“Thank you,” I tell him. “Thank you, this is— this is amazing news. This means so much to me.”
“Of course. You’re still in recovery, and we must be extra careful and attentive. I highly recommend you continue to do your exercises with the resistance band at home, just as you have been.”
I nod, over and over. “Right. Totally. I always do my exercises.”
“Wonderful.” He gives me a kind smile. Then he stands, opening the exam room door. “Now, let’s go build up your strength for these hikes. And before you know it, we’ll have you back in ballet school.”
8
Spinning
February 15
Mr. Lawson leads me out to the exercise room. There is a wall-length mirror. The open floor is cushioned with soft black mats. Racks of weights, stability balls, and resistance bands are stocked along the edges of the room.
He instructs me through the usual exercises: repetitions to strengthen my quads, hips, and hamstrings; balance exercises to help with proper alignment; stretches to increase my range of motion. I work through them all with soaring confidence, newly aware of how far I’ve come since October.
I’ll never forgive myself for the stupid decision that led to my torn ACL.
I was at the studio with Eva and Taylor and Hattie, all of us dressed in the same white leotards and pink tights. We were early for our Intro to Pointe class, anxiously waiting for the session to begin. Studio B was open, the sleek metal barres pushed off to the far sides of the room, warm autumn sunlight streaming through the windows. Faint piano music filled the space from the accompanist playing for a different class down the hall. An upbeat allegro. We could hear the rhythmic thuds of the students practicing their petit jetés and changements.
Hattie had memorized a soloist part from Cinderella. She was showing it to us, humming the music under her breath as she moved through the port de bras and piqué turns. Hattie has always been at the top of our class. Some of the girls think it’s unfair favoritism, since her mom is a former principal dancer, but I’ve never felt that way. I just think that Hattie is gifted and passionate. I think she works harder than most people do.
But then again, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little envious of her. Because in addition to being one of the best in our class, she also lives in a beautiful, artsy condo in downtown Seattle, a few blocks away from the big convention center, the shopping district, and the waterfront. And Hattie’s mom had a barre installed along the wall-length window in their living room. So Hattie can practice pointe exercises and barre stretches at home, any time she wants to.
I love everything about Hattie’s house. I love the electric-blue chairs around her dining table, which are all bent in unusual shapes. The wooden coffee table in her living room has a massive, cracked geode slice embedded in its center. Her sofas have scarlet leather cushions. A collage made of sheet music hangs from the wall. Dramatic black-and-white portraits of Hattie’s mother in various ballet productions line the hallway, along with a procession of Hattie’s school photos. She and her mother look so much alike, the dance portraits almost seem like glimpses of her own future. A psychic foretelling.
As Hattie spun in tight circles, Eva, Taylor, and I were all seated on the studio floor, lacing the ribbons of our pointe shoes around our ankles. Cinching them tight. Tucking the knots inside the satin folds.
In our regular Intermediate Technique II classes, we did piqué turns all the time. But we hadn’t started practicing them in Intro to Pointe. We were beginners. We only did pointe work once a week; in contrast, our technique classes occurred four days a week. And the majority of our Intro to Pointe classes took place facing the barre, going through slow and simple motions—pliés, tendus, gradual relevés.
But there was Hattie. Spinning on her toes like a real ballerina.
She dropped down from the last one in the sequence with a sigh. “It’s something like that,” she said. “Then Cinderella lifts up to an arabesque. She follows through, plants her foot down in front of her, and does a forward bend.” She demonstrated this, stepping to an arabesque on pointe, wobbling only a little before she stuck the landing.
Eva sighed. Crossed her arms over her chest. I reached over, giving her knee a gentle pat. I knew Hattie didn’t mean to show off, but sometimes her flawlessness felt like a personal attack. It was hard for the rest of us not to feel frustrated by her incredible footwork. Her effortless strength and flexibility.
