Audition
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
When you are a dancer
SAR A ≠78
Sun blasts through
In the morning, I unpin the numbers
Big news is
My best friend, Bess, is at music camp.
When you flirt with the mirror
After the fireworks,
July dribbles into August
One last sleepover at Bess’s house,
My eyes open before Bess’s
On the way
Turning off the exit,
As if I could stop the forward momentum,
Señor Medrano waves
After a while I go downstairs,
“Got to get going.”
I make it upstairs
The call from Mom
One more week before school begins,
I am wearing leg warmers
Their eyes are not unwelcoming,
New England girls
I brush through the layers
How long can you go without
“Still with Stephen?”
I am not sure
Upton Academy sits
The trip from school to ballet
Julio is at the ballet school
It is dark when we get back
In class today, Yevgeny barks,
Near the studio door
Fondu développé
Sophomore year in Darby Station,
The October trees are near naked
Dad calls from the orchard,
Friday at the studio
I’ve begun taking Partnering class,
Saturday morning
Bonnie comes early on Saturdays, too.
I watch Bonnie stand, stretch
Audition
Fernando is twitchy,
Most of the girls have been dancing here
I should be in the studio
“Is Julio coming to the studio tonight?”
There is this tricky lift
We read great books at Upton Academy,
I should be grateful
In the smallest studio
No school on Monday
Weekends are always too short
At Señor Medrano’s door, I wave to Dad.
Inside, Julio sits,
The Upton kids sleep in on Monday,
I am awake
The floors of the ballet studio
Everyone is relieved
For once I don’t hesitate to undress
At Denardio’s I sit beside him,
There is an uncomfortable silence
How do nights like this end?
Outside Señor Medrano’s
Another kind of dancing
Ruby Rappaport’s car is in the shop
After class, Jane is sitting on Rem’s lap
We cluster around the bulletin board
That’s enough to stop me eating.
In Ruby’s car after school
Bess is going to the Darby Days dance
My head feels light as my leg
Allegro,
My part in the tour is easy.
Thanksgiving is about food,
It feels like I am always returning
I have this fantasy
Jane looks depressed,
In the locker room I hear
Simone knows all the crushes
I am light with hope
Rem and I lean against the barre
We begin the bears’ feature.
They hand out the paperwork
The first school on the tour is a dump
Afterwards, riding the bus to the motel,
The chaperones are strict,
On the last day of the trip,
Back at the studio
The tape measure
Señor Medrano puts me in the front row
At Upton it is all about
Could it be that high PSATs make me lighter?
After the barre, ballet class moves to center,
Ballerinas are often compared to butterflies.
Twenty minutes ’til the next class
Remington leans against the barre,
In Variations class,
“Tonight, Madison, Bonnie, and I Are going to the movies.”
Madison’s dad comes
I ride on the back of Rem’s motorcycle.
Rem’s giant palm
“R U coming?”
Even without smoking,
Now I hear the music
Rem’s apartment is three flights up,
“What is it, Sara?”
The buttons on my shirt
The name of the little girl
December leaves little time
The Nutcracker has stolen Christmas.
I know rows and rows of people
I have never kept a New Year’s resolution.
I lead my line of Snowflakes
In the dressing room
Will he give me another chance?
Afterwards
The second of January
At the studio on Monday,
Señor Medrano doesn’t mind
Bess emails me a picture
At Upton I am asked to talk
Instead I write a story
Despite how much I hate The Nutcracker,
I write this question down
Denardio’s is a crowd tonight.
Remington’s apartment is cold
Dancing Aurora’s Variation,
On my dresser is a postcard
“C’mon. Get up!”
I do not care about Aurora anymore
I try to write about the creation
Still, it is hard to go to the studio
Yevgeny’s eyes are black.
I don’t like being sick away from home.
Rem and I return on the same day
Yevgeny shows no mercy
It must be serious
But the conversation’s focus
I make up an excuse about a late rehearsal
“Stop
I won’t go
After two days of trying
I don’t know why the cheap novels bother me,
Professor O’Malley’s office is neater
His dance is finished
Now Julio is packing
In the bathroom at Señor Medrano’s
Alone in the house with Señor Medrano.
Shannon watches me limp
My cell phone buzzes.
Can I pretend to be sick?
I make the mistake
I find Ruby Rappaport downstairs
Simone draws me into a corner
Remington is at the far end of the barre.
Upton is buzzing with semester grades
“Let’s go,”
The envelope can wait
In center, the piano plays
After technique class
Remington turns up his stereo, grimaces,
Back at the Medranos
I wake up facedown
My report card is half good:
In English, we are on to Heartbreak House,
What is reality
“Sara!”
A new semester
I am still Mama Bear
Katia and Anne are practicing
My body is angry
The stack of college brochures under my bed
I practice piqué turns
Jane smiles
At the Medranos’ there is a long letter
I love the Little Swans,
At Upton, Anne and Katia
A week creeps by
By Thursday, I feel a sting of desperation.
How long am I supposed to wait?
; Adagio means slow,
At the Rite Aid a block from the studio
I slide into my narrow bed
I wake up lonely.
“You okay, Sara?”
Remington stands at his spot
“Good job, Sara.”
I want to celebrate with Remington.
