My Life in Dioramas

by Tara Altebrando

  “Maybe Naveen will do a duet with me,” I said. “For kicks.”

  Stella shook her head. “People are going to start thinking you like him.”

  “Of course I like him.”

  “No, I mean, like him like him.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” I didn’t mention how my hand still sort of tingled. I studied the other boys on her list. “Tris Culpberg, really?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’ve never even seen you say two words to him.”

  “How do you know?” Stella gathered her stuff to get up. “We’re not joined at the hip.”

  “Fine. Invite anybody you want.”

  “I will,” she said. “I’m inviting Sam Fitch. For you.”

  “For me?”

  “For you.”

  “Don’t do me any favors,” I said.

  Ugh!

  I knew that it was going to happen eventually—crushes, dates, hand-holding, slow dancing, kissing. I just didn’t know how. And while it was true that I liked how Sam looked and felt a little funny when he talked to me, I wasn’t sure if that was what a crush felt like. And since I didn’t much like the feeling, I had sort of been hoping not.

  “You’re coming to my house after dance today, right?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” My parents both had actual work to do until dinner-time, so that was the plan.

  “Great, so we can think about what to wear.” She put her earbuds in and left the table.

  12.

  When we were on our way into the dance studio after school, Stella said, “Don’t mention my party, okay? I’m not inviting everyone from class.”

  I hadn’t thought about her party in hours.

  We got changed fast and lined up by the door to the studio as the tiny dancers paraded out. My troupe forms shook slightly in my hands because my whole body was vibrating with excitement.

  “How are my dancers?” Miss Emma asked as we all walked into the studio.

  Everyone muttered good’s and hi’s and she said, “I see a lot of troupe forms. Excellent!”

  She started going around collecting papers, making sure everything was properly filled out. My heartbeat quickened when she was reviewing my parent form, but she seemed totally happy. I made a point of not looking at Stella.

  Miss Emma collected the last form and said, “I’m so excited! You’re all on board. So let’s get to work.” She turned on our song. “Just dance however you want to limber up.”

  The second time through, she gave us all our opening positions. “You’re all advanced enough that we’re going to try to run through the whole thing today. Then we’ll add blocking Thursday. Ready?”

  We all said, “Ready!”

  And the hour was a blur of leaps and kicks and slides and more. One thing I liked about contemporary dancing was that there weren’t names for everything the way there was with ballet. It felt like the most freeing kind of dancing to me. We learned mostly from watching Miss Emma and imitating her. It was something I was good at.

  We were all sweating when she said, “Okay, from the top. One last time. Let’s see how you do.”

  She cued up the song again and I imagined us all on a stage together.

  Big lights.

  A full auditorium.

  The hairs on my arms perked up.

  I’d already committed most of the routine to memory.

  The music kicked in and we went for it and even though we all made a few mistakes, it was pretty great for a first practice. Miss Emma clapped when we were done and we clapped, too. I was dying of thirst so I headed for the water fountain.

  “Don’t you think you should maybe tell Miss Emma?” Stella asked, after I drank. “That you might not even be living here in June?”

  “I’ve already got the situation under control.” I wiped water from my lips with my arm.

  “You can’t actually be serious.”

  “It only has to work for a few weeks, and anyway, my dad said if they ended up selling really close to the end of school year we could talk about me staying with you. End of the school year puts me in range of Dance Nation. No problemo.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Stella said. “Because it’d be really unfair for us all to learn the routine one way if we’re going to have to change it at the last minute.”

  “I’m sorry if my misery is inconvenient for you.”

  She huffed.

  We went and packed up our stuff.

  Miss Emma stopped me on the way out and pulled me aside. “I was hoping you’d consider doing a solo, Kate.”

  “Oh.” I was sort of shocked that she was saying this. “I’m more of a team player, I think?”

  “I happen to think you could do a really great job and that it might be good for you to step into the spotlight and not hide in the group.”

  I’d never thought about it that way. “I’m not hiding,” I said.

  Miss Emma squeezed my arm gently. “Just think about it.”

  13.

  When Stella and I were younger, our favorite thing to do had been playing with Stella’s Barbie styling head doll. We’d given that poor, long-gone Barbie about a million makeovers. But now when I came over, we mostly just hung out and listened to music and watched dance competition videos and talked. Sometimes we did our homework because it was more fun doing it together than alone.

  “We need to figure out what to wear for my party!” Stella went to her closet.

  I flopped down onto her bed and groaned, but at least she wasn’t bugging me about dance troupe.

  What would doing a solo even feel like?

  “Here.” Stella tossed a dress at me. “Try this on.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “You must have mistaken me for someone else.”

  I think I might have gotten it from my mother, who was always in leggings and big sweaters or oversize shirts, but I just wasn’t that into fashion. I did love the way that dance costumes—with their shiny fabrics and sequins and fringes—seemed to transform me into someone else entirely, but in the day to day, I just didn’t care that much.

  “Just try it,” Stella said. “You might like it.”

