Off Pointe

by Lieberman, Leanne;

  Even before Tara finishes talking, the dancers are moving toward each other and forming tight huddles, their arms around each other. Nio joins with the two other guys and three older girls, including Logan. He beckons for me to join them, but I shake my head. I’m relieved that someone wants me in their group, but there’s no way I can dance like them.

  Tara puts on the music, a haunting piece with French lyrics that builds in intensity. The song begins with only a woman singing, then adds more instruments and becomes faster until it sounds almost frantic. Then the music stops suddenly and the woman’s voice comes back for a few more bars of music. Some of the dancers begin moving to the song, but most of the kids are still taking it in. Some even look like they’re holding their breath.

  Tara lets a moment of silence pass for us to absorb the music before she speaks. “I knew that would blow you away,” she says. Then she nods, and the room explodes with activity as everyone starts talking and moving, except me. Tara runs around with a clipboard, writing down group names.

  I’m thinking this is a good time to leave. I’m making my best effort with the improv, but I can’t imagine making up choreography or performing contemporary yet. I’m about to slink away when Tara calls my name. “Trying to slip out, were you?”

  “I was just going to the bathroom.”

  “Exactly. Look.” Tara shows me the clipboard. “Nio’s group already wrote down your name. They need you.”

  I look over at Nio’s group. One of the boys is showing the group a contract-and-release movement that includes the windmill fall. Logan glances at me and then quickly turns away. I frown. “I can’t do that. I’ll stick out.”

  Tara taps her foot on the floor. “Okay, fine. You can do a solo.”

  “What?”

  “A solo. The last thirty-two counts of the music, when there’s just that voice—you get that. I’ll let the other groups know.”

  “But…”

  “No buts. It’ll be fantastic. You choreograph it whatever style you want—ballet, contemporary, a twist of the two. There’s no improv, so there’s nothing to be scared of.”

  I blush. I’m not really scared of improv. I’m just not good at it. From the corner of my eye, I see Logan watching me. She turns back to her group, but not before rolling her eyes.

  I clench my fists. Maybe I will do the solo, if only to show Logan what I can do. “Fine,” I say. “I’ll do the solo, but I’m not practicing here.”

  Tara shrugs her shoulders. “Suit yourself.”

  I slip out of the studio and into the empty hallway.

  Eight

  I slump to the bathroom floor and listen to the music coming from the studio. A solo? Great. More unneeded attention. Why did I agree to do it?

  My part is only a few bars, enough to slowly enter the stage to that haunting voice and perform a short routine. I get up off the floor and start with some slow pirouettes and then add an arabesque to show off my long lines. What if I contract into that tight spin Tara showed us yesterday? I try it and then add a series of chaînés, simple turns. Contemporary dance has a lot of floor moves, a lot of rolling around, so I add an arched back pose. I finish up with some grande jetés en tour-nant, jumps with a turn. I add a few of my best ballet moves that I can do without toe shoes so Logan will see some of my technique.

  Since the whole choreography takes me only twenty minutes, I spend the rest of the time doing ballet exercises in the bathroom, using the counter as a barre. I pretend Mrs. G is counting out the steps. I can hear her voice calling out corrections—arms soft, back straight—but then I hear her voice telling me I need to be more expressive if I want to make it to the next level. She means the senior company. I’ve got one more year in the junior company to prove myself. If I don’t make it to the senior company, that’s the end of my ballet career. Only dancers from the senior company go to national auditions.

  I try to imagine what my life would be like if I didn’t dance. I would just be a girl. No one special. A lump grows in my throat. I’ve always thought that if I practiced hard, I could make it. I have no idea how to be more expressive or connect with an audience. A few tears well in my eyes. I have to make it. I ball my fists with determination and swing my leg out in a wild turn.

  The bathroom door opens just as I’m spinning out of control. “Stretching again?” Logan asks.

  I stop abruptly and tuck my hair back into my ponytail. “Actually, I was perfecting my solo.” My voice shakes a little, but I can’t help sounding proud.

