Up to This Pointe

by Jennifer Longo

  “Hungry?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “Okay. Here’s what I think: I’ll stash the scope, we get out of our gear, grab as much food as we can carry, and let’s have a picnic!”

  “Where?”

  “We’ll figure it out. Okay if I don’t buddy-system you to your room?”

  “I’ll live.”

  “Excellent! Meet back here in ten!”

  The music is incredibly loud and sounds as if we’re at a rave.

  In my room, I yank my cold gear off, hang it to dry, and pull on my warmest yoga pants, T-shirt, and hoodie, and I meet Aiden in party central, where we pile all the food two trays will hold.

  “What do we think?” he says. “Library? Hide in the kitchen?”

  Both occupied.

  “Oh!” I say. “I know!” and I pull him up the dorm stairs.

  “Oh, Scott, come on!” he groans as I march down the hall to knock on Vivian’s door. “She’s obviously not interested!”

  “Vivian!” I say. “It’s Harper!”

  The man’s deep voice again. This situation is getting creepy—is it a book on tape? What is up?

  “Viv!” Aiden calls. “Come on out. Harper’s not giving up. It’s just the three of us here. Let’s be young and crazy!”

  I smile gratefully.

  On the other side of the door, the man’s voice is silent; the lock slides and clicks. “You two will be in so much trouble for getting drunk,” Vivian says through a one-inch opening.

  “Oh, lighten up!” Aiden smiles. He leans his shoulder against the door and eases it open.

  “I’m sleeping!” she yelps, pushing back to no avail. It’s like Cops: Dublin. Aiden pushes the door wide and steps into the room, and Vivian, head to toe in flannel, dives beneath her covers. Aiden switches on a small desk lamp and makes himself comfortable in a chair. “I’m calling Charlotte!” Vivian says.

  “Did you watch the sunset?” Aiden asks her.

  She glares.

  “Look!” I smile and step inside. “We’ve got food!”

  “I already brushed my teeth.”

  “So brush them again!” Aiden sighs, tossing pieces of scone down his throat.

  She glares. “You are drunk.”

  I sit gingerly on the foot of her bed. “Vivian,” I say. “Tell me stuff. Charlotte says you’re used to the cold. Are you from Alaska?”

  She frowns hard. “St. Paul.”

  “Oh, Minnesota!”

  “St. Paul.”

  “Right, but that’s—”

  “St. Paul.”

  “Hey,” Aiden says, stealing blanched green beans from my plate. “I think she’s from St. Paul.”

  “Oh, wait, yes…I’m San Franciscan!”

  Silence. This girl is a tough nut to crack.

  “We saw the stars from Ob Hill. Aiden borrowed a telescope….”

  “Shush that,” Aiden hisses. “Don’t go advertising.”

  Vivian sits up. “Borrowed or stole?”

  “My supervisor is a git,” he assures her. “It’s already back in his office, tucked in safe and sound.”

  “Astronomy?” she asks.

  A volley! It’s practically a real conversation.

  Aiden nods. “I’m already accepted to National University of Ireland at Galway. They’ve got this wicked new astronomy research center. God, I can’t wait! So if this guy’s going to be a dick about it, I’m on my own. Beg, borrow, or steal.”

  Vivian narrows her eyes at him.

  “I said borrow! And bonus, I get to learn to cook and be a radio star.”

  “Hold up,” I say. “You’re learning to cook—currently? We’re eating that stuff!”

  “Under direct supervision. This is Antarctica; it’s the wild frontier!”

  “Oh my God,” Vivian sighs. “If you two are finished eating on my bedspread and staring at me, I would love for you to leave now.”

  “Well, thanks for hosting.” Aiden smiles, gathering paper napkins and both trays. “This was fun—we’re the Three Musketeers!”

  “See you Monday?” I try cheerfully.

  She levels a withering glare as we back out the door, and we hear the chain lock slide into place.

  Aiden carries the trays and walks me to my door.

  “So,” he says. “That went as well as could be expected.”

  “I think she liked it. I think she’s warming up to me!”

  He smiles. “You’re quite the optimist, aren’t you?”

