The Complete Series

by Angela Scipioni

  The girls looked at each other for a moment, and then they both burst into smiles.

  “C’mon!” said Iris. “We have to get ready - the bus comes in forty-five minutes!”

  Lily grabbed a brown grocery bag out of the kitchen cupboard and ran up to her room to pack, taking the stairs two at a time.

  Spending the night at Auntie Rosa’s had always been a bit of a mystery to Lily. Whenever Iris came home, she seemed different somehow, and she often had small gifts in her valise such as a new comb, a compact, or a white cotton handkerchief with lace and roses around the edges. Lily imagined that Auntie Rosa had a treasure chest of surprises, like they do at the dentist. Lily would choose a hanky.

  “What’s it like there?” Lily asked, rifling through the top drawer of her dresser, looking for her best underpants.

  “Oh, the teachers are sooo nice!” said Iris. “There’s this one teacher - her name is Harmony DiBella - isn’t that the most beautiful name you ever heard? She’s my tap dance teacher.”

  Lily was more curious about what it was like at Auntie Rosa’s; she hadn’t even yet considered all the questions she had about The Limelight Dance Boutique. It occurred to her that she had no idea what to do, where to go, how to act.

  “Will I be in your class?”

  “I dunno... prob’ly not - you’ll prob’ly be in the class with other girls who are new.”

  “What are they like?”

  “Silly - I don’t know them ‘cuz they’re new like you and they’ve never been there before, either. Here,” said Iris, handing Lily a rubber band. “Put this in your bag. You have to put your hair in a ponytail for class.”

  “Oh. OK.” Lily dropped the rubber band into her bag, which now contained one pair of white cotton underpants, one flannel nightgown, and one rubber band. Satisfied, she closed the bag and rolled the end of it up into a makeshift handle.

  The girls stood at the bus stop, Iris with her blue valise at her side and Lily clutching her brown paper bag against her chest. Lily had never been on the city bus before, and she was excited and nervous. Iris gave her instructions about how to put the quarter into the slot as you climbed up the little steps, and how you had to find a seat quickly. “It’s not like being on the school bus,” said Iris. “They don’t wait for you to sit down before they go.”

  “Here it comes,” said Iris, pointing to the bus as it rose up over the hill. It looked so small from a distance.

  The bus passed their house, and lurched to a stop in front of the girls. Iris climbed the steps, and put her quarter into the slot.

  “Good afternoon,” said the bus driver.

  “Good afternoon,” said Iris. “This is my little sister. Her name is Lily.”

  “Well, hello there, Lily,” said the bus driver. His broad smile revealed a neat row of yellow teeth, minus one slot in front, which had been replaced by gold. The brass buttons of his navy blue uniform strained over his belly, which butted up against the huge steering wheel.

  “Hi.” Lily stood frozen at the top of the steps, her quarter firmly pinched between her index finger and thumb.

  “Put your quarter in,” Iris nudged Lily with her elbow.

  Lily looked at Iris, puzzled. Iris reached over, took the quarter from Lily’s hand, and deposited it into the slot. She took Lily’s hand and led her back to an empty bench. The engine belched as the bus lurched forward. The driver glanced up at the girls in the large rear view mirror that hung from the ceiling, the whites of his eyes seeming to jump out from his dark skin.

  With every house they passed, Lily sank deeper into fear - afraid of the unknowns of Auntie Rosa’s, and of The Limelight Dance Boutique, all of which made her want to jump up, to tell the driver, “Stop!” so she could get off the bus and run back down the street, back up the long asphalt driveway, back to where her mother was eating leftover applesauce out of the Frigidaire, back to the sunroom where she could listen to Tchaikovsky and practice her ballet positions safely behind closed doors. She watched out the back window as the house on Chestnut Crest grew smaller and smaller, finally disappearing behind the horizon, and she understood that home could not offer her the refuge she sought. Not anymore.