  As Stella changed out of her school clothes into a blue dress that shimmered, I slid into the dress she’d handed me. It was floral and girlie and not at all my kind of thing. I turned to her and frowned.

  “Fine, forget it.”

  I changed back into my clothes and felt normal again. So normal that I dared to bring up dance class. “Miss Emma told me she thought I should do a solo.”

  Stella froze for a second. “Really?”

  “Yeah. Why do you seem surprised?”

  “I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem like dance is your passion or anything.”

  “Are worms eating your brain or something? You’re saying the weirdest stuff all of a sudden.”

  “What?” She shrugged. “I’m just saying you don’t seem to love it.”

  “Well, I do.” Now I shrugged. “I just think dancing is more fun with other people than alone.”

  “Then tell her that.” She turned to the mirror to look at herself. “I wouldn’t want us to be competing against each other anyway.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because what if one of us won or something? The other one would have her feelings hurt.” She was brushing her hair.

  “You mean me,” I said, slowly. “I would have my feelings hurt.”

  She put the brush down and put her hands on her hips. “How did we get into this thing?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “My point really is that your parents would never spend that money if you might not be here to see it through.”

  “No, of course not,” I said.

  It was true.

  Then I heard the doorbell. My mother was here to pick me up. I didn’t normally but today I leapt up to gather my things.

  “Hey, what’s all this stuff?” I asked, peeking inside a bag by the bed where a bunch of Barbies swam in we
ird positions in a pool of clothes.

  “I’m too old for Barbies.” Stella was trying on yet another dress. “I don’t even know why they’re still around.”

  “Kate!” my mom called.

  “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said, and I grabbed my backpack. Looking at the bag of Barbies, I noticed the fabric of one of the dresses. “Can I take them? The Barbies?”

  “You’re too old for Barbies,” Stella said.

  “I want the clothes for a project.” I didn’t feel like explaining about the dioramas I’d been making, but when I looked at those tiny dresses, I saw fabrics perfect for curtains and bedspreads and more.

  “Knock yourself out,” Stella said.

  “I’m just going to the bathroom,” I called out once I was in the hall, and my mom said, “Okay!”

  I went into the bathroom and closed the door. I sat on the toilet and realized I could hear my mom’s voice.

  “Honestly,” she said. “I have a lot of anger. I’m not sure what to do about it. It’s not like I’m not also responsible. It’s not rational. But I’m angry.” I held my breath and waited, holding in pee. “At him.”

  It took me a minute to figure out that she was talking about my dad.

  Was divorce still a possibility?

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Liv,” Stella’s mom said. “But it sounds like you may be depressed.”

  “Of course I’m depressed.” My mom laughed, but it wasn’t a happy laugh. “I’m losing my house.”

  “I mean, clinically.” Stella’s mom lowered her voice but she was typically pretty loud so I could still hear her. “It might be good to talk to someone.”

  “He said the same thing, but I’m talking to you.” My mother laughed stiffly. “Isn’t that enough?

  “I don’t know, Liv. I honestly don’t.”

  I flushed and walked out into the hall.

  When we got home, the stereo was blasting another one of Dad’s band’s songs. A ballad called “Super Powers” that always cracked me up because it’s about a guy who has powers like having fun when he’s alone and knowing how to get off the phone. Now it seemed a little sad to me, my dad having written a song about a lame superhero.

  The whole house seemed to shake as my dad sang, “Look at me. I’ve got super powers.”

  He had the windows open and we could see him, down by the patio near the tennis court, dancing slowly while he swept up debris that had fallen from the trees. Angus was lying near an Adirondack chair.

  Years ago, my parents had a party where they’d strung all these lanterns from the weeping willow. I was running around all weekend with my cousins, and friends were coming and going, and we were launching these glowing rocket things into the air at dark.

  I was about to ask my mother if she remembered that weekend, that party, but then she turned down the music. “I’m going to go lie down. Can you go tell Dad we’re home and to get dinner started?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  She left the room and I watched out the window as my dad just kept on dancing for a few minutes, finishing the song exactly in time with the music playing softly in the house. Then he turned and saw me standing there. I waved and he waved for me to come down. So I did.

  When I got down to the yard, he was sitting in a patio chair, smoking a cigarette. “Don’t tell your mother,” he said.

  “That you’re the world’s worst dancer?” I snorted. The cigarette made my dad look like an entirely different person. “Pretty sure she already knows.”

  “It’s just one. I’m not going to start smoking or anything.”

  “Okay, Dad.” I knew he had smoked a bit when they were in the band, and I sometimes smelled cigarettes on nights when my parents were hanging out past my bedtime outside with friends, but I’d never actually seen him do it myself. It made him look younger somehow. But also shaky? Stressed?

  “How was school?” he asked, exhaling, laying his head back on the chair and looking up at the weeping willow.

  “It was school.” We just sat there quietly for a while. A thick white cloud drifted out from behind the willow like a slow-moving cruise ship, and I realized I’d just missed a great opportunity to grab some food for the rotting project.

  “Do you remember that party?” I said, after a while. “With the movie projected on the sheet? And all those lanterns in the tree?”

