Dedication
To the Lady Nation: my daughters, Juno, Daphne, and Luella, and my nieces, Orlah, Faye, and Charlie. Always be brave and fierce and kind.
Epigraph
When you walk,
the soles of your feet take turns on the ground,
but the rest of you is in the sky, enveloped in sky.
As you move through it, you make a tunnel
in the precise size and shape of your body.
from “Sky” by Maggie Smith
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Part One: Once Upon a Time
What Ballerinas Do
Whipped
How to Stay on the Ground
My Great Escape
This Message Will Self-Destruct
LRRH
Cellophane Girl
Let Down Your Hair
Foxy Lady
Static on the Line
Sixteen Candles
Heartbeats/Hoofbeats
Someday My Princess Will Come
If the Shoe Fits
Rejected Romance Novels
Theories of Gravity
Look Up
Signs and Signals
Looking for Trouble
Sleeping Lessons
The Tale of the Tattoo
Good-Luck Charm
How I’ll Die
On a Mission
We Go In
Part Two: There Once Was a Girl (With songs by Fleetwood Mac)
Track 1: Don’t Stop
Track 2: Save Me a Place
Track 3: I Don’t Want to Know
Track 4: Edge of Seventeen
Track 5: Say You Love Me
Track 6: I Know I’m Not Wrong
Track 7: That’s Enough for Me
Track 8: That’s All for Everyone
Track 9: Over My Head
Track 10: Silver Springs
Track 11: Rhiannon
Track 12: Where We Belong
Track 13: Walk a Thin Line
Track 14: Dreams
Track 15: Monday Morning
Track 16: Go Your Own Way
Track 17: Hold Me
Track 18: Second Hand News
Track 19: The Ledge
Track 20: Never Make Me Cry
Track 21: Songbird
Track 22: Angel
Track 23: Storms
Track 24: Never Forget
Track 25: That’s the Way Love Goes
Track 26: Landslide
Part Three: Ever After
The Tale of Her Leaving
How to Save Yourself
Return to Sender
Experts on This
Gone Goose Girl
Where I Am
A Stone, a Tree
Pain and Power
Migration
Stakeout
Okay
Seven Little Men
Gold Dust Woman
Can I Get a Witness?
Sara, Like the Song
Knight, Shining
Where We’re Going
Seeing Stories
Look
Acknowledgments
Resources
About the Author
Books by Janet McNally
Back Ad
Copyright
About the Publisher
Part One
Once Upon a Time
What Ballerinas Do
HERE I AM, BAREFOOT ON a stool in the wardrobe room, trying as hard as I can to stay still. There are masses of tulle around me on the floor, piled like drifts of cotton candy. I’m floating in a pastel sea. I’m a very small, very fidgety boat.
It feels like every molecule in my body is vibrating, electrons pinging around in my atoms, shaking my soul loose. This is what I’ve been like lately. My problem right now is this: if I don’t stop wiggling, our seamstress, Miriam, is going to kill me.
She looks up at me, eyes narrowed, mouth full of silver pins. She’s been making costumes for forty years, so she’s pretty good at talking with sharp things in her mouth, but right now she doesn’t bother. She just looks at me and I feel like a five-year-old caught misbehaving. I understand why she’s mad, though. Today is our last class, and she’s trying to finish before we leave so I can dance after a dinner for donors in August. And I’m not helping.
This will be my gravestone:
Here lies Sylvie Blake, who had a pretty good run until Miriam killed her with a sewing needle.
“Sorry,” I say to Miriam. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Miriam shakes her head, but I can see a hint of a smile in her eyes, even if it hasn’t quite made it to her mouth yet. I know I’m one of her favorites, so she lets me get away with things, up to a point.
