When we get to my place, Elijah says he’ll take care of the bill. “Thanks for the cab ride,” I tell him. “I’ll pay you back on Monday at school.”
I get out of the car, and Elijah puts down the window. “Hey,” he calls before I cross the street.
“I promise I’ll pay you Monday,” I say again.
“Don’t worry about it. I just wanted to tell you those turn things I mentioned are actually pirouettes, and the thing where you stand to stretch at is called a barre . . . with a double ‘r’ and an ‘e’ on the end. So yeah, I do pay attention. Goodnight, Alice. I’ll see you on Monday.”
He puts the window up and the cab rumbles quietly down the street.
I’m left watching the tail lights in shock. Why would Elijah know these things? More importantly, does he really watch me rehearse? Slowly I climb back through my bedroom window and fall softly in, as if I’ve been here the entire time. I lay in bed and close my eyes, but my mind is still racing and my skin is tingling.
“What’s wrong with you today, Alice?” Miss Lauren, my ballet teacher, asks me. “You’re flat. Your posture is wrong and you look like you’re dragging your feet.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Lauren,” I respond as I look down at my pointe shoes. “I’ll try harder.”
Miss Lauren stands tall in front of me, her posture one of a true ballerina. It’s obvious to me from the way she stands, she turns her legs out from the hips as opposed to the knees, meaning she doesn’t sickle—which is a common error for new ballerinas. They stand with their feet pointed out, the turn coming from the knees instead of the hips, which has the potential for serious damage. She’s turning out properly so there’s as little pressure on her petite body as possible. “Get your head in the game, Alice. If you don’t want to be here, then tell me now so I’m not wasting my time with you. I have fifty other girls out there who’d be damned grateful to have this opportunity, and would be working their butts off to have even half an hour with me.”
Miss Lauren is an accomplished and highly sought-after ballet teacher. She teaches Royal Academy of Dance (RAD) ballet and only teaches RAD ballet. Her studio is in town and I usually go there straight after school for practice and private lessons. She’s hard. She pushes me until my toes bleed and my legs cramp. But I wouldn’t have it any other way, because ballet is what I want to do with my life.
“I’m sorry, Miss Lauren,” I say again as I lower my head with embarrassment and remain looking down at the floor.
“From the top. And this time, if I don’t see a massive improvement on that trash you were giving me a few moments ago, you can forget about going for your advanced level exams. There’s no way in hell I’m sending you to those exams so you can fall flat on your face, embarrass me and tarnish my reputation. I suggest you take ten minutes and pull yourself together.” She points her long skinny finger at me while she stands in front of me, telling me off.
“Yes, Miss Lauren.” I turn and leave the studio, fleeing to the bathroom. When I get in there, I lock the door behind me and collapse, crying, to the tiled floor.
I can’t believe I’m letting myself down, I’ve worked all my life for this and I’m screwing it up because I’m tired. I should never have allowed myself to go out with Becky last night. I’m such an idiot for getting in Laurie’s car, let alone for getting home so late. I slap my forehead with the palm of my hand and bring my knees up so I can rest my tired head on them.
“Get a grip, Alice,” I say, trying to encourage myself to do better.
I take a few moments sitting in the bathroom calming myself and mentally preparing for the next hour and a half lesson.
Slowly I stand and go to the basin and splash cold water on my face. I look at myself and notice how red-rimmed my eyes are from crying, but worse still, how the huge, black bags below them dominate my face. I look down at the running water and take several deep breaths, just trying to gather myself.
During the next few moments in the bathroom, I pull myself together by repeating, “You can do this, you can do this.”
When my body finally calms, I look at myself in the mirror again. Fixing my bun, and pulling my shoulders back I declare to myself I am ready and I’m not tired. I open the door to the bathroom and go back into the studio where Miss Lauren is standing at the barre scrolling through her phone.
She catches sight of me and sets aside her phone with a look on her face which tells me she’s expecting an apology. “I’m sorry, Miss Lauren. I’ve been lacking today, but now I’ve pulled myself together.”