  “Barely,” he said, and he laughed. “I mean, of course I do. Why?”

  I shrugged. “Are things going to be like that again, do you think?”

  Pants and two kittens appeared across the yard by the pear tree. Angus lifted his head and put it down again.

  “Depends on what you mean by ‘like that’?”

  “I don’t know.” My throat tightened. “Happy?”

  “Of course they are, Kate.” He shook his head and looked up toward Big Red. “It’s just a house.”

  But he didn’t sound convinced.

  I sat back in my chair and watched the wind blow the weeping willow’s long soft branches. I loved that tree. Loved how when it was in full bloom some of its branches brushed the grass, how you could hide behind strands of leaves during a game of hide-and-seek. A tree expert who my parents had hired to take down some dead trees a few years back had studied this one, with a huge hollow dead branch broken off the main trunk, just hanging there. He told us that, sure, he could cut it off but it would just happen again. The tree was fine. That’s just what weeping willows did. They let part of themselves die so the rest could live.

  I thought about asking my dad if my mom was depressed. But he looked pretty down himself, and I wasn’t sure there was much point. So I got up and grabbed my scooter from the shed and started making lazy circles on the tennis court. After a few jumps and tricks, I said, “Oh, Mom said to tell you to get dinner started.”

  He took a final drag of his cigarette and stubbed it out on the bottom of his shoe then got out his phone. Holding it to his ear as I balanced on one foot with a long leg out behind me like an ice skater, he asked, “Pepperoni or plain?”

  After pizza and homework, I went downstairs and started to play around with some green yarn and tiny bits of green paper. When I had the hang of making tree branches, I searched around but there were no more shoeboxes down there, so I went up to ask my mom if I could raid her closet. My parents were sitting in the living room, each of them reading in an armchair. When they were like this, so normal, so boring looking, it was hard to imagine when they met and were younger and, well, cooler.

  “Mom, can I grab a shoebox from your closet?”

  “Sure,” she said.

  So I did that, but on my way back downstairs, I said, “I’m going to have ice cream. Anybody want any?”

  “No, thanks,” they both said. I went to the kitchen and got out a Tupperware and took two eggs and a piece of chicken out of the refrigerator. I cut open the plastic on the chicken and slid it into the Tupperware, then quietly cracked the eggs on top of it and closed it up. I figured it wouldn’t stink for a while so I just stashed it way in the back of the pantry for safekeeping. I fixed a bowl of ice cream, grabbed the bag of Barbies I’d left by the front door, and went back downstairs.

  As soon as I started making the weeping willow for real, I got the idea to turn the box on its side so that it was more tall than wide. I lined the walls of the box with black construction paper, then cut a strip of a sort of gray/brown felt into the shape of a tree trunk and glued it to the back wall. Then, one by one, I took my strips of green yarn, each of which I’d tied still more yarn to, and so on and so on, to create the look of the weeping branches, gluing them to the top of the box so they draped down. It took a while, but it was shaping up to really look like a tree so I kept at it. When it was done, I took some of these little furry glitter balls I had hanging around in a jar and threaded string into them with a needle. I made five of them in different colors before I started hanging them from the tree.

  Party lights.

  From the
bag of Barbies, I pulled out a dress made of red gingham fabric and cut out the largest square I could get out of it.

  A blanket for stargazing.

  When I decided to take a break for ice cream before putting myself and maybe some cousins in the scene, I saw that it had melted.

  I went ahead and finished the scene.

  In the living room my dad was asleep on the couch.

  Upstairs, my mother was reading in bed.

  When I poked my head in to say good night to her, Angus got up and followed me into my room.

  14.

  I had zero opportunity to retrieve my Tupperware of Stink from the pantry Tuesday morning but it seemed unlikely anyone would find it before I got home. My mom had a day of networking for a bunch of Hudson Valley lawyers to oversee; my dad was designing a book cover on a rush schedule and also announced that he was working on a new song. He’d be headphoned and out of it all day. For the first time in forever, it seemed like maybe they were actually making some money, but it was too late.

  “Oh,” Stella said, when we got off the bus. “Here.”

  She took a tall stack of envelopes out of her backpack and handed me the top one.

  “Oh,” I said. “Cool.”

  I hadn’t been sure whether we’d had a fight or not, so I was a little bit relieved.

  Then Stella was off flitting around, handing out invitations here and there and by lunchtime, all any of our friends were talking about was Stella’s party. I sort of felt bad for people who weren’t invited, maybe because I knew what that felt like. But I slapped on a smile and joined the conversation Stella was having with our friends Sara and Maggie.

  “I want to sing this one,” Sara pointed at a list of songs they’d been studying.

  “Oh, sorry,” Stella said. “Birthday girl calls dibs on that one.”

  Maggie said, “I want number seven-eight-six-four. Write that down for me!”

  “Oh,” Stella said. “Really? I have that on my list, too.”

  The boy thing was bad enough, but with Stella going all diva, it really didn’t seem like this party was going to be any fun at all.