  The first night at Auntie Rosa’s, Lily was kept awake initially by the whispers and giggling that came from the bedroom where Auntie Rosa and Iris slept, and then by the street sounds of the city. She was used to the crickets and train whistles of Chili, not the honking, screeching, and shouting that took place in front of Murphy & Nally’s, the bar one block over where Grandpa used to sneak out for a nip before he fell asleep in his armchair and never woke up. Lily sure would not be sitting in that chair. But at least in the back room it wasn’t dark at night like it was at home; the street lights cast a comforting glow across Lily’s makeshift bed, and she passed the sleepless hours by reading the prayer books and old copies of Guidepost magazine that were neatly filed in the wicker magazine rack.

  Even after she had leafed through all the magazines, the travel alarm clock that ticked off the passing hours on the table next to her only read 12:15. Lily tiptoed from the back room through the living room and then as quietly as she could, she snuck down the hall to Auntie Rosa’s room, hoping to find Iris awake, to cajole her into raiding the refrigerator, or into playing a game of rock-paper-scissors.

  Auntie Rosa’s bedroom was dark, except for the glow-in-the-dark rosary that hung from the bedpost, and the sliver of streetlight that slipped in under the window shade. Lily could hear the rhythm of breath - Iris and Auntie Rosa inhaling and exhaling, almost in perfect unison, with a slight rattle differentiating Auntie Rosa’s, which was probably due to the fact that she always worked so hard. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, Lily could see that Auntie Rosa was spooning Iris, and had her snugly wrapped in an embrace, their heads resting on white pillow cases trimmed in lace. Iris’ clothes were neatly folded and stacked on the rocking chair, with the blue valise stowed at her bedside.

  Lily returned to the davenport in the back room and pretended to be asleep when Uncle Alfred came in from playing at The Luau restaurant. She heard him pass and close the door to his bedroom. For the next hour, she practiced reciting the names of all fifty states in alphabetical order over and over, until she finally fell asleep. She was awakened at seven o’clock the next morning by gentle conversation, clinking silverware, and the aroma of percolating coffee as it all wafted from the kitchen. It took her a few moments to remember where she was, and when she realized that everyone was up but her, she scurried up off of the couch, folded the blankets into rectangles as she’d found them the night before, and tucked herself into a corner of the room where she could change out of her pajamas without being seen. When she entered the kitchen, Lily found the table set with blue china coffee cups and saucers and matching breakfast dishes. Various varieties of jelly, jams, and preserves were displayed on a small lazy Susan in the center of the table, and thick slices of Italian bread sat behind the window of the toaster oven, turning golden brown under the red hot coils, filling the house with their warm, cozy aroma.

  Around the table were four chairs, all occupied - one by Grandma Capotosti, one by Auntie Rosa, one by Uncle Alfred, and one by Iris. Lily stood in the kitchen, feeling conspicuous and uneasy.

  “Well, look who’s up!” called Uncle Alfred.

  “If it isn’t our little sleepy head,” said Auntie Rosa. A deep chuckle escaped from her throat, but she didn’t smile. “Have a seat.”

  Lily looked to Iris.

  “I’ll get you a chair,” said Iris, jumping up. She left the room and returned with a small round wooden tray table and placed it at the corner, between her chair and Auntie Rosa’s. When Lily sat down, her chin just barely cleared the tabletop. She had to place one foot on each side of the leg of the kitchen table and draw her elbows in close to her body in order to fit in without getting in the way.

  “You want some toast?” said Iris. “It’s the best toast in the world - they make the bread every day, right at t
he bakery down the street.” She plucked a fresh slice of toast from the oven and dropped it onto a small dish in front of Lily. “And here’s some butter, and you can choose any kind of jam you want - here!” Iris pushed the butter dish and the lazy Susan in front of Lily’s place.

  Lily was struck with how easily Iris sat at the table, how comfortably she fit there. It was as though Iris had been living a secret, separate life all this time. A bubble of anger rose from Lily’s belly, as she recognized that for all those Saturday mornings when she was home alone eating puffed rice, Iris was here, enjoying the best toast in the world and choosing from ten different kinds of jam.

  “You certainly are a very lucky little girl, Lily,” said Auntie Rosa, her voice dripping with sweetness. “After all, it’s because you have such a wonderful sister who loves you so much - the way I loved my own little sister Teresa - that you will be taking dance lessons now. Isn’t that wonderful?” Auntie Rosa beamed at Iris, who cheerily wiped a dollop of half-melted butter from her lips.