She lifts a perfectly sculptured eyebrow at me, making a faultless arch. She scares the crap out of me at the best of the times when she does the eyebrow thing, usually it’s followed by a twist of her mouth which means she’s really pissed off.
“Is that right?” she asks, and twists her mouth.
Oh, double crap—the mouth.
Accepting responsibility for my own actions, I lower my eyes and nod my head. “Yes, Miss,” I add in a small voice.
“Good, then you won’t mind spending an extra hour rehearsing, will you, Miss Brackman?”
Triple crap. She’s really pissed off.
“No, Miss Lauren.”
“From the top. And if I see one wrong move, we’ll start all over again.”
I let out an internal sigh. I may as well just get it together and do it right, because if I don’t I can see myself staying here until midnight tonight and the exam is tomorrow.
By six that night, I am certain of a few things. One, Mom will be angry at me because I had to stay late, due to my lack of energy in the morning. Two, my feet will need an ice bath to help relieve the pain and stress in them. And three, Becky will have called me at least fifteen times and messaged me about fifty times.
The moment I get in the car, Mom turns to look at me. “Miss Lauren told me what happened today.” Here comes the guilt trip.
“Trust me, Mom, I feel so bad about it.” I take my phone out of my dance bag and turn it on. Right on cue—Becky. Eight voice mail messages, and twenty-three texts from her.
“If you’re not going to be serious about a career in ballet, then I’ll tell your father to not bother working all those overtime shifts to pay for the lessons with Miss Lauren.”
My shoulders sink, because I’m not only letting myself down, but my parents too. Mom’s an elementary school teacher and Dad is an electrician. Both Mom and Dad work really hard, and my stomach roils with disappointment in myself because I’ve let them down.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I do want to be a ballerina, and I have no excuse for today. I was tired and I let it affect my dancing. I promise to try harder.”
“Are you sick? Did you sleep okay?” Mom asks as we drive toward home.
I can’t tell her I snuck out last night because she’ll be mad at me and at Becky, and it’s not fair for her to take it out on Becky. I voluntarily got in the car and went to see her play, it’s not her fault. “I had a restless sleep, that’s all. I think I’m nervous about the exam tomorrow.”
“What did Miss Lauren say? Is she happy with your progress?”
Mom pulls into our driveway, and the moment I open my door and put pressure on my feet, I cringe in pain. “She said what she always says. She says my ankles are weak, my turn out is good, but I need to concentrate and work harder.”
Mom chuckles to herself as she takes my dance bag and goes ahead of me to open the front door. “She’s one of the best in the business. Don’t expect too many compliments from her.” She holds the door open as I make my way up the three front steps then across the porch. “I’ll go run you an ice bath for your feet.”
Mom’s never been a ‘dance mom.’ It wasn’t her who wanted to put me in ballet; I begged her when I was little. I wanted to dance so badly I begged and begged until she and Dad finally said yes. The teacher I had at first said I had amazing turn-out and sensational feet. I had no idea what those words meant, but as I kept hearing her gush over my ‘turn-out’ and ‘feet’
I asked her.
Then when I was old enough, I started researching ballet and what it takes to be a world-class ballerina. Of course, I knew I’d never get there, because the talent required is immense. But if I work my butt off for it and I don’t reach star status, then I’ll know I did everything I could to try and get there.
“Come on,” Mom says as she interrupts my reminiscing about how it all started for me. She puts her arm around my shoulders and leads me in through our family room, down the hall toward my bedroom.
“Hi, Dad,” I say as we pass him while he’s flicking through the channels. He’s still in his work clothes, in the recliner with his feet up in front of the TV.
“Hi, beautiful. How was practice?” he asks as he mutes the TV.
“Um, I screwed up. I was tired and really flat for the first couple of hours, but Miss Lauren pulled me up and made me stay late so I can get ready for my exam tomorrow.”
“Why were you tired?” he asks, pulling his eyebrows together.