  Logan’s face flushes. “What, just because you’re some skinny ballet girl you get a solo? That’s so unfair.”

  I could tell Logan it’s because I don’t know how to do contemporary, but I just lift my chin a little and pretend to practice even though I’m only doing a pirouette.

  Back in the studio, Tara calls all the dancers together to show each other their routines. I sit at the back and watch. Each group has created a dance that reflects the music—some lyrical pieces for the slower parts of the song, and others charged with energy for the most intense part of the music. Every dance is better, more passionate, than the last. I start hoping Tara will forget about me, or that we’ll run out of time. My stupid routine is just steps I’ve put together, without any emotion. If I get up and perform my pirouettes, it’ll look stiff and fake. Mrs. G knows what she’s talking about. I fold my legs up to my chest and wrap my arms around them. Logan can have my solo.

  When Tara asks me to come up to the front, I say, “I’m not done yet.”

  She hesitates and then nods her head. “You’ll show us tomorrow.”

  The dinner bell rings and I’m the first one to leave. Outside, girls are calling to each other on their way back from swimming or boating. For once I’m happy to be surrounded by their noise instead of the thoughts in my head.

  In the dining hall, Logan sits at the other end of the table and sends me murderous glances. Then she turns to the girl sitting next to her, and I can tell she’s talking about me. I pick at the chicken nuggets on my plate, but I’m too anxious to eat. When Tara isn’t looking, I slip out the back door as if I’m going to the bathroom. Instead, I wander through the cherry orchard behind the dining hall. The scent of dishwashing soap and the clash of pots and pans waft out of the building. I pick a handful of cherries from a low branch and settle under a tree.

  Why does Logan care so much that I got the solo? She’s just like Melanie Webster back home—jealous. I rub my temples. If only Logan knew there was no reason to be envious.

  Nio comes out of the dining hall and starts walking toward me. “Hey, I wondered where you went.”

  I shrug. Nio sits down next to me and starts tugging on some grass. “I know Logan is being really awful. She’s just not a ballet person.”

  “I’m not a contemporary person and I`m not awful to her,” I shoot back.

  “Yeah, but it’s different. Logan’s here on scholarship. She doesn’t get to take ballet, or other dance classes either, because her mom can’t afford it.”

  “Oh. So she gets to be mean because she’s poor? That sounds really fair.”

  “She’s not that bad,” Nio says.

  I raise my eyebrows at him.

  Nio slumps against the tree. “Look, she’s my best friend. Our first summer here, we were both on scholarship and didn’t know anyone, so we promised to stick together. Logan included me in everything, even though I was the only boy our age at camp.”

  “So even if she’s being mean, you’re still going to stand by her?”

  “Well, I do tell her to relax every now and then.”

  “Great,” I say. “You can tell her to relax about my stupid solo.”

  “Ooh,” Nio says. “I can’t wait to see it.”

  “Don’t hold your breath,” I mutter.

  Nio gets up to go back into the dining hall. “You coming?”

  I shrug. “Don’t wait for me.”

  * * *

  I have a hard time falling asleep that nigh
t. I keep thinking of the way Logan glared at me. When I finally do sleep, I dream I am onstage dancing. First I fall out of a pirouette, wobbling out of control; then I’m stumbling through a pas de chat. When I attempt the windmill fall, I wake with a sweaty start just before I crash to the floor.

  Nine

  In the morning I leave the cabin early and get to the studio before anyone else. Maybe, if I think carefully, I can fix my solo. I have thirty-two counts to show what I can do, to figure out how the music makes me feel. I pace around the room, lips pressed together. I remember how the song builds and builds and then crashes. I decide it feels like waking up the day after a big performance and being disappointed it’s over.

  I start with the pirouette from yesterday and try to make my arms show my sadness. Then I sink to the floor as if a heavy weight is pushing me down. When I roll over into the arched-back pose, I realize Logan and Nio are standing at the door, watching me. I freeze. “What are you guys doing here so early?” I ask.

  “We wanted to talk about ideas for next week’s choreography,” Nio explains.

  “Is this your solo?” Logan smirks.

