One Dream Only

by Elodie Nowodazkij

  “I told you to get out!” Mama is in my face, but I don’t flinch. Even though her fury scares the crap out of me, she never hit me. Not once, despite being drunk more often than not, ever since the accident.

  “Listen, Mama.”

  “You listen.” She points a wobbly finger at me, her usual striking features are contorted in a mask of despair: her mascara trails down her cheeks with her tears, her blue eyes, a bit clearer than Papa’s and mine, are all puffed up, and the mouth that can curve into a beautiful smile is a thin line. “I want you out. If only you didn’t ask him to drive you back.”

  I didn’t want him to drive me back on that day, but he didn’t leave me a choice. I wanted to know why he was so angry. I wanted him to talk to me. But I had to be back at school. He understood how much it all meant to me, and he insisted I couldn’t miss my plane.

  “If only—” She doesn’t finish her sentence, instead she downs another shot. “Just go!”

  I clutch the necklace my parents gave me for my thirteenth birthday. The silver chain holds the pendant I had been eyeing for weeks: ballet shoes with pale pink diamond. Papa told me it would be my lucky charm. I was wearing it for my first callbacks at the School of Performing Arts. It was with me the day I received my first big role. But it didn’t protect us from the accident. Touching it calms and burns me at the same time, but I don’t have it in me to take it off.

  “Mama,” I try again.

  “I killed him!” Mama screams so loudly the entire neighborhood might hear her. There are only fifteen houses or so scattered in our little community, but they’ve been here forever. When we moved into my babushka’s house two weeks ago, they all welcomed us with open arms, giving us apple pies and casseroles. Mama put on her show: she thanked them all profusely but still downed half a bottle of vodka as soon as she closed the door.

  This house used to be synonymous with summer fun and spending time with my best friend, Becca, with my parents at least pretending to get along so as not to worry my grandmother or their friends. But this is not the house I would choose to come back to after everything that has happened. My babushka passed away last January and left the house to my parents. I asked Mama why we couldn’t start fresh somewhere far away. She said tears don’t care where you are, that sadness follows you everywhere, and at least in the little town she grew up in and where we spent every summer, her friends could help her find a job. She’s starting as part-time secretary at Becca’s dad’s law firm tomorrow. Staying in our house in Maine was too expensive anyway. Another reason why moving to Everbird in New Jersey made sense according to her.

  The pressure in my chest builds up, but crying won’t change a thing. There’s no way she’ll listen to me now, no matter how angry or sad I am.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. I grab my coat and my backpack and close the door, not bothering to hide my scar under makeup like I usually do. When the car crashed against the tree, pieces of the windows stuck in my skin and ripped part of my left cheek. The surgery left a red trail, starting in the middle of my cheek and spreading to my ear.

  But I don’t care about my face right now, I need to get to a place that can quiet my thoughts, and stop the sadness from pouring into my veins like a never-ending torrent. The lake that’s less than a mile from our home has always been my special place during the summers. It’s where Becca taught me how to swim and where we named ourselves “Sirens for Life.” It’s where I always went to practice secretly after my curfew and where I have the best memories of my parents. Before Mama’s drinking got the best of her, before their fights, before the crash that took Papa and my dreams.

  The shortcut to the lake from our home is a dirt road that isn’t well lit, but I know the way by heart. I hurry down the path, tuning my iPod to Chopin’s happier music. But I can’t drown out Mama’s voice. It resonates in my head. It’s my fault! I know she’s wrong because she’s not the one who killed him. I did. If only I didn’t get into an argument with him in the car. If only I had warned him about the truck. I bite back a sob and rip off my knee brace to walk even faster. At first, my knee is stiff, but at least I can extend my leg much better now.

  Seeing the lake calms me down, soothes me. This place is always crowded in the summer, but on this crisp September night, there’s no one. The lights surrounding the area flicker, the tall trees leave interesting shadows on the ground, and a discarded pink umbrella stands next to the bench by the grilling area. I turn up the volume of my iPod even more, settle on the bench, and search through my backpack. My pointes show the wear and tear of the last years, and no matter how much I scrub, there’s one smudge that doesn’t want to go away.