I can’t tell him I snuck out last night; he would be so disappointed in me. And I don’t want him looking at me with sad eyes because I let him down. “I don’t know, maybe just nervous,” I say, even though I know it’s a lie.
“You’ll be fine. You’re the most beautiful ballerina I know. And all this hard work . . .” He points to my feet, “ . . . will eventually pay off and you’ll achieve what you’ve been working so hard for.”
I shrug at Dad and smile. I’m not sure most days. “I ‘spose,” I casually say trying to sound like it’s no big deal.
“Hmmm,” Dad huffs and then runs his hands through his thinning salt and pepper hair. “Doesn’t matter when you get there, the fact is, you’re already lapping all the other girls who get too scared to even try.”
I look up from the carpet I’d been focusing on and smile at Dad. He’s always been the voice of reason, and he’s my number one fan. “Thanks, Dad.”
“Alice,” Mom calls from the bathroom.
“You better go to your mother,” Dad’s voice changes into his ‘stern’ and less emotional one.
I go to him and leaning down, I wrap my arms around him and kiss his cheek. He really is a great dad. Number one in America . . . hell, number one in the world.
I take my tired, sore body down the hall and go into the bathroom, where Mom has quarter-filled the bathtub with water and is just coming back with a huge bag of ice. She keeps the bags in the deep freezer in the garage for when I need to ice my body or feet. She rips open the plastic, and tips it into the bath. The ice cubes splash into the water. They aren’t enough to fill the tub, but they cool the water further, which will soothe my feet.
I slip my flats off and sit on the edge of the bathtub. Mom watches as I wince in pain. “You’ll need to cut your toenails tonight,” Mom suggests.
Having long toenails while dancing on pointe is quite literally one of the most painful things a ballerina can do. It’s also the easiest thing to rectify by cutting them right back, so when our body weight is supported up on our toes, our nails don’t get in the way, and it doesn’t become painful.
“Yeah, my big toe was bothering me today,” I answer as mom closes the toilet lid and sits so she can watch me.
“I can see by the dried blood. Why didn’t you cut them last night? It’s not like this is the first time you’ve danced on pointe, Alice.”
She’s right; it was my own stupidity. “I don’t know,” I say. Slowly I wiggle my toes in the water, and I welcome first the sting, then the ease the icy water brings to my feet.
“Do you want me to get your pajamas ready for tonight?”
“Yes, please, Mom. Have you made dinner?”
“I have. Dad and I were waiting until you got home. I’ve fixed the usual dinner you have the night before any exam, salad with chicken.” She stands and comes over to me, leaning down to kiss the top of my head. “I’ll get your pajamas ready, and set the table,” she says with warmth and love.
“Thanks, Mom.”
She leaves the bathroom and closes the door behind her.
Sitting on the edge of the bath, I lean my back against the cool tiles and close my eyes. So many thoughts keep popping into my head, everything from my exam tomorrow to how Becky did last night. However, Elijah keeps coming back to the center of every thought because he really surprised me. Even though Miss Lauren worked me hard today, and I was tired, he was still there. I tried to push him out of my mind, but his remarks about what he knew of ballet seemed to have an impact me. Why would a boy, who’s been a total pain in my side since as far back as I can remember, know all those things about ballet? Unless of course, he’s into ballet. He certainly isn’t a ballet type of guy, he’s a football or basketball or even a surfer type of guy.
I hear my phone chime indicating a text message and I know it’ll be Becky. We usually don’t go a few hours without talking, unless I’m preparing for an exam, or she’s writing a song. Becky often says to me, “Can’t talk, Alley-cat, got a song stuck in my head and I wanna write it down before I forget. You know a song to an artist is like a book to an author, once it’s in your head it’s gotta come out.” They’re words I often hear from her, and I don’t mind one little bit because I know what her music means to her. The same thing ballet means to me.
Although my phone’s chimed a few times, I don’t bother trying to get to it. I’ll call Becky when I get out of the shower and I’m getting dressed. I’m just too relaxed at this moment to try and get to my phone.