Dad calls to celebrate the late frost
Señor Medrano gives me a serious look
“I miss you so much,” he says,
Señor Medrano doesn’t ask
Ruby Rappaport has forgiven Adnan
Yevgeny’s eyes do not breathe fire
He is standing in second position,
Still, the invitation comes
He is anxious, pacing
Has it changed,
The next night, I sit beside Barry
After the show, they invite me
College Fair Day at Upton
The college fair concludes
“I got the tattoo!”
They are sending
Everyone is thinking of being
April showers pound the road
The rehearsal schedule turns grueling
Mom texts while I’m in bed with Remington.
I stand outside the door
Easter is a feast
I remember my shock
I am in the front row
Remington invites me
At Upton I find myself
My cell phone pulses
Lisette brings
When Señor Medrano finds me in the hall
Every day is a flurry of extra practice—
“Denardio’s tonight?”
“This is different.”
My face is numb, then ice, then fire
Plié, tendu, rond de jambe, jeté
I have not called Bess
At the next stop on the tour
From the wings, Madison and I watch
The applause lingers
In the back of the bus on the way home,
In the months that she’s been driving me
He is late to dance class on Monday,
Julio is putting his guitar away
I leave my blazer in my room on Tuesday,
Rem and Jane are talking in the doorway
In Variations class, Yevgeny partners me
After, I write down for Professor O’Malley
I’ve spent a year pretending,
I try to console Julio,
May becomes all preparation
When you dance with a partner
Ruby and Adnan
I imagine my bedroom
“Thinking of coming home,”
Mom emails a long list
The Medranos are confused
School ends in early June at Upton
The sky is hazy
From the wings, I watch
VIKING
Published by Penguin Group
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First published in 2011 by Viking, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Copyright © Stasia Ward Kehoe, 2011
All rights reserved
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Ward, S. (Stasia), date-
Audition : a verse novel / by Stasia Ward Kehoe.
p. cm.
Summary: When sixteen-year-old Sara, from a small Vermont town, wins a scholarship to study ballet in New Jersey, her ambivalence about her future increases even as her dancing improves.
ISBN : 978-1-101-54789-2
PZ7.5. W24Au 2011
[Fic]—dc22
2010044307
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
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In loving memory of
Kevin James Kehoe, Sr.,
and Charlotte Elizabeth Eck
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The dance, drama, and school teachers who opened my mind to the stories I could tell on stage and on paper ...
SCBWI Western Washington, a generous, hard-working group of writers, through which I connected with awesome beta-readers Molly and Dawn . . .
My agent, Catherine Drayton, who found me the perfect editor . . .
Kendra Levin, whose insight into the lives of young artists brought such depth to the editorial process, and with whom it is an absolute pleasure to work . . .
All the wonderful folks at Viking/Penguin, whose talent and energy turned my manuscript into this beautiful book, especially Regina Hayes, Susan Cassel, Janet Pascal, and Kate Renner . . .
My parents, Mike and Janet Ward, who were uncomplaining chauffeurs through years of dance classes, play practices and performances, and are now a fantastic cheering squad . . .
Thomas, Mak, Sam and Jack, who told everyone that their mom was a writer long before I dared speak those words aloud myself...
My husband, Kevin, who makes me smile every day and is eternally on my team . . .
And my sister, Kristin, whose compassion, creativity and courage are a constant inspiration . . .
Thank you!
When you are a dancer
You learn the beginning
Is first position.
Heels together,
Feet pointed as far to the sides
As your rotating hips will allow.
And when you are small
And at that beginning,
Your body is as flexible
As your mind.
There you stand,
Potbellied,
Eager.
They do not say to you then
That, when you are sixteen,
Doubt may cramp your muscled calves,
Arch your arrow back,
Leap into your mind.
They do not say to you
When you start in first position
That you may never be
Thin enough
Strong enough
Flexible enough
That you may never be
Enough.
SAR A ≠78
On the third of July,
I stand with a hundred other girls,
From stick-thin to gently rounded,
From tiny, taut packages of muscle
To gawky, long-limbed sylphs,
All wearing pink tights,
Black leotards.
Hair
Sprayed slick
Against our scalps,
Up and away.
Not a single stray strand to dis
tract
From the tilt of our heads
Or the length of our necks.
I notice a few girls dared
Garnish their chignons
With beads, flowers.
Would it help them grab the attention
Of Dame Veronique de la Chance?
Of choreographer Yevgeny Yelnikov?
Of one of the other important teachers
Who have come to scout talent
Here in Boston today?
Or even catch the spectacled eye
Of the secretary in heavy, blue skirt,
Thick shoes,
Taking notes on a battered clipboard
Where our names
Are connected
To the numbers we wear pinned
Onto front and back?
I was given number 78.
Should I have worn flowers in my hair?
Sun blasts through
The giant windows
Of the ballet school in Boston,
Announcing a kinder time
Than the predawn car ride
I took to get here.
A nervous yawn builds in my throat.
I swallow it down.
Repeat with the others a series
Of tendus, pliés,
Ports de bras in center.
Then hands on barres
And me in the middle,
Neither tall nor short,
Gaunt nor round,
Certain of little more
Than that I have never danced
In a city studio before.
I learned each step I know
From Ms. Alice, the neighborhood ballet teacher,
Whose handyman husband made over
Their Darby Station, Vermont, basement
With wooden barres, wide mirrors,
Hopeful posters of satin pointe shoes
Photographed in stop-motion.
I have no way to measure
My training, my technique
Against these other girls
Until, toward the end,
Yevgeny Yelnikov nods,