Where Remington is flirting with Jane
And the beautiful Lisette is asking me about books,
Not dancing.
“I read it first years ago,” Lisette continues,
“But it’s still one of my favorites.”
I flirt with the possibility
That Lisette could be a friend.
But I would have to forgive her
For taking my dance,
As if she or anyone here knows
They should be sorry.
“Oh, there’s my mom.”
Lisette waves to a tall woman near the door.
“See you later.”
The hall is nearly empty now.
Just a few others besides
Me against the wall,
Rem and Jane by the small studio,
Heads a little too close
To make my legs
Strong enough to stand.
The clock’s second hand ticks adagio-slow
Past the one, two, three, four
Past the five, six, seven, eight
Past . . .
It’s been too long since Remington
Glanced my way.
I force myself up,
Trace Lisette’s steps
To the exit.
At the Rite Aid a block from the studio
I do not see Bonnie or Simone,
Who must have left
Before I found my legs.
I buy a giant bag of Nestlé chocolate chips
And a can of peanuts.
Eat half of them before I cross the parking lot
Back to the studio
And a ride home from Señor.
Wish I had Bonnie’s courage to throw up.
I slide into my narrow bed
Alone.
Unwashed.
Books, tights, bobby pins
Overgrown in my jungle
Of a room,
A mind.
My stomach
Bloated from an unfamiliar feast,
I languish
In the pain of overstuffed body,
Clouded heart.
I shut my eyes.
See Rem’s mischievous smile,
Long lashes,
Brown eyes,
Sharing movements with Lisette,
Laughter with Jane.
I said I would wait.
Am I a fool for not waiting?
Should I have pulled his shirtsleeve,
Arched my back,
Made some demand?
Should I have told Barry
I’d go with him to the Fall Formal?
Not waited the long bus ride,
The time for him
To grab his own courage,
Take his own chance,
Ask Katia?
Should I have said to Señor,
“No!”
When he said Bonnie
Would dance Aurora?
Should I have told him
I could do it?
Should I have stayed in Jersey
The weekend before the audition?
Sweated in the studio?
Showed my passion,
My worth?
I replay my stupid,
Foolish
Nod.
Rem’s giant hands
Pushing air,
Telling me to
Wait.
Why do hands
Pushing air
Push me?
Why do I always
Time things wrong?
Go when I should stay?
Stay instead of go?
I wake up lonely.
Want to be
Someone’s
Prima
Ballerina
Muse
Girl.
“You okay, Sara?”
Ruby Rappaport tosses
Her highlighted curls
Across her doll-like face,
Eyes concerned.
“Oh, sure.”
“Haven’t forgotten your blazer anymore?”
She smiles.
I laugh
As if I care.
Try to raise
My eyes
To meet hers,
My lips
Into a grin,
My heart
From my shoes.
In the studio
The air smells the same,
The mirrors still smeared,
The pianos still tinkling
Come-hithers
To the dancers in the hall.
But I am more different
Than on New Year’s Day
When I thought I could own
Ballerina
Through Remington’s embrace.
My feet so leaden,
I cannot imagine
I could ever dance
The picture in my mind.
The skipping four-year-old butterfly
In a basement studio
Catching Ms. Alice’s eye.
Still I pin up a bun,
Slide into hunter green,
Ballet slippers.
Crawl into the studio
As if there were no other doors
In the universe.
Remington stands at his spot
Facing the barre on the far wall.
Pulls away to stretch, his back
Turned to me.
I sit on the floor
Beneath the center barre
Between Simone and Madison,
Bouncing my turned-out knees
Hard enough to make bruises.
He pivots toward the mirror,
Walks in my direction.
I drop my head to my feet.
Despite Señor’s clacking heels
In the studio doorway,
Rem crouches down,
Touches my chin.
“It’s not what you think, Sara.”
Which can’t be true,
Because I have thought everything.
Every possibility,
Combination,
Outcome,
Ends in a stalemate
Without conclusion.
And it must be one of them.
“Okay.”
I add a false nod
Like the one I gave to Ruby Rappaport.
“We’ll talk after class.”
As if his smile
Commands
Acquiescence.
I stand up slowly,
In the aftermath
Of Remington’s words.
Knees weak.
Breath fast.
Furious
At Rem for thinking
This could all be so easy,
At Jane for her power,
At Lisette for her pirouettes,
At myself
For nodding again,
For decisions that are always off count,
For not knowing the question
I would want him to answer
If I ever had the courage to ask.
Yet the venom strengthens my legs.
The anger steels my back.
The frustration clears my head.
When we get to grand battement
My leg kicks higher
Than any boy
Or girl
In the studio.
Kicks away
The regret,
The sorrow,
The uncertainty,
Up
Up
Over the streaks, smears, speckled fingerprints
To the top of the mirror where the clean glass
Reflects a sliver of pure light.
“Good job, Sara.”
Yevgeny finds me in the hall
After class,
Retying my pointe shoes
Before Variations.
He rubs his palms together,
Eyes thoughtful.