Hattie glanced at us. She stepped out of the finishing pose and ducked her head, looking suddenly shy. “Do any of you want to try? It’s not as hard as it looks.”
Taylor huffed and said, “I think we’re good.”
“Same,” Eva said. “I need to stretch.”
They both turned to each other, picking up a new conversation, blocking Hattie out. They didn’t even compliment her, or mention how impressive she was. Which didn’t seem right to me.
Hattie turned to me with a hopeful smile. “Maisie?” she said. “Come on. You’re stronger on pointe than I am. You’re seriously going to be the next Noelani Pantastico. If I can do it, you totally can.”
I looked up at Hattie. She often compared me to Noelani. She always said that I looked just like her. That I moved and performed like her, too. And I wanted that to be true. I wanted to seem like someone destined to perform as the Peacock in The Nutcracker. Or Juliet in Romeo and Juliet. I wanted it so badly.
And so, I stood up. And I went to Hattie.
9
Time to Heal
February 15
We return to the exam room. Sweat has gathered on my brow from the exercises, and I wipe it away with the back of my sleeve. Mr. Lawson nods and jots a quick note to himself on his clipboard. “Good,” he murmurs. “Very good. You’re doing great today, Maisie.”
I sigh with relief. Lean back against the exam table. Mr. Lawson pushes a cart beside me. There is a wide, flat machine balanced on top of it. The machine has various dials and buttons on it, and a small digital screen. We use it for the electrical stimulation therapy.
I stare up at the ceiling as he gets to work, powering the machine on and rolling it even closer. A question rises to the tip of my tongue. A question that has been on my mind, ever since the beginning of our appointment.
When I began physical therapy a few months ago, Mr. Lawson said that it would be unlikely for me to return to ballet lessons this school year. He seemed to think that I would have to wait until next year.
But considering our progress, has Mr. Lawson’s opinion changed? Would it be possible for me to return to ballet in the spring? Or the summer?
Mr. Lawson presses four cold, sticky pads to the bare skin around my right knee. Each pad is connected to a wire, and to the machine.
Mr. Lawson must sense my thoughts hovering in the air between us, because he says, “You’re rather quiet, all of a sudden.”
I try not to wince as he presses the last pad just below my knee. “Actually, Mr. Lawson, there’s something I’d like to ask you.”
“Ask away.”
“Since—since I’m making such good progress, with the recovery and everything . . . do you think . . . when you said, ‘Before you know it, we’ll have you back in ballet school,’ what did that mean? Exactly?”
“Ah.” He frowns slightly. “I didn’t mean to get your hopes up, Maisie. I know how badly you want to get back to the studio. But I stand by my initial estimates. I don’t think you should return to your ballet lessons until the next school year begins.”
I nod and swallow my disappointment. “Okay,” I say. “That makes sense.”
He turns to the machine. Gives one of the dials a slow turn. I feel the prickling course of electric currents, the cool pads warming against my skin.
“Can I ask another question?”
“Of course.”
“Do you think I might be okay to go back this summer? Before the next school year begins?” His brow wrinkles, and I charge ahead to explain myself: “I�
�m only asking because the audition season has started. All the best ballet schools in the country are recruiting students for their summer programs. They’ll be holding tryouts through the end of spring.”
My heart starts to race, just at the thought of it. We’ve already convinced Dr. Hart and Mr. Lawson that I will be okay to go hiking next week. What if we can convince him to let me do an audition or two? That’s all I would want. It’s all I would need.
“Hmm.” Mr. Lawson tilts his head. “I’m not going to give you a direct answer right now. But I don’t think this goal would be too unreasonable, as long as your recovery continues on the way it has been.”
At these words, my heart leaps.
“However, I want you to be gentle with yourself. Trauma takes time to heal.”
I’m quick to say, “I know! Believe me, I know. I’m being careful.” I close my eyes for a moment, focusing on the electric pulses. “Little higher.”