  If he only knew.

  He walks the hall backward, waving.

  “Aiden!” I whisper-shout.

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you!”

  Not even six o’clock, but I’m so tired I brush my teeth and fall into bed, dreaming hard, all night through, that I am swimming in color, in ice-cold nacreous clouds.

  Tuesday is Veterans Day, no school and no teaching, just pointe class in the afternoon, so I sleep in, wake up lazily well past eight, and stretch, still glowing from Sunday night’s final, sold-out Nutcracker.

  House to myself, Mom at her office, prepping lectures; Dad and Luke at the bakery; Kate at home, hopefully still sleeping. Her Sunday Snow Queen was especially breathtaking, her extension and jump height into the stratosphere, and her mom came and loved it—but she brought her stupid boyfriend along, which kind of ruined it for Kate. That and the fact that her Dad, predictably, never did show. No call, no text, nothing.

  Her parents suck so much.

  I lounge around all morning, walk to the beach, and even attempt a nap—but there is an electric current running in my veins because everything is happening. The Plan. It is happening.

  I put my hair up, dress for class, and go an hour early to rehearse, because this audition will be the best two minutes of my life if it kills me.

  “Hey!” I call up Simone’s stairwell. “I’m here to practice!” And in moments I’ve got “Appalachian Spring” in my earbuds, pointe shoes on, and a delicious long stretch in my hamstrings, my lower back, my arms, neck, shoulders. If this were my house, I would sleep here in the studio. When Kate and I have our apartment, we won’t put rugs on the floors. Hardwood, freed up for dancing at all times. I fall forward, forehead touching my knees, and when I look up, Simone is standing in the doorway. I pull my buds out.

  “Hi!” I breathe.

  “Give me your soutenu, into the sauté arabesque. Let me see.”

  “Now?”

  She nods.

  I toss my sweater and iPod on the piano, walk to the center. Prepare. Turn out, arms up, turn and jump with height, plié.

  “From the beginning.”

  “The whole thing?” I ask.

  “Let me see.”

  “No music?”

  “Let me see.”

  “Can I get a drink first?”

  “From the beginning.”

  I rosin my shoes, cross to center. Begin. I give her the entire dance, one hundred twenty seconds to demonstrate to the artistic director of the San Francisco Ballet why they need me in their corps, in their professional training program, in their company.

  I finish and stand, breathing hard, before Simone. Her pink scalp is flushed beneath the cloud of carefully swept-up white hair.

  “You work hard on this,” she says.

  “Yes.”

  “I see your heart. In this. In class. Every day.”

  The heart she claims to see suddenly pounds. This woman is not touchy-feely. Ever. Any mention of a heart is only ever as an organ when she’s screaming at the younger girls to quit eating the Doritos they sneak into the dressing room: You want to give yourselves heart disease and cellulite, go do it in someone else’s studio!

  I nod.

  “This is your very best.”

  I can’t help smiling. “Really?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” I breathe. “Yes. I think so.”

  She nods. “When do you graduate?”

  “From school?”

  �
�Yes.”

  “December,” I say. “Middle of December.”

  She nods.

  “Kate and I.”

  “And what are your plans in that case?”

  “In what case?”

  “After graduating, what will you do?”

  This woman. She makes me insane. She knows The Plan nearly as well as Kate and I do. Everyone does; we blab about it nonstop to anyone who’ll listen. “Well,” I say, “San Francisco auditions are only two weeks after that, so no thoughts on the interim, really….”

  She frowns at me. “Besides the auditions. Have you thought about London?”

  “Still thinking.” I smile.

  “How about college?”

  “College?”

  “After high school.”

  She stands there. And I stand there, sweating and breathing. What the hell is she going on about? College?

  “Well,” I fumble, “I mean…we’re graduating early because the auditions are in January. Maybe we’ll start rehearsing right away with the company for the spring shows. Wouldn’t we?”

  Her face changes. Softens. She studies her watch and steps to the wall of windows. Fog is rolling in again.

  “Come with me,” she says, turning to her office.

