Someday Dancer

by Sarah Rubin

  “At the end, you were dancing,” she says. “But I will not put up with hysterics.” Her eyes are serious and they seem to be saying something, but I am too tired to read them. “So from now on, no more breaking down, just working hard.”

  I nod.

  “Aren’t you excited?”

  I frown, because I don’t know what she means.

  “You got the scholarship, Miss Quinn,” she says.

  For a moment I just stand there, and then I realize what she said. “Really?”

  My body fills with warmth, and a smile grows up from the soles of my feet.

  “You’ll start in September. Give my assistant your address and she will mail you everything you need.”

  I am quiet for a long time, and then, slowly, like I am remembering myself, I say, “Thank you.”

  Miss Martha nods. She understands. It is enough.

  After I give my name and address to the woman in the office, I walk outside and take a deep breath of warm evening air. I can almost taste the city in the breeze, the cars and noise, hot dogs and roasted peanuts. It smells like hope.

  I walk slowly back toward the bus station. My feet are light and my steps turn into skips. Small skips that are almost like dancing. Gran was right. You have to be sad, and you have to let go. And now I really do dance, with leaps and kicks and turns. I am Casey Quinn. This city hasn’t seen anything yet. I’ve danced my dreams true, and I’m just getting started.

  I sit very still on the bus ride home, not because I am trying to quiet bad feelings and not because I am tired. I sit still because I don’t need to move to dance. I am poised for flight. I did it. And no one can ever say that Casey Quinn is an awkward child ever again. They can’t say I’m ugly, either, because when I dance I am beauty-full of grace, even in my ratty-tatty, used-to-be-white, two-sizes-too-big Converse high-top sneakers.

  As the bus sways me around a curve, I hear something clink in my pocket. It is the dime Mama gave me when I first came to New York City, and the nickel left over from my ride with Mike. I can’t believe I forgot about them.

  I look out the window of the bus like my eyes can take me back to buy something I will always remember. Then I stop. That was when Mama thought I would never go back to New York City. When she thought I wouldn’t get in. But I did get in. Maybe not into the School of American Ballet, but I got into Miss Martha’s school. And Miss Martha’s school is better for me. Miss Martha’s school has a heart like mine. It beats right on the surface.

  Maybe I should just give the money back to Mama, to help out with the bills. I don’t need to buy anything now. But that doesn’t seem right. Just like Gran didn’t save up her money only for me to give it back to the hospital, Mama’s fifteen cents is worth so much more. It’s meant to buy a dream — at least a little piece of one. It’s meant for something special. I just don’t know what.

  The bus arrives early. As I wait for Mama, I look around. The paint set is still in the window of Willy’s General Store. And now I know what the money is for: Mama’s dream. I walk into the store, holding the coins tight in my hand.

  When I come out, I see Mama walking toward me. I run to meet her. My bag is heavy with the surprise paint set, and it bangs against my leg. I don’t mind at all.

  “I got in! I got in!” I yell as I leap off the sidewalk right into Mama’s arms.

  She hugs me fierce and smiles. “I’m so proud of you, Casey.”

  “Really?” I say as we walk home.

  Mama says, “Of course.”

  After dinner, I sit in my room. Mama calls Mrs. Ryder person-to-person to see where Ann-Lee is living in New York City. I’m not so happy about the idea of living with the Priss. She might have worked hard to get into the School of American Ballet, but she’s still too uppity and pinky-pink for me. I won’t let a little thing like that stop me, though. Besides, we’ll be at different dance schools.

  And maybe Andrea will be in New York, too — I’m sure she got into the ballet school. I have her address tucked into the frame of my bedroom mirror, and I know how to write. It would be nice to have a friend. Someone who loves dance just like I do. I don’t need one, but it would be nice.

  Mama comes in to say good night, sitting on the edge of the bed while I crawl under the covers.

  “Mrs. Ryder says Ann-Lee is going to live in a boarding house for dance students and you could probably get a room there, too.”

  Mama looks around my room at her painting. It hits me that I will have to leave the world Mama gave me behind.

  “Mama, do you think you’ll ever paint again?”

