to get it on the first ring. She didn’t want her mother picking up the phone.

  The phone gave a short ring and Rachel grabbed it.

  “Hello,” she whispered.

  “Rachel?” It was Malar’s voice.

  “Oh, Dr. Malar. Please help me.”

  The four of them sat looking at each other. Dr. Malar leaned in his office chair, his hands locked behind his head. He was listening intently to Mr. Deering. Rachel’s mother sat straight upright, twisting her rings on her fingers. Rachel stared hard at Dr. Malar’s diploma on his office wall, wishing the afternoon were over.