“Spine straight,” she says through half-closed lips, jabbing a pin into my pearl-gray tutu. “Unless you want your skirt crooked.” Even though I don’t really care if my skirt is crooked, I try my best to pull my spine into a straight line. My Level Three teacher Miss Inez used to tell us to pretend we were fastened to a thread hanging from the ceiling: head, neck, backbone, tailbone, all in a row. Femur, patella, tibia, fibula, each pointing straight down to our feet. I imagine it now: the string fastening me, all those bones hanging, completely still, but it doesn’t work. Miriam clicks her tongue.
“You’re just like your sister,” she says, half to herself. “She could never stay still either.”
At the sound of this word—sister—all the molecules in my body move just a little to the left. I stand there, my tiniest parts swirling imperceptibly. Here’s what I’m thinking: I’d give almost anything lately to stop feeling like an actual galaxy.
Walt Whitman was right, I guess. I contain multitudes. And Julia is the one who did it to me.
Today is my birthday, and it was supposed to be different. Today I was going to figure out how to leave it all behind, be something other than a sad sack or a celestial event. But instead, I’m standing on this stool, feeling so suddenly dizzy that I press my right thumb lightly to the inside of my left wrist. There’s nothing but my own skin in the spot, but this is exactly where my sister’s tattoo is. I was there when she got it, holding her right hand in my own. The ink spells out three words in swooping cursive:
Twenty-six bones
With my fingers on my wrist I can feel the tiny thump of my pulse below my skin, the way it marks how hard my heart is pumping. Even broken hearts keep working most of the time.
That’s still the most surprising thing.
“Sugarplum,” Miriam says. That’s what she always calls me, and it makes me think of Nutcracker songs, fake snow under stage lights, man-sized mice. The ever-present weirdo beauty of ballet.
“Are you all right?” she asks.
I glance down at her and see she’s looking up at me, sharp dark eyes under her crown of silver hair. I shrug before I can stop myself. I expect Miriam to chastise me and say, Ballerinas don’t shrug, the same way she often says, Ballerinas don’t slouch. But she doesn’t. She smiles. She gives me her hand for balance and helps me get down.
“Go have a good last class,” she says. She slips the tutu down over my legs and I step out of it carefully, without letting its new pinned hem touch the floor. It’s as delicate as a spiderweb, lighter than air. But that doesn’t really matter. It would fall to the ground the same as anything else.
There are rules in this world, or at least there are supposed to be. To be honest, Julia always seemed exempt. She was magic. She broke the laws of physics, slipped past the reach of gravity every day. She was made of sparkle and shimmer and grit. But the truth about magic is this: it’s hard to keep believing in it once it’s gone.
Whipped
“WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT gravity,” Tommy says. At least that’s what I think he says. His voice sounds really far away.
Right now, I’m turning fouettés so fast I must be throwing sparks. I’m finally able to move the way my body wants to, and I’m making up for lost time. The room streaks around me like an Impressionist painting left out in the rain, but I’m spotting the window frame hard so I’m not dizzy. A warm honey-gold feeling rises in my belly, fueling me. It might be sorrow. It might be fossilized hope. Either way, it keeps me spinning.
Fouetté means “whipped,” and that’s what I’m doing to the air. Just making my own weather, my own personal cyclone. And it’s all going beautifully until I hit forty-eight turns. Then the ticker-tape count in my head switches off and my ankle falls out of orbit like a faulty satellite. I stop spotting and sputter to a stop, put both feet on the floor to catch myself. The room whirls.
And there’s Tommy, a dozen feet away, one hand on the barre. His posture is perfect, all vertical lines, the muscles of his arms so defined they might be cut from marble. Old Marble-Arms, we call him. Well, not really. But still, he might as well be half Greek god, half fairy-tale prince.
(It’s my job to break the hard news to the princesses: he’s looking for a prince of his own.)
“I saw that,” Tommy says. The studio slows and tilts a little, then rights itself. Blood swirls in my veins.
“Saw what?”
His voice goes all deep and dramatic like a nature-documentary narrator. “Here we see the elusive dancer,” he says, “threatened in her natural habitat.” I roll my eyes, but he doesn’t stop. “Much like the puffer fish and its poison sting, or the squid, which expels a cloud of ink, the young ballerina has her own method of defense.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” I say. Which is true, but it doesn’t stop him.