  Mama looks shocked. Then she thinks about it. “I don’t know, Casey,” she says slowly. “When your father died, my painting just dried up.”

  “Don’t you miss it?”

  She looks at the painting again.

  “Yes.” She says it with a big whoosh of air. Like she’s been waiting her whole life to let it out.

  “I think you should try,” I say.

  I climb back out of bed and get the paint set out of my closet and put it on Mama’s knees.

  “Casey’s, what’s this?” she asks in a whisper. I don’t answer, just crawl back into bed and watch as she opens the box and runs her fingers over the brightly colored tubes of paint. Her face is soft and far away.

  “It was really hard to dance because I was so sad about Gran, but Miss Martha made me. And the dancing made me feel better. So maybe the painting will make you feel better, too?”

  Mama looks up at me. Her eyes are big and wet, but her mouth is smiling.

  “Will you try?” I ask one more time.

  “We’ll see.” Mama kisses me on the forehead and says good night. Then she shuts off the light and closes the door. I think we’ll see means yes.

  I am full of happiness and sadness and fear all at the same time. Everything’s changing so fast. The world is spinning like an out-of-control pirouette. I want it to stop but I can’t even make it slow down.

  I lie in bed, looking up into the darkness, and I miss my gran. But not sharp like before. It’s a soft kind of miss, because I know she’d be proud of me if she were here. Her dancing baby going all the way to New York City. But if Gran is in heaven, and New York City is the stars, then maybe we won’t be that far away from each other after all.

  I sit on the front porch, squinting over the hot red dirt and waiting for the Ryders to arrive. It is early morning, but the sun is already strong on my feet, baking my toes inside my high-tops. The rest of me is tucked up safe in the long shade of our front porch, but even without the sun on my skin it is hot. The air is so still and heavy even the flies can’t be bothered to buzz around. And the ground seems to shimmer like water boiling off a hot pan.

  Behind me the front door creaks open and bangs shut, and I can hear Mama walking onto the porch. She is huffing and puffing ’cause it is even hotter inside than it is out.

  Mama sits down on the porch next to me and hands me a slice of cool, fresh watermelon dripping with red juice.

  “Any sign of them?” Mama asks, and I shake my head. I take a bite and the juice dribbles down my chin. On the outside I am quiet and calm, but not inside. Oh, no. Inside I am lit up bright as bright can be. I’m going to New York City today to dance with Martha Graham. I spit out a watermelon seed with a little pop and watch it sail into the shimmering red dirt, a perfect arc of joy.

  Mama puts her arm around my shoulder and squeezes me close.

  “You all packed?”

  I nod again, and swallow hard. All of my things fit snug as you please into one small suitcase. Old and faded blue with a leather strap wrapped around the outside, it is sitting on the porch behind me. It doesn’t seem like much to be leaving with, but I can’t take the big things with me. I hadn’t thought about leaving, not really. I thought about getting out of no-good Warren all the time. But that was different. That was just imagining leaving all the bad stuff in the red Carolina dust. I never thought about all the good stuff I’d have to leave.
Like my room, and Mama.

  “And you’ve got all of the addresses and telephone numbers written down?”

  “I’ve got everything, Mama,” I say.

  “Are you sure? Let me see your bag.”

  I give Mama a look. The kind of look Gran used to give her.

  “I know, I know. Just humor me.” She smiles. Her eyes are big and full of blue, like two giant lakes.

  Mama’s been making sure I have everyone’s phone number written down since I got into the Martha Graham School of Contemporary Dance. She’s got a list of them as long as my arm, pinned to the wall by our telephone: the boarding house, my new high school, Miss Martha’s office. She’s even got the New York City police department’s number there, just in case. I told Andrea about it in one of my letters, and she said her mother was even worse.

  I sigh and open my knapsack, but I don’t mind really. I show Mama the letter from Mrs. Everton’s Boarding House for Young Ladies, saying I’ve got a room, and my letter from Miss Martha’s school. In the address book Mama bought for me at Willy’s General Store I’ve got our phone number, so I can call home, and the Ryders’ number in case there’s an emergency. I’ve got Andrea’s New York City address in there, too. She did get into the ballet school, after all!