He increases the voltage. My muscles twinge in response. The pads grow even warmer. I open my eyes, blinking up at the ceiling.
“Right there,” I tell him. “Perfect.”
He nods once. Steps back from the machine. “I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”
He leaves the room, and I let my eyelids flutter shut again. I relax against the exam table’s stiff cushions. My mind wanders as the electrical pulses buzz and swirl along my skin, gently twitching the muscles around my knee.
I daydream about audition numbers pinned to my leotard. I imagine the soft gray glow of the studio. The twirling melody of a piano.
10
Oblivious I
February 15
Twenty minutes later, the machine beeps and shuts off. My right knee feels warm and tingly. I point and flex my foot, stretching and tensing through my entire leg as much as I can. It’s a relief to feel my muscles work, to feel the firmness in my calves, the arch of my foot.
Mr. Lawson returns to remove the pads from my skin. He reminds me to practice my exercises at home and tells me to have fun on the road trip with my family.
When I return to the lobby, I find Mom leaning against the front desk, nodding as Marisol speaks. Marisol’s voice is hushed, her words rapid and anxious. Her curls bounce as she shakes her head.
“—and with everything else going on, I just don’t want to see her bomb this test too, you know? Her entire future depends on it. That’s what’s at stake here. Her future.”
“I know,” Mom murmurs. “I get it.”
Marisol sighs. “She’s a smart girl. She’s capable of so much. I just wish she understood how important it is to go to college. That she can strive to be something more than—more than . . .” Marisol glimpses me out of the corner of her eye and trails off, swallowing hard as she stares at my face.
I pause awkwardly in the middle of the room. Mom straightens to greet me, forcing a bright smile.
“Maisie! Mr. Lawson says that you’re ready for once-a-week visits. Isn’t that fantastic news?”
“Yeah.” My response comes out dull-sounding, closed off.
“We’re celebrating,” Mom declares. “I ordered a pizza, and we’ll have some ice cream for dessert. How does that sound?”
“Sounds good.”
Marisol pulls up the calendar to book my next appointment. Mom retrieves a credit card from her wallet to pay for this one. She gives Marisol a reassuring pat on the hand before we leave, with a few urgently whispered words: “It’s going to be okay. Everything will be fine.”
Marisol nods, even though her eyes are still a little sad.
I pipe up with, “Thanks again for the books, Marisol. Tell Fabiana I’m really excited to read them.”
“You are so welcome. Take care, sweetie. Be careful on this trip.”
Mom and I leave; I hug the stack of books against my chest as I follow her down the sidewalk. “What were you guys talking about?” I ask.
Mom waves the question away. “Oh, nothing. She’s worried about her daughter’s SAT scores. She’s working with a tutor, but Fabiana’s still struggling.”
“Oh.” I think of the C– on my math test; my stomach muscles clench.
Mom leads the way into the pizza place. When we walk in, there are two slim cardboard boxes on the counter waiting for us. I pull my phone out of my pocket to check for messages from Eva.
Eva: OMG IT WAS AMAZING. I THINK I DID AMAZING. WOW.
Eva: That was my best audition yet. Hands down.
Eva: Omg I’m so excited. I hope I got in!
I type back, Congrats! I hope they accept you too. So proud of you.
Even though I mean every word, my heart turns to lead in my chest as I hit send. A lump rises in the base of my throat, tightening my airway and shortening my breaths to shallow gulps.
Mom is oblivious as she thanks the restaurant workers and scoops the pizza boxes into her arms. She doesn’t even meet my gaze as she hurries us back outside and to the car, talking the whole way about how she needs to finish packing for our trip, and how she couldn’t find Connor’s hiking boots this morning, so she hopes that Jack will know where they are.
We climb in, I place my new books in the back seat, and she sets the warm boxes on my lap.
“Hold them level,” she says. “Please.”
I shakily inhale the scents of garlic and marinara sauce. Mom pulls out of her parking spot and starts drumming her thumbs against the steering wheel as she inches through the traffic to exit.