  My stomach is jangly. She sits at her desk. I sit in the chair before it. The jewels of tutu fruit above our heads close in, the room suffocating in sparkling tulle and ribbon.

  Something isn’t right. She looks…sad? Defeated.

  Oh my God.

  All the teaching nonsense, college…she’s sick. She’s dying. She wants me to take over the studio. No wonder she’s so worn out lately. How could none of us have noticed? I’m so self-absorbed! She’s been suffering silently right before our eyes, and all we’ve cared about are auditions and snow and—oh God, my mind is racing. I can’t catch up. How long does she have? Was The Nutcracker her last recital? Is that why she was so especially dressed up for opening night…?

  I reach across her desk and take her bony, papery hands in my sweaty own. Hers are so cold. “Madame Simone…”

  “Harper.” She squeezes my fingers. Holds them fast. “Darling girl.” She draws herself up, inhales. “It’s been a long time. I should have spoken to you. I’ve wanted so badly to see your body do the things it needs to do; turnout, dear heart, extension—these things cannot be learned. They are either in you or…You work the hardest of anyone. I know that—everyone knows that. This shouldn’t come as a surprise, Harper.”

  I lean forward. “Sorry…I’m not…What are we talking about?”

  “You are an inventive choreographer. I’ve never known a student so in love with dance, and you should never, ever stop. You are a wonderful teacher, a gift to the ballet. If every student had even just a tiny fraction of what is in your heart…”

  I take my hand back. “You’re not sick?”

  She frowns. “Excuse me?”

  “You aren’t ill?”

  Her eyes close. She massages her forehead and reaches again for my hands, which are now colder than hers and firmly in my lap.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  I swallow. Hard.

  “A career in dance can mean many things. Come to London with me. Teachers with your natural ability are rare. You are especially singular; students will fall over themselves to be trained by you. Or if I cannot convince you, you can dance at university. An education is invaluable. I wish all my girls would go to school.” She inhales. “I’ve waited far too long, selfishly. I’m telling you now while there is still time to make a wise decision, so you do not pin all your hopes on one moment that will do nothing but disappoint you. Your love is evident,” she says. “But, darling, sometimes the ballet does not love us back.”

  Don’t. Please.

  But she does. Words we’ve heard all our lives, words I’ve spoken myself to hopeful, crestfallen parents of eight-year-olds, but now why is she saying this to me? Am I still sleeping? Because her voice is hollow, underwater, this definitely could be a really screwed-up dream nightmare. I need to wake up, wake up, wake up….

  It is more than being thin and the right height. You must have a high foot arch with a top bump; long, hyperextended legs; stretchy Achilles tendons; short torso; long neck and arms; a small, round head; 90 degree turnout from your hip rotators, not your knees or ankles, giving you a foot stance of 180 degrees; you must have natural facility and musicality; you must you must you must—

  “I don’t understand,” I say again.

  “Harper. I have done all I can for you; all anyone could do. ‘A Pavlova is no one’s pupil but God’s.’ ”

  “You make that up?”

  “Balanchine. Even he knew the truth.”

  “Well,” I say. “Those must have been some pricey lessons.”

  “What’s up, ladies?”

  Kate’s voice is freezing water tossed in the warm bed of my stupor. Madame Simone’s mouth straightens to a tight line. Kate’s small head on her short torso supporting a ninety-degree turnout leans into the open office door.

  “Happy Memorial Day!” She smiles.

  “Veterans,” I whisper.

  “What was that, dear?” Simone asks gently.

  “Not Memorial Day.” I stand and push the chair in. “Are we done?”

  “Harper…”

  “Okay.” I walk past Kate, into the crowd of girls arriving for class, put my iPod in my bag, and then, because I don’t know what else to do—I go into the studio. Stand at the barre. Stretch.

  Miss Hayward, the pianist who has played for us since we were three, shuffles in. Sits at the upright and opens her sheet music.

  Lindsay comes in. The rest of the class follows. Kate takes her place beside me.

  “Get some sleep?” she asks, yawning.

  I nod. “Lots.”

  “What was Simone saying?”

  “Nothing.”

  Simone walks in. Claps for silence. Music begins.