  “And where’s your class schedule for regular school?”

  I just wanted to go to New York to be a dancer. But Mama wasn’t having any of that. “You’ll finish high school or you won’t go,” she said. So I’m enrolled in Lincoln High School, which is right near the boarding house. The Priss is going there, too, but so is Andrea, so maybe it won’t be so bad.

  Mama looks over my school schedule and nods once. She hands it back to me, and I fold all of my papers back up and put them safe and sound in my bag.

  “All right, Mama?” I say.

  Mama smiles a secret smile. “I’ve got one more thing for you,” she says, and pulls out something skinny and square from behind her back. “You were right, you know,” she says softly. “The painting does help.”

  I turn over the square. It is a canvas, and Mama has painted our house on it. It winks at me from the end of a long oak tunnel, like it is welcoming me home. It is so beautiful it makes me want to cry and smile all at the same time. We are quiet for a moment, sitting in the heat of the rising sun, thinking too many things to say.

  “I’m going to miss you, Casey,” Mama says with a sweet Southern drawl. “This house gon’ be real quiet without you, girl.”

  “I’ll call all the time, you’ll see. It’ll be fine,” I say, and I wonder who I’m trying to make feel better, Mama or me? Mama looks at my face like she’s trying to memorize me, and I want to tell her the truth: that I will miss her more than the whole wide world and the stars and the moon all mashed up together. But I can’t. I can’t hardly even think about it without my eyes starting to burn and that big, ugly lump growing in my throat and cutting off all my words.

  I hear the Ryders’ car before I see it, rumbling down our little oak lane, dipping and bobbing across the dirt road, and kicking up a storm of dry red dust. I bet it’s never been on a dirt road in its life. Mama stands up and waves. I can feel my heart tap-dancing along my ribs, because now it is happening for real. I am actually on my way to New York City.

  The car stops and the doors open. Mr. and Mrs. Ryder get out of the front. Mr. Ryder is tall and flabby, and his collar is too tight. His face is red and sweaty from the hot car.

  The Priss gets out of the car, too, but she stays behind the door on the other side of the car. She’s wearing a new yellow dress that makes her skin look sick and green.

  “Hi, Casey, dear,” Mrs. Ryder says, and I smile because I like Mrs. Ryder, even if she is Ann-Lee’s mom. Mr. Ryder doesn’t say anything, just wipes his forehead with his handkerchief, goes back and pops the trunk, then gets back into the car. I pick up my suitcase with one hand and use my leg to shift it down the steps, dragging it through the dirt to the back of the car while Mama talks to Mrs. Ryder. My palms are red and slippery.

  “Thank you so much for taking Casey with you,” I hear Mama say, but my heart is pounding too hard to hear anything else. The air is hot, but inside I am cold as ice. I am leaving Warren and Mama, and going to dance in New York City. I am excited and scared and jittering all over.

  As I lift my suitcase to place it in the trunk, Priss Ann comes and stands next to me. She looks at me like she wants to say something, but I don’t give her a chance. I just put my suitcase in the back and turn away. I don’t have time for the Priss and her comments today.

  I give my mama one last hug. I want to tell her that I am going to miss her, but I can’t make the words come out past the lump in my throat, so instead I just press my head into her shoulder and try to breathe her in so deep I’ll never forget her smell. Mama squeezes me back hard and then steps back, holding on to my shoulders and looking in my face.

  “You work hard, Casey Quinn.” She nods her head once, then steps back while I climb into the car.

  The hot leather seat burns the backs of my legs. Mr. Ryder starts the engine before I even close the door, and I don’t manage to shut it until halfway down the dirt lane as we’re bumping toward the main road. I turn around in my seat and look out the back window, waving at my mama until we’re out of Warren.

  The car ride is shorter than the bus ride, because we don’t stop at every town to pick people up and let people off. Mr. Ryder drives fast, blowing his horn at anything that slows him down. The lines at the side of the road ripple past like a ribbon, and the wind whips in through the open car windows. Prissy keeps stealing sideways looks at me, but I pay her no mind. I rest my head on the side of the car and let the warm breeze wash over my face.