  I close my eyes and wish they’d disappear. “Yes.”

  “Cool,” Nio says. “Can you show us?”

  “No,” I say, still lying on the floor. “You’ll just make fun of me.”

  “Why would we do that?” Nio asks.

  “Because it’s terrible,” I say.

  Logan drifts to the side of the room. “I don’t think it’s fair for anyone to have a solo.”

  Nio ignores her. “Show me what you’ve got so far. Maybe I can help.”

  I hesitate for a moment, then take a deep breath. What’s the worst thing that can happen? Logan makes more fun of me? I think I can deal with that. I perform the short routine, rushing through the movements. “See? It’s awful,” I say when it’s over.

  Nio frowns. “It’s not awful, it just doesn’t make sense yet. It’s the sad part at the end, right?”

  “Yeah, the lonely bit.”

  “Okay, so we have to make your dance look lonely.”

  Logan walks back over to us. “Here’s what I would do.” She whips herself into the pirouette, and then, instead of falling to the ground, she hurls herself to the floor as if she’s been hit by a comet. She changes my arched pose into a sweeping leg motion on her back that pushes her to standing. She runs a small circle, her arms reaching out as if to grab someone, before she does the jetés. Then, her face filled with anguish, she performs a tight spin, her arms covering her head.

  I stare for a moment. Logan can do what Mrs. G wants me to do: she can make an audience feel a dancer’s emotion. She made me feel it. “How did you do that?” I ask her.

  Logan shrugs. “I don’t know. I just like making things up.”

  “That was amazing.” I stand up slowly and try to copy Logan’s routine. I feel silly throwing myself to the floor and whipping my legs in the air, but I’m starting to feel the desperation I want to show. When I’m done, I look over at Nio. “How was that?”

  Nio nods. “Better.”

  Logan throws up her hands. “Now I’m choreographing your piece for you? Great. I don’t understand why you even got a solo!”

  “Look,” I say, “it’s because I don’t know how to do contemporary. At least, not yet.”

  “So why are you even here?”

  “I’m here to learn new dance styles, broaden my horizons.” So just be nice to me, I think.

  “Broaden your dance horizons? What does that mean?”

  “It means…” I turn a pirouette. “It means I suck.”

  Nio says, “Look, whoever said you suck obviously has no idea what they’re talking about. You’re the best dancer ever.”

  Logan rolls her eyes. “I’m going to fill up my water bottle.”

  I cringe as she stomps out of the studio.

  “Forget about her,” Nio says. “Do the routine again.”

  Logan’s dance doesn’t feel as awkward the second time.

  Nio nods when I finish. “Good,” he says. “Now could you do it with more snap?”

  “Snap?”

  “You know, put more energy into your moves. It looks kind of…correct right now.”

  I tug on my ponytail. “Correct is what I know.”

  Nio thinks for a moment. “What if when you’re doing the moves, you pretend you’re kicking the crap out of someone?” He pretends to punch someone in the stomach.

  “I’ve, uh, never really done that,” I say.

  Nio grins. “What, no younger brothers?”

  “Just a sister.”

  “Okay,” Nio says. “Pretend there’s a rubber wall you’re trying to knock down.” He flails out his leg again and brings one fist up to punch the air.

  I kick, trying to imitate him. I feel ridiculous, but a sizzle of energy runs down my limbs.

  “Okay, now put that in your face too. Show the anger you feel.”

  “Anger?”

  “Yeah, like you want to try to hurt me.” Nio bounces around me like a boxer.

  “I don’t know…”

  “Okay, how about this?” Nio minces around me on his toes, his face scrunched into a little pout. “Ooh, ballet,” he says, pretending to be Logan.

  I kick my leg out in developpé, as if kicking at Nio. Then my fist comes out. Nio turns toward me just as I swing, and my hand cracks hard against his shoulder. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” I say, shaking my hand.

  Nio grins. “No you’re not.”

  “No, not really.” I am nervous and excited at the same time. I run across the room to get away from Nio and jump into a jeté, and my limbs split with energy, the way I want them to. I like the look on my face in the mirror too.