  Memories flash back when I slip them on: my father handing me a bouquet of lilies after each of my recitals, the crew from the School of Performing Arts sneaking out to get ice cream, the summers I spent on the raft at the lake with Becca and my babushka, the hours at the barre.

  Everything’s gone.

  Dancing’s always been my escape from reality: from the fights my parents had more and more often, from my babushka passing away all alone at the hospital because no one told me she was sick, from my fears of letting anyone get really close.

  Dancing’s always been my future.

  Dancing’s always been who I am. So even if I can’t dance like I used to, even if I can’t put too much pressure on my knee, I’m convinced I’ll train my way back to the top, that I’ll show Dr. Gibson and the rest of them that they got it wrong, when they said it was very unlikely I would ever go back on stage. Juilliard postponed my audition and the director of the School of Performing Arts said he was holding a spot for me if I wanted to come back. If I could come back.

  I use the bench as my own personal barre, slowly bend my knees, keeping them over my toes. Grounding my heels on the ground, I stretch down as much as I can, but I don’t make it past a demi-plié. I warm up for ten minutes, losing myself in the familiar movements. The stars reflect on the water; it could be the perfect backdrop for a production of Swan Lake. I wish I could position myself for a grand jeté, feel the wind surround me as I fly into the air, but I know better than to jeopardize the progress I’ve made. The last time I tried, my kneecap almost snapped again. Both my knees were smashed in the car crash, but my pivot leg suffered the most.

  Instead, I angle my feet for some small pas de bourrée. I go faster and faster, until I bump into a rock. Fear steals my breath away. I avoid landing on my leg and instead fall on my ass.

  Papa used to say there is a Russian proverb for everything. Whenever I was disappointed about a rehearsal gone wrong, I called him. He always asked me if I gave it my best. When I said yes, he asked me if I learned something, and then he would say Na bezryb'ye i rak—ryba, which means on a fishing lull, even a crayfish is fish. It was his way of telling me that “something is better than nothing.”

  I repeat the words in my head as my fingers nervously circle my knee, testing for any signs of swelling.

  “Are you okay?” There’s a guy in the shadows—with an accent and a nice baritone voice.

  2.

  I wipe my eyes, not wanting to appear as desperate as I feel. I’ve learned from the best. Mama never shows the outside world how she truly feels. She only shows me.

  “Does it look like I’m okay?” I croak. I attempt a glare, but all it earns me is a chuckle. Sweat pearls on his forehead, and he’s balancing a soccer ball on his foot. His running gear bears the logo of Cedarwood High—the high school I’ll start at tomorrow.

  “Let me help you up.” He offers his hand, but I stay on the ground. “That fall really looked kind of painful.”

  I glance up and up. My eyes scan his broad shoulders, and when they reach his face, heat creeps up my body. He’s not only good looking; he’s staring at me as if he sees me, as if he knows who I am, and I’ve clearly lost it.

  “Painful to my ego, mainly.” I ignore his outstretched hand and put my weight on my left leg, but I wobble and fall back down.

&nb
sp; “Easy there.” He sits down next to me, and the concern in his dark eyes seems genuine. My fingers reach my face, but drop when I realize there’s no way I can hide my scar unless I keep my hand on my cheek. The guy inches closer and I try not to stare. He’s got a tattoo creeping from his shirt on the side of his neck: esperanza, a Spanish word that I think means hope.

  “You’re Nata, right?”

  I wince. He does know who I am, which explains the compassion on his face. “Natalya,” I reply.

  “Becca told me about you.” He nudges me and I glance at him, unsure of what to say. Becca taught me how to swim here. We also spent hours on the lake, dreaming about our futures. She was going to be a famous lawyer, I was going to be a prima ballerina assoluta—the highest ranking a dancer can ever reach. Even Mama, who had a great career, didn’t make it to the rank of prima ballerina assoluta. It’s only been given to twelve dancers over more than a hundred years.

  Becca still has a shot at her dream.