  “First position. Demi-plié. Grand. Demi—Lindsay, get your clutching talon off that barre. For God’s sake, it is there for balance. It is not your crutch to hang on to. Plié, relevé, tendu, and other side. Very nice.”

  The ninety-minute class is at once interminable and over in an instant. We give reverence. I find my sweater on the floor, pull boots over my pointe shoes, grab my bag from the dressing room, and take the stairs two at a time. Out onto the sidewalk, cold sunshine in my eyes, I find I have to think hard about which direction I must walk to get home, where I crawl into bed and sleep until morning.

  - - -

  When my grandma died, my grandpa lasted a couple of months, then followed her. Luke was seven; I was five. Once Grandpa went, Mom was a wreck. Slept, didn’t work, barely noticed any of us at first. Not a fun time around our house.

  So after the funeral, Dad sat Luke and me down. He had this book, which I now know was this famous Kübler-Ross On Grief and Grieving thing where the five stages of grief came from: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. Dad promised us that Mom was going to be okay, and Luke asked, “When?” and Dad smiled and said, “Okay, let’s see if we can guestimate….” And he pulled out this hand-drawn poster board chart.

  He’d written the names of all five stages of grief and a kid-friendly description. No help to me—I couldn’t read yet—but he drew faces for me, old-school emojis. They were pretty good. And he told us we were to pay attention to Mom, help her, and be good for her, and that as she moved from one stage to another, we could put a checkmark and a foil star beside the ones she’d passed. When she got to the final one, acceptance, that’s when we’d know Mom was okay.

  It totally worked. Lucky for Dad. And us. The chart gave us something to do. We were creepy little anthropologists: How do you feel today, Mama? As soon as we noticed a consistent expression of new sadness (Bargaining! Anger!), we’d run to Luke’s closet, where we had tacked up the chart with pushpins, and cross off another hurdle. Affix anoth
er star. Sure enough, acceptance was it. She woke up. Started grocery shopping. Went back to work. Back to herself.

  And so now, I go on, no idea how to proceed, so I just…do. I keep going to class. As if nothing is different. I avoid Simone before and after class, tell absolutely no one about her asinine Sometimes the ballet does not love us back speech, and obsess over that grief chart. Because I feel myself checking off stages as I ignore voice mails from Simone, make excuses for not hanging out with Kate, rehearse my audition solo, and dance harder and for more hours than I ever have before in all my life.

  Which is stupid because first of all, there is nothing to grieve. No, I’m not Kate—who the hell besides Kate is? But I’m good—no one, in fourteen years, has ever said otherwise. Also, I see myself! There are mirrors and videotaped recitals. I see myself; if I were flailing the way Simone is insinuating, I would see it—everyone would. It isn’t true. She is not telling me the truth.

  But why? Is she saying all this because she wants to retire and sees how the babies listen to me? If she ropes me into becoming Royal Academy–certified, I could teach without her here, and she could go off on an old-lady cruise and leave me to keep the studio going, funding her retirement and my doom? Is she sabotaging my confidence so I’ll blow the San Francisco audition and have nowhere else to go but stay with her forever and be her lackey? My God!

  But then what if…maybe sometimes I turn out with my feet, not my hips, but that’s more a habit, not a physical inability. The auditions aren’t for six more weeks. I could find a stretching coach, Pilates after class and on weekends. I could schedule some private lessons. I’ve still got time.

  Yes, and piles of cash waiting around to be spent. And there are dance teachers all over the city sitting by the phone, waiting to be booked now, in the height of Nutcracker season.

  Hopeless.

  Stage four: depression.

  I trudge home from ballet the Tuesday before Thanksgiving now deep in it, this mourning, and push the kitchen door open to call hoarsely, “Hello?” No one. Mom at school, Dad and Luke at the bakery.

  I toss my bag up the stairs and nearly have a heart attack when the quiet is broken by “Harper!”

  Owen. Sitting on our sofa. Great big, giant headphones on his head, pulled aside so he can hear me when I clutch my chest and scream: “Don’t! Do that! You—don’t scare people! God!”