Tommy gestures his hands toward one another, fingers curved like they’re about to wrap around a neck.
“Someone was going to strangle me?” I say.
“No,” he says, faux-exasperated. “Yuki and Rachel were coming over to hug you goodbye. You didn’t see them? I assumed that’s why you turned into a spinning top.”
I shake my head. “No,” I say. But I can’t help looking across the studio toward Yuki and Rachel. My friends, or at least they used to be, when I knew how to talk to them. When they knew how to talk to me. I used to be like them at the end of each year: dripping with last-class nostalgia, standing with the rest of the class in a cluster near the doorway. It’s clear more hugs are in the forecast.
There are my classmates, floating around as sweet and wispy as cotton candy, sugar spun to air. Lately I’m feeling more like a Lemonhead: tart and sharp and hard to chew.
“Ballet dancers aren’t supposed to be cuddly,” I say to Tommy. “We’re supposed to be beautiful. Elegant.” I arrange my arms into fifth position and pose.
“Bitchy,” Tommy says. “I get it.”
I roll my eyes. He points across the room to Emma, who, unbeknownst to her, plays the part of our nemesis when it seems fun to have one. Her cider-colored hair in a perfect bun, no strays escaping but also no sign of hair spray. It’s a conundrum, I always used to say (a little-known Nancy Drew title: The Mystery of the Immovable Bun), and then Tommy would answer in a stage whisper: Dark magic. I’d believe it. After all, her grand jeté is pretty otherworldly, and she’s just the type to sell her soul.
“You want to be like She Who Must Not Be Named?” Tommy says.
I shake my head. “Not particularly.”
Tommy flips up his palms, triumphant. “Then let yourself be hugged once in a while.”
“Okay,” I say. “You can hug me whenever you want.”
Tommy smiles. He tips his head to the side. “Let’s talk about the fouettés,” he says. He raises his eyebrows. “Forty-eight. Pretty stellar.”
Because of course he was counting too. None of us can stop. It’s a disease.
I shrug.
“Come on, Sylvie,” Tommy says. “It’s way more than you’d need for Swan Lake.”
He’s right. To dance Odette/Odile you have to be able to do thirty-two fouettés in a row. Not exactly easy, but I can do it. I mean, I better be able to do it because I’ve been practicing all year. In the beginning, I think part of me believed that there was some number I could hit and everything would feel okay again. That if I spun long enough, my molecules would settle back into their proper places.
And then my sister would come home.
But at this point, that’s not going to happen. Julia’s been gone since my fifteenth birthday and today I turn sixteen. A year is long enough, right? It’s time to stop hoping and try to move on.
I cup my foot in my palm and straighten my leg above my head, toes pointing toward the ceiling. If I were anywhere else this would look like showing off, but here it’s nothing special. So utterly normal it’s almost boring.
“Screw Swan Lake,” I say.
“My thoughts exactly.” Tommy leans back against the barre, head tilted. James Dean in tights. “Waterfowl have absolutely no place in ballet.”
“Damn straight,” I say. I try not to smile.
Tommy and I have grown up together, here in the studio. We’ve been friends since we were seven. Tommy’s mom was a ballerina herself, first in Buenos Aires, where she was born, and later in New York. She quit when Tommy was born, but as she tells us, she knew he’d be a dancer. It’s in his blood, she says.
It was the same for me, I guess. I followed Julia to the Academy. When Tommy and I were younger, we’d sneak into her classes and sit cross-legged against the wall, watching the older dancers. We learned to be invisible in our sweatpants and ballet slippers, still trembling with warmth from our own class down the hall. The rooms smelled of wood and sweat and rosin, and they smell the exact same way now. It’s disorienting, actually. It leaves me breathless sometimes, the way the past comes tumbling into the present, forcing me to remember.
If it would only stay where it belongs—in the past—this would all be much easier.