  “That’s it,” Nio says. “Now do that in your dance.”

  I perform the routine once more and it starts to feel more natural, like it’s part of me. I take a deep breath. Maybe I can do contemporary. Or at least this solo.

  Other dancers start entering the studio, along with Logan.

  “How’s your solo?” she says with a sneer.

  “Much better.” I pause and take a deep breath. “I know you didn’t want to help me, but you really did. If you ever want, I’d be happy to help you.”

  “With what?” Logan asks.

  “I don’t know. Maybe your technique,” I say.

  “That would be great,” Nio says.

  “What’s wrong with my technique?” Logan starts walking toward me.

  I step back until I’m against the barre.

  Logan raises a fist. “Just kidding,” she says, but she isn’t smiling. Then she spins away.

  Nio shakes his head. “That’s just Logan.”

  * * *

  Tara starts class a few minutes later. She leads a shortened warm-up, and then each group performs again. At the end of each performance, everyone claps, and Tara and some of the older dancers make suggestions. Nio and Logan’s group is the last to dance. Set to the most intense part of the music, their choreography, a fast-paced series of turns, leaps and angular movements, ends with the dancers lying flat on their backs, arms and legs spread, as if they’ve been shot.

  “Great,” Tara says. “You guys can still be onstage when Meg comes on and performs her solo.” She turns to look at me. “Ready?”

  I start to sweat. I stand up, shake out my arms, crack my toes and start the slow pirouettes, without the music. I count in my head as I fall to the floor and then whip my legs into the air. When I finish the routine, the dancers whisper among themselves. Tara nods and says, “Looks good. Okay, let’s do it with the music.”

  I wait at the side of the room while the other dancers perform their routines. I look at Logan; she refuses to look back at me. When the voice begins, I start moving across the floor. For a few minutes I forget about the girls watching me, and that I’m doing a pirouette on demi-pointe in bare feet, and what Mrs. G would think about my mixed-up routine.

  When the music
ends, I sit up and blink at the girls in front of me. Nobody moves or claps. They just stare. Finally an older girl says, “That was the craziest thing I’ve ever seen.” The other dancers nod and smile. When I look over at Logan, jealousy bubbles up from the tight frown on her face.

  “I’ve got goose bumps from that,” Nio yells. “It was amazing.”

  “Logan and Nio really helped me with the choreography,” I say.

  Tara beams at me and then at Logan and Nio. “Great. I love when dancers work together.” Nio raises his hand for a distance high five, but Logan presses her lips together so tightly they disappear. Still, I don’t let that dampen the smile starting to spread across my face.

  * * *

  We spend the rest of the rehearsal bringing the groups together and discussing costuming. I perform my finale a few more times, adding in some of Tara’s suggestions. Before Tara dismisses everyone, she announces a meeting tomorrow after dinner for anyone who wants to choreograph for the final performance of Dance Camp. I don’t pay much attention, but I notice Logan and Nio exchanging glances.

  By the time the dinner bell rings, I am hungry and sweaty and genuinely excited. And later, after dinner, I’m not all alone lying on my bunk. Instead, I’m one of the girls searching for the right black leotard and vying for mirror space to apply sparkly eye shadow. I use the black lipstick all the other contemporary dancers wear even though it means sharing the same tube.

  Waiting to go onstage, I feel my familiar performing excitement rise when the music comes on and the first dancers start to move. My heart fires along to the beat of the music. Then it’s my turn to go onstage, and happiness flows through me for the first time since I came to dance camp. The final spin to the floor when the music ends is like diving off a cliff—it’s that exciting. I bow with the other dancers as the audience claps, and then I practically skip off the stage, beaming with delight.

  Ten

  The next morning is Saturday, and the wake-up call doesn’t sound until after nine. Breakfast is buffet style in the dining hall, and I sigh with relief when I realize all dance sessions are optional. I spend the morning down at the swimming dock with Jodie and Cassidy, and the afternoon under the trees outside the cabin. At night there’s a dance in the main hall.