  Lily’s body grew hot and a lump of Italian toast stuck in her throat. She wasn’t sure why, but she wanted to run. Run away and never come back. But here is where Iris was, and here is where dance lessons were. She should probably just learn to feel lucky about it, like Auntie Rosa said.

  “Just look at those eyes!” said Miss Nancy, Lily’s ballet teacher. “You are going to be so beautiful when you grow up!”

  “You did a wonderful job for your first day, Lily,” Miss Harmony told her. “Practice your tap lessons every day, and you’ll be ready for recital in the spring.”

  This world of encouragement and appreciation, together with the sense of joy that the act of dancing gave Lily made the indignities of Auntie Rosa’s house seem inconsequential. For the joy of leaping and flying and panting and sweating, and for the warmth of compliments and encouragement, Lily knew she would gladly pay the price of being fifth at the table. And whenever she felt bad about it, she would occupy her mind with a task such as repeating the twelve times table, or reciting the Joys and Sorrows of our Blessed Mother, until the bad thoughts went away.

  The weekends passed and autumn became winter. Lily found the street sounds of Auntie Rosa’s back room comforting as she learned to easily drift off to sleep. The familiarity of the routine eased Lily’s sense of being an outsider and the dejection she sensed when offered a bowl of Iris’ favorite cereal for breakfast, or when taking a bubble bath - which for Lily meant sitting in the back of the tub, behind Iris, where the bubbles were sparse and the water was cold. The small wooden tray became her chair, and the corner spot became her place at the table. Even if it wasn’t a real chair. Even if she did have to squeeze in and try not to take up too much space. It was better than not being there, and after a while, you almost forgot that you didn’t really belong.

  It was at the first dance recital the following spring that Lily discovered her passion for being on stage. Everything about recital was magical - from the sequined costumes, to the lighted vanity mirrors in the dressing rooms. She was enchanted by the way all the girls arrived early in the morning, with their hair in rollers, brown bag lunch in hand, ready to set up and spend the day getting primped, having dress rehearsals, and then gathering in jittery, giggling, nervous groups as each one took their turn on stage. Iris danced with the older girls; Lily was glad to have something that she could call her own, but comforted to know that Iris was close by.

  Each year after, Lily counted down the months, weeks, and days until recital, and each year she sobbed uncontrollably when it was over. By her third year of dance, Lily was performing solos and was placed by herself in the front line of the performance group, just in case any of the other girls forgot the steps. It was also the year when Lily first met Kiki Greiner.

  Kiki had two older brothers, but she was the youngest by several years, and her parents both doted on her as their precious baby girl. Kiki always dressed in pink, and usually wore a pink barrette in her short blond hair, more for style than function. Kiki lived just a few miles from Lily, but went to public school and attended a Protestant church. The excess thirty pounds that Kiki carried around with her was both the reason why she’d been signed up for dance lessons, and why she didn’t do well and hated it so much.

  “I’m actually an actress and a singer,” she told Lily. Kiki walked over from the dressing area, her pink tights straining under the girth of her thighs, not quite making the trip all the way up to her crotch. Kiki sat down at the vanity and began to empty the contents of her enormous stage makeup kit onto the table.

  “I do this dancing thing just for the experience. It’s good to be well rounded when you’re in the theatre.” She handed Lily a container of pancake makeup. “Here, use this for your base.”

  Lily looked up at Kiki’s reflection in the vanity mirror, and then looked back down at the makeup. Aside from the half-used tube of pink lipstick that Jasmine had given her for the purpose, Lily didn’t have any stage makeup. She felt lucky to find a way to buy her costumes - the request for which always caused angst and short outbursts of complaint from her mother. (“Honestly,” she would say, “Twelve dollars for a costume you’ll wear one time? Do they think we’re made of money?”) Yet somehow, the costumes always arrived, and the thrill of trying them on fresh out of the package was better than opening presents on Christmas morning.