Now I turn and look at myself squarely in the mirror. When we were younger, Miss Inez used to warn us that we couldn’t depend on mirrors to tell us if we were doing things right. Reflections are flipped around and far away, locked somewhere behind the glass. We perceive them differently. “You have to trust your own body,” she’d say, in her raspy Barcelonan accent. “You can’t trust a looking glass.” I don’t know why she called it that, if it were an accident of translation or a purposeful renaming, but it made us all remember. I still do.
I step forward, rest my fingers on the barre. It’s smooth and cool and still, an object fixed in space. I swear, just the steadiness of it is enough to make me cry.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“You seem a little jittery,” Tommy says, reading my mind. “Are you having an early quarter-life crisis?” He rubs his shoulder. “Sixteen is the new twelve, I assure you.”
“Good to know,” I say. I turn around and fold at my waist, pressing my forehead to my legs.
“I’m serious, Syl.”
“I’m fine,” I say to my knees. I hope they believe me, because it’s unlikely that Tommy will. I’m not ready to explain things to him. I don’t want his Eternal Optimism™ shining in my face. Not about this.
“Okay,” Tommy says, his voice floating down from above me. I stay folded.
My pinkie toe stings, and I wonder if my blister has opened. I wiggle my toes inside my pointe shoes and feel an electric twinge of pain. I won’t be surprised if my new tights are bloodstained when I take them off. Baptized, Julia used to say.
When I stand up straight, Tommy is still there, his brown eyes watching me.
“Let’s get out of here,” he says. “I think you need a break. And the faster you go to dinner with your parents, the faster you can come have cake with Sadie and me. She’s been baking all day.”
“
All day?” I say. “For one cake?” I picture an eleven-tier wedding cake, covered in sugar flowers. Sadie in a frilly apron, her hair powdered-wig white, dusted with flour.
Tommy shrugs. “That’s what she says. Let’s just hope it’s edible, because either way, we have to eat it.” He gives me a gentle shove toward the hallway. “Go get ready. I’ll meet you outside.”
He walks over toward Rachel and Yuki, to be taken into their candied embrace, I’m sure. I don’t wait around to see. Right now, it sounds so good to get out of here.
But my escape plan needs an escape plan, because as soon as I set foot in the hallway I hear someone call out my name. It’s Miss Diana, my favorite teacher and Julia’s too, the only one in this whole place besides Tommy who hasn’t acted like my sister never existed at all. I know I should be comforted by seeing her, but instead—inexplicably—panic spreads through my blood like heat. It only gets worse when I see her lift a small white package in her hand like she’s on a ship, signaling to shore. Signaling to me.
I don’t know what makes me do it, but I make like a squid that’s run out of ink. I just hightail it out of there, leaping down the hallway before I can stop myself.
Running from what I don’t want to know.
How to Stay on the Ground
I DON’T GO FAR. THERE’S a door next to me—the bathroom—and I pull it open, fold myself inside, shut it. The whole time, I’m holding my breath.
The bathroom lights are off and I don’t turn them on. I just stand there in the soft light from the window, planning the rest of my life in case I have to stay in here forever. There’s water, obviously, and a toilet, though nothing in the way of nourishment, which is a problem. I think I have a granola bar at the bottom of my dance bag, but after that I’m out of luck.
I pull off my sweaty dance clothes, trading them for a black jersey dress I had rolled up in my bag. Then I lean on the white porcelain sink and look at myself in the mirror. If you look quickly, I could be any other dancer: brown hair pulled back in a tight bun, black leotard, pale pink tights. That’s the pleasing thing about ballet, sometimes, the corps mentality where you get to look like every other girl. Where you’re supposed to look like every other girl, down to your smile, your perfectly pointed toes. Ballet may be all about story, but the corps dancers’ individual stories get obliterated. Unless you’re me. I look enough like Julia that sometimes I’ll pass a company member in the hall and she’ll do a double take. When Jules was still here I used to like it, but now it just makes me feel like a reflection instead of a real girl.
The Looking Glass Page 1