When the assigned music for my messenger app stops playing, it’s only a few heart beats before it starts ringing. But I continue to tune out and not let it bother me.
My feet are finding their happy place in the incredibly cold water, which means I’m finding my happy place too.
A few more moments pass, and my feet have stopped throbbing from being up on pointe for so many hours. I drain the tub, then strip off my clothes and turn the shower on. Being a ballerina is taxing on the body. Not only do I dance up on my toes once I’m in pointe shoes, but I still need to always be fully aware and in complete control of my arms, shoulders, torso, back and neck. Basically everything.
The moment the warm water connects with my back, I’m in heaven. This is exactly what I needed after the intense training I had today. I know I brought a lot of that on myself because of how deflated and flat I was in the morning. Who am I kidding? Miss Lauren would’ve found something else to kick my butt for, but maybe she wouldn’t have made me stay for the extra time.
When my body is content with the shower, I get out, wrap a towel around myself and go to my bedroom.
I grab my dance bag, and dig through it to find my phone so I can call Becky. I find it in one of the side pockets and swipe the screen. I have so many missed calls from her and text messages. I also have a text from Elijah, which I didn’t notice earlier. This is the one I’m most intrigued by.
Tapping on his message I read it aloud.
Hey, I liked hanging out with you last night. And I’d like to hang out with you again. Say, next Saturday night? If you’re not busy.
Looking at the time stamp, it was sent about three hours ago. I smile to myself when I type out my reply.
You asking me on a date?
Instantly I get a reply.
IF I was (big IF) would you say yes?
He’s so cheeky, I can’t help but smile at him.
I’ll answer ONLY if you ask ;)
So that’s a no?
You didn’t ask.
What if I don’t ask?
Then you’ll never get your answer.
What if I ask and you say no?
You need to weigh your options and decide if it’s worth the risk. —High-five, Alice.
I best sleep on it and see if it is worth it.
Tomorrow my answer will lean toward no. You want to see if it’s worth it? Who says I’m not considering if it’s worth it too?
That means tonight your answer is more than likely yes.
/>
Does it?
I put my phone down and towel myself dry. But his reply doesn’t come, it doesn’t even arrive by the time I’ve finished drying myself and put my pajamas on. I plug my phone into the charger and shrug. “Looks like he decided you’re not worth it, Alice,” I say. I’d be kidding myself if I said I wasn’t a bit disappointed.
I go out to find Mom and Dad sitting in the family room watching TV, holding hands. Mom and Dad are so affectionate with each other, and it’s extremely obvious to everyone and anyone just how much they adore and love each other. I’ve never ever heard them fighting or saying a bad word about or to the other. I hear a lot of our family friends say how much they envy Mom and Dad because they’re still in love even after so many years together.
“Hi, beautiful. You ready for dinner?” Dad asks as he stands and pulls Mom up too.
“I’m starved,” I reply, and so does my stomach with a loud grumble. We go into the dining room, and Dad sits in his usual spot while Mom brings out dinner. “Do you need help?” I ask.
“Nope. Everything’s done.” She places a large bowl of salad with grilled chicken slices mixed in on the table closer to me, and a steak in front of Dad. Mom and I eat the chicken salad, and she places some on Dad’s plate. He mumbles, “I’m not Bugs Bunny,” in a low voice and spears the lettuce onto his fork before shoving it in his mouth and chewing it as fast as he can.
Mom and I laugh at this, because Dad hates salad. More specifically he hates lettuce. Mom puts it on his plate, and he shovels the lettuce in and eats it first and incredibly fast. “Now I can enjoy my steak,” Dad says as his eyes bulge at the lump of rare red meat sitting on his plate.
Mom and I laugh at him, and put some salad into our bowls.
Around the dinner table we talk about a range of things, but the thing we keep getting back to is my exam tomorrow. “How do you feel about it?” Dad asks.
Dying Wish Page 3