  “Here - lemme show you.” Kiki dipped her fingers in a small dish of water, then used them to scoop out a blob of beige crème, smearing it on Lily’s face.

  “Now use this sponge to blend that all over.”

  “So where do you sing?” Lily asked, swiping the sponge across her cheek.

  “Oh, around. We have a band at our church, and I get the lead in the school play every year.”

  One of the only plays they ever had at Sacred Family was the Christmas play, The Gift of the Magi, in which Lily had been cast as the slave girl. They performed it in the cafeteria and her only line was, “Save me, sir - save me from slavery, from a fate worse than death!” It was at that point that Mike Dylan - who played the slave dealer - was supposed to push Lily, causing her to fall to the ground. Mike performed his role with gusto; he flung Lily so forcefully that she went sliding across the floor, causing all of the parents to break out into laughter.

  Lily liked performing, and she didn’t even really mind getting laughed at; it was better than going unnoticed. However, the only other play was the May Day pageant, and the only role was Mary, Mother of God. Once the entire school saw you play the slave girl, you could never hope to be cast as the Virgin Mother.

  “I also belong to the choir at school,” Kiki continued. “Don’t you have a choir at your school?”

  “No,” replied Lily. “Just music class.” Even that was an exaggeration. Sing-alongs with Sister Michael Mary didn’t exactly constitute musical instruction, unless your goal was to sing the Erie Canal song so many times that it would lodge itself into your mind’s ear and pop up at the slightest provocation. I got a mule her name is Sal...

  “Well, next year when we go to high school they’ll have three different choirs - one that does Broadway show tunes, one that performs jazz numbers, and one just for the holidays. You simply have to join. We’ll have loads of fun!” Kiki delivered the invitation with the polish of a well-rehearsed script. Lily could imagine her sitting in front of her mirror at home, speaking to her own reflection, “You simply have to join. We’ll have loads of fun!”

  Kiki took Lily through the routine of applying the rest of her stage makeup, including red rouge and lipstick. Lily was struck with how different she looked - grown up and sophisticated. Almost like a movie star.

  From: Iris Capotosti

  To: Lily Capotosti

  Sent: Mon, Jun 28, 2010 at 3:45 PM

  Subject: Summer and Cicadas

  Dear Lily,

  Funny how certain details of the past can spring to mind, and whisk you back to a precise time, pla
ce and state of mind in an instant, with no forewarning. Whether you want to be there or not.

  The same thing happens to me when I hear a cicada. All it takes is one, and it’s summer. Yesterday, a lone strident voice announced it was time, and when I went out to the garden to pick some lavender for a bouquet, I found an abandoned shell clinging to a sprig. It’s amazing to think that while I was sleeping, hundreds or thousands of cicadas must have been busy molting, because today the air is completely abuzz.

  And a hot summer day it is, believe me. The light is so blinding, I had to pull the shutters closed, even though that means depriving myself of what little breeze might find its way from the sea, over the hill, across the valley to my little stone house, and through the window to my makeshift studio. It’s still better than air conditioning, though. I remember last time I visited the U.S. in the summer, I nearly came down with pneumonia because it was in the 90s for a whole week, and I kept forgetting to bring a sweater along when I went anywhere. It’s not that I don’t realize air conditioning is boon to the local economy. People work better in air-conditioned cubicles, and spend more time (and money) in air-conditioned shopping centers. What could be finer on a hot summer day than strolling the halls of a mall so chilly that it makes people want to try on the new fall fashions already for sale in July? What better place to dine than at a restaurant so cold, the already overweight people feel comfortable stoking their blubbery bellies with way more calories than they need, making them swoon at the impact when they walk out the door, and wobble as fast as they can to their air-conditioned cars.

  How many people can you think of right now, who know what to do with a hot summer day? Who are happy to sweat a little, pack a picnic, set out on a bike or a hike, spread a blanket under a leafy tree and eat homemade potato salad and watermelon and watch ants lug away the crumbs, then lie on their backs to pick out animal shapes in the clouds? I’ll bet you can name a lot more who know where to go to see a 3-D movie and grab a supersize burger with supersize fries and supersize soft drink and supersize ice cream cone without ever going outside.