We drive all the way home, and I don’t say a single word. I just sit here, waiting for my breaths to even out. Waiting for this sudden pang in my chest to go away.
11
Cape Woman and the River Men
February 15
My parents had a love story similar to Romeo and Juliet’s: short, tragic, star-crossed.
But Mom and Jack? They’re more like Cinderella and Prince Charming: proof that even after losses and heartbreak, happily-ever-after can be possible.
Jack grew up in the city of Port Angeles, about two hours east of Neah Bay. He is Native too, an enrolled citizen of the Lower Elwha Klallam Tribe. Jack is the type of person who knows a little bit about everything, but he knows everything about Klallam and Pacific Northwest history. Probably because he was raised by his grandfather. His see-yah.
“I was only allowed to call him See-yah,” Jack told me once. “Never Grandpa. He thought the English words for grandparents sounded ugly. But you know, sometimes when I was trying to be funny, I’d call him Gramps. Just to see the look on his face.” He chuckled at the memory. “God, I miss him and the looks he used to give me.”
Jack’s see-yah was born on the Ediz Hook—a sandbar that extends into the Strait of Juan de Fuca—in 1928. At that point, his family was homeless. Landless. Like many other Klallam people.
“The late 1800s and early 1900s were a difficult time for the people,” Jack explained to me. “Settlers were coming in, and there were all kinds of epidemics. Our ancestors suffered from smallpox, measles, influenza. Construction began on the Elwha Dam. And laws were passed that made fishing illegal for Natives. They weren’t supposed to hunt or fish in the rivers or off the beaches around their traditional villages. Not even to feed their families. The state required special licenses to fish, and you had to be an American citizen in order to apply for a license. But we weren’t US citizens until 1924. Natives could be arrested if they were found fishing outside the system. Just like they could be arrested for refusing to send their kids to the boarding schools.”
The early years of his see-yah’s life were difficult. The family lived in poverty. They were forcibly removed from Ediz Hook by white settlers when Jack’s see-yah was only a small child.
“His family didn’t want to leave him, but they were hungry, and homeless, and of course, there was the threat of going to jail if they didn’t give him up. And so, he went to the Chemawa Indian School in Salem, Oregon.”
This was where Jack’s see-yah learned to speak English. Where he was forced to spea
k it. His teachers tried to beat the Klallam language out of him.
“He never talked about it much,” Jack told me. “Even as an adult, he seemed haunted by that place.”
Jack can be the same way about his own childhood. About the years before his see-yah took over as his guardian.
“Hurt people hurt people,” I’ve heard him say, especially in reference to his own parents.
Jack moved in with his see-yah when he was fifteen. Which was the same age he dropped out of high school.
“I’m not proud of what my life looked like back then. I was young and dumb, convinced I was invincible when I wasn’t. See-yah helped to straighten me out. He taught me what it really means to be one of the Strong People.”
In their language, the Klallam tribes are known as the Strong People. According to Mom, the Makahs are the Cape People. And the Piscataway are the People Where the Rivers Blend.
We have a running joke in my family, that my mother has a type. That she goes for the river men. Especially the high school dropouts.
12
The Pirate
February 15
The four of us are seated around the dining room table, nibbling at the ends of our pizza crusts and listening to Connor talk about his day at school. Every night, we talk about our days at work and school, and every night Connor has the most to say. Tonight, he’s telling us all about this girl named Abby in his class, who slipped a handwritten valentine into his cubby.
He is obsessing over this card. The significance of it.
“And then, when we lined up for early dismissal, I tried to stand next to her,” Connor says. “I even told Joey, my best friend, to stand with someone else, because I wanted to talk to Abby. But she pretended not to see me waiting! And Sophie P. and Ellie started laughing.” He stares at his plate, deep in concentration. “I don’t get it.”
The Sea in Winter Page 3