  The sun rises higher and higher in the sky, but Mr. Ryder doesn’t slow down. I can feel my stomach start to rumble. We’re in Maryland now, and I wish Mama had packed me some sandwiches.

  “Dear,” Mrs. Ryder says, “aren’t we going to stop for lunch?”

  Mr. Ryder doesn’t answer, but we stop at the next roadside diner. The air feels cool and fresh compared to the hot car, and I stretch my arms up into the sky and try to shake some feeling back into my toes.

  There’s a flashing blue neon light that says EATS in the window, and the waitresses wear blue dresses with frilly white aprons and badges with their names. A waitress named Shirley takes us to our table.

  “Well, I’m starving. What are you going to have, Casey?” Mrs. Ryder asks me as we slide into our booth, the vinyl squeaking against my legs.

  I have a hamburger, so does Mrs. Ryder, and after Mr. Ryder orders a cheeseburger, Ann-Lee does, too.

  “I hope you’re gonna watch your weight when you’re living on your own,” he says to her. “I didn’t pay good money on ballet school for you to throw it away by packing on the pounds.”

  Priss picks the cheese off her burger before she eats it.

  After lunch, she and I wait outside while Mrs. Ryder pays for lunch and Mr. Ryder fills up the tank with gas. I can feel her eyes on my face like needles digging into my skin, but when I turn to look at her, she looks away.

  “What?” I ask, making my voice hard as rock because I am tired of her sneaky-smirky eyes staring at me.

  “Aren’t you scared?” she asks in a voice so small I almost don’t hear it.

  My heart drums hard against my ribs and my palms go cold, but I don’t say anything. Of course I’m scared, just a little, but I’m not gonna let anyone know it. Especially not Ann-Lee Ryder. She’d probably lap up my fear like a cat with cream.

  The Priss keeps looking at me, twisting her fingers around each other and waiting for an answer.

  I stand up straight and gaze back at her, level steady. “No,” I say. “I’m not scared at all.” And I don’t say another word until we get to New York.

  It’s late when Mr. Ryder stops the car. “This is it,” he says. His voice is hot and tired just like the rest of us.

  I hop out of the car on the doubl
e and get my suitcase out of the trunk. The Priss is staying next to her mama, holding her hand and looking up at the building in front of us like it’s full of ghosts. Mr. Ryder doesn’t pay any attention to her nerves, though. He is straight up the steps and knocking on the front door. “Come on,” he says. “It’s a long drive back.”

  Mrs. Everton’s Boarding House for Young Ladies is five skinny stories high and is made of red-brown brick that makes me think of South Carolina dirt. I miss Mama fierce in the dark, but I take a deep breath and keep my eyes dry.

  Inside, the building is full of girls. Some are my age, but most are older, with their hair done up in neat curls. Their high-heeled shoes clatter against the bare boards. Upstairs someone is singing scales, and someone else is yelling at her to be quiet.

  “Hello there, you must be the girls from South Carolina. I’m Mrs. Everton. I’ve got you both in a nice room up on the second floor.”

  My suitcase bumps against my leg as I heave it upstairs. Miss Priss and Mrs. Ryder each have one handle of her enormous trunk, and they’re carrying it up together. Mr. Ryder is walking behind us, his hands jingling coins in his pocket. Our room is small, even smaller than my room back home in Warren, and with two beds and two dressers squeezed in side by side it seems crammed full.

  The Priss takes the bed by the window.

  “We’ll call you in a few days to see how you’re settling in,” Mrs. Ryder says. “Work hard and be good.”

  She gives Ann-Lee a hug. It makes me think of Mama. Missing her stings me all over, but I don’t let it show.

  Mr. Ryder just stands in the doorway, looking at his watch.

  The Priss looks at him with big eyes, but all he says is for her to watch what she eats and he’ll have a special present for her when she comes home for Thanksgiving. She smiles, but it isn’t a real smile at all.

  Mrs. Ryder gives her one more quick hug, and then she and her husband are gone.

  The Priss looks lost, standing next to her bed and staring at the door.