  “You saw each other last week, no?” He raises an eyebrow as if prompting me to join the conversation.

  I nod, not fully trusting my vocal cords at the moment. Becca passed by the house last Thursday, after I had repeatedly found excuses not to see her since we moved in two Sundays ago. It’s the first time we don’t spend the entire summer here, but after the crash I stayed two weeks at the hospital and then went through two months of intense physical therapy. Becca came unannounced, and Mama was passed out on the bathroom floor. The conversation was awkward at best. We used to be able to talk as if we saw each other every day instead of three months per year. But I’ve been keeping to myself since the accident. School starts tomorrow and thinking about mingling with others, even if it’s only in the hallways, leaves me nauseous. The community center is different. Miss Morrow, the responsible person there, told me the kids were excited to learn a few steps. She’ll be with me in the class, and while leaving Mama every Saturday morning for two hours scares the crap out of me, I need to do this. She spends most of the weekends holed up in her room drinking or snoring anyways.

  “I’m Antonio by the way. You can call me Tonio.” He extends his hand and this time I take it. When our fingers touch, my entire body jolts awake. There’s a spark in his eye and he keeps my hand in his until I reclaim it.

  He clears his throat. “Becca talks about you a lot. The other day she even told my little sister that you could fly.”

  My lips turn into a smile. “That’s what I told Becca the first time I managed a grand jeté. That it felt like flying. I can’t believe she remembers that.”

  “My sister now dreams of learning how to dance.” Tonio chuckles.

  My eyes fall on his lips. It shouldn’t be legal for that guy to smile. I force myself to stare in the distance.

  “The community center offers some classes.”

  “Karina really wants to learn ballet, there was no volunteer for that last year,” he says.

  “There’s one now. Well, maybe. I’m trying this Saturday,” I reply.

  “Are you? That’s awesome. I’ll tell my mom to register Karina.” He shifts position, extending one leg in front of him. “That must be weird to be living in your abuelita’s house.”

  “Abuelita?”

  “Your grandmother,” he replies. “Mine lives in Colombia.”

  I could talk for hours about the perfect way to do a rond de jambe, how to make sure the movement only stems from your leg, while still maintaining a graceful pose. But I can’t talk with him about my grandmother, or about his, or about whatever else he wants to talk about.

  “I should go,” I say, but before I attempt to get up again, Tonio touches my arm.

  “I’m so sorry about the accident.”

  “Not your fault. That’s what people say, right?” I reply.

  “It depends what you want to say. That’s what should matter.” He passes his hand through his short black hair and shrugs. “I also heard crying helps sometimes.” He winks. “In case you can’t tell, I’m totally deep. Like a philosopher type and all.” He watches me. “And I’m cute on top of that. Becca must have told you all about me. I’m pretty sure she’s been trying to get you to go out with us.”

  She attempted to convince me to go out with her that Thursday she passed by, and she did mention a cute guy she thought I’d like, but she didn’t say how he could make an entire ballet company fan themselves. Cute wouldn’t have been the word I would have used to describe him. Hot is more like it, with his strong jaw and the little scar above his eye. Warmth rushes to my face and snot runs down my nose. Lovely. He opens his mouth to say something else.

  “I really have to go.” I get up more carefully this time.

  He frowns. “I’ll walk with you.”

  “I’m fine, really.”

  “Why don’t you call someone? You’re limping. I’m sure Becca would pick you up.”

  No, because I’ve been keeping her an arabesque away ever since the accident. Because I don’t know how to simply be me anymore. Because if I call her, I’m afraid I’ll tell her about Mama’s drinking, about the way I fought with Papa in the car, how I need to prove the doctors wrong about my career. I’m scared that if I open up to her, I’ll have to realize everything that’s happened is real and face the music.

  “I’m good.” I walk without limping too much. “See? Totally fine.” I clench my teeth so hard I’m afraid one will pop out.

  “If you say so, Princesa.” He raises both hands. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Can’t wait.” He laughs and then jogs off. His pace starts slow but he picks it up and soon he disappears into the shadows.

  It takes me forever to walk back home, and when I push the door open, complete silence welcomes me. The lights are still on, but Mama’s no longer in the living room. I climb the stairs slowly, tiptoeing to Mama’s bedroom.

  I knock on her door several times, but there’s no answer. My heart beats frantically as I crack it open. Her drinking got worse when I was in physical therapy. She used to teach ballet in Maine, but lost her job when she came in drunk during a lesson. No one would hire her after that, despite her successful past. Becca’s dad—Derek—is the only one willing to give her a chance, even though she’s never worked in an office before. Mama’s been friends with Becca’s mom forever. They grew up together here in Everbird before Mama got into Juilliard and then went to the American Ballet Company. A few years after I was born, Mama cut all contacts with her professional dancing past. I always thought it was because she was jealous of those who continued performing, until a girl at the School of Performing Arts told everyone my mom performed drunk once and ridiculed herself. She heard it from her own mother. The beauty of little ballet circles and their gossips. I’ve never understood why some people have so much time to spread rumors. I searched online for the truth, and the official explanation about that night was that Mama had been sick.

  Now, I know exactly what Mama means, when she says she’s sick.

  Papa and Mama moved to Maine—where Papa grew up—not too long after that performance. Mama taught classes at the local studio in our small town and hid her drinking from everyone. Papa always tried to help her: he tried to make her laugh, he tried to keep her busy and away from the vodka, and he asked her many times to talk to a counselor. She never listened. She smiled and said she was doing “just fine.”

  She’s not doing fine now.

  I inch closer to her bed, and exhale as quietly as possible, when I see she’s still breathing. Her light snoring combined with the vodka bottle next to her tells me she once again found a way to cope with her sadness. I add a pillow under her head, worried what would happen if she got sick and whisper, “I’m sorry, Mama.”

  Every evening, I do the rehabilitation exercises Dr. Gibson prescribed, like the standing hamstring stretch and the straight leg raise. After going through his working out plan, I always add a few of my own stretching exercises.

  But tonight, my knee’s too painful. I plop down on my bed.
With trembling hands, I check the size of my knee again, and breathe out more easily when I see it’s not swollen. Instead of getting ready for my exercises, I boot up my computer and check Facebook. My friends from the School of Performing Arts in New York are all excited about the new school year starting. Senior year means their last chance to show a company what they can do. Or Juilliard. My former roommate and only real friend there, Emilia, no longer dances, but she still has a connection inside the school. Her boyfriend is well on his way to becoming a star.

  She posted a picture of the new class—only a few new faces in the group. Who’s taken my spot? They’re all smiling but I don’t believe they’re all that happy. I know well the pain a smile can hide but there are moments when one can forget or simply use the pain for something bigger and better. Like dancing.

  A Facebook chat window pops up.

  Want me to pick you up tomorrow? Becca’s online.

  My mom’s driving me. But thanks! At least I think she’ll wake up and be sober enough to do that.

  I’ll meet you at the entrance then. Mom’s calling me. She says hi by the way. Xoxox

  Knowing Becca will be with me at school tomorrow calms my worries a little. She’s there for me, no questions asked. And even though I feel bad for not letting her in, I know she understands.

  Another notification sound alerts me: I got a friend request. “Antonio Rojas would like to add you as a friend.”

  His profile picture is of him in a soccer outfit, passing the ball to someone. I click on his profile but it’s pretty much locked. I stare at his picture a few more seconds before receiving a message.

  Hope your walk home wasn’t too painful. See you tomorrow, ballerina girl.

  I close Facebook faster than any pirouettes I’ve ever mastered. I’ve seen how relationships can destroy people. And I have no intention whatsoever to get myself into a situation like that. I have one goal: prove the doctors wrong and dance again.

  Plus, if someone finds out about Mama’s drinking problems, I have no clue what they’ll do. Mama refuses to get help—and I’m afraid of what her reaction would be if she’s forced to it. I can’t let that happen. She’s all I have. My uncle didn’t even care enough to come to his own brother’s funeral. I can’t lose her, too.