“Señor Medrano and I agree
It’s time to promote you to E class.
Get yourse
lf some gray leotards
This weekend.”
I want to celebrate with Remington.
I can’t help myself.
I sail through Variations
Without even stopping to care
About staring at Bonnie’s
Skeleton back.
Afterwards,
I walk down the hall,
Into the small studio
Where Lisette and Fernando
Practice one more lift
While Remington makes notes
In a tattered, coverless
Spiral notebook.
“That’s it. Thanks,”
He says to his dancers.
I skip up to him,
Almost not caring
Who is watching us.
“I’m in E class!”
And I am folded into his giant hug,
Smell his salty sweat, his nicotine breath.
Feel his damp, white T-shirt
Against my cheek.
Dad calls to celebrate the late frost
Which makes the sap flow quick.
“There’ll be plenty of maple syrup
This year.”
“Great.”
As always, the metronome
Beats.
I know he will not ask me
Any real questions.
Everything is in the silence
Of his pauses,
The twitch of his fingers
Because Mom will not let him
Smoke cigarettes when he uses the phone
In the house.
I remember one Sunday.
I was nine years old.
Mom and Dad had had another quiet fight
About his smoking.
Mom packed a bag,
Bundled us into the car.
Drove down to the bottom of the hill
Just past the orchard gates.
Pulled to the curb.
Set the car in park.
We sat there, engine humming,
Her eyes brimming wet,
Me, uncertainly patting her shoulder from the backseat.
Twenty minutes later
She turned the car around
To go home.
All these years, through
Her myriad threats,
Newspaper clippings about cancer and heart disease,
His halfhearted stabs at quitting,
I somehow always knew:
Though he might never stop,
She would never leave him.
Señor Medrano gives me a serious look
When I tell him I am going out
With some friends.
“I’ll get a ride home.”
“Sah-ra, you have rehearsal all day tomorrow
And schoolwork.
Your parents, dey worry
About your grades.”
“My essay for Monday
Is almost finished already.
Plenty of time to touch it up
On Sunday.”
He shrugs.
What can he do?
I am not his daughter.
I am no one’s daughter here.
“I miss you so much,” he says,
Pushing a stray hair
Away from my eyes.
My body shudders.
“I can’t wait for us to be together again.”
There is something calculated
Behind his words.
“Remington?”
“I’ve got to work with some dancers
Tonight. It’ll be late.”
I watch him walk away.
Don’t linger to check for Jane because
I have to find Señor Medrano
To get a ride.
Señor Medrano doesn’t ask
About my change of plans.
Still I am glad
My cell rings in the car
On the way home.
“I’m promoted to E class,”
I tell Mom.
“That’s wonderful.
You should exchange those green leotards
For the next color.”
“Sure.”
“Unless.” She comes up for a moment’s air.
“Did you cut the tags off already?”
“I did. Sorry,”
I lie.
Despite the expense
Measured in apples and peaches,
Forsaken weekend drives home.
Don’t want the long explanation
Of how to make an exchange,
Her suggestions for the cut
Of the leotards I should buy,
To listen any longer
To Mom’s rushing anxiety.
“I’ll send you some money.”
Mom is still talking.
“Don’t forget to do your homework.”
Ruby Rappaport has forgiven Adnan
For whatever offense he committed.
Now we speed even faster
Down the avenues,
Her head always half turned
Toward his tanned smile.
I clutch the white leather seat,
Wait for a complete stop in the studio parking lot
Before I undo the buckle.
In the studio,
I try not to look too desperate
Casting around for Remington.
Wishing I were a magnet that could hold his gaze.
Yevgeny’s eyes do not breathe fire
When Rem comes late to class.
He holds a curious place
Between student and teacher.
Perhaps that’s why they overlook
His tardy ways.
We développé and rond de jambe
While he pliés at the end of the barre,
Works his feet through slow tendus.
We grand battement, soutenu turn
While he coupés and jetés.
Later, at rehearsal,
My angry Mama Bear still swoons
Beneath his guiding hand
Beckoning me out into the woods
While, had I stayed to fan the porridge,
Goldilocks might not have upended our house.
During the break, Simone whispers,
“Rem’s dance got second place
At the Young Choreographers Workshop.
He wants Yevgeny to add it to the repertory
For the tour.”
I am not certain whether this is good
Or bad
Or who told Simone,
Though I suppose she knows everything
Except how to resist
That second donut,
Slice of pie.
Still her black hair shimmers.
Perhaps from buttery treats or not caring so much
If her Lycra uniform
Hints at a little softness.
“Girls!”
Yevgeny clicks his tongue from the doorway.
Simone giggles.
Red-faced, I scurry
Back into the rehearsal room
Where Lisette is already practicing bourrées.
I watch Rem’s face for a smile
When Madison, Simone, and I
Finish a near-perfect Little Swans.
But I find it hovering
On Yevgeny’s lips.
“That’s right, Sara.”
Remington’s back is stiff.
He is staring through the mirror
Into some island no one else can see.
He is standing in second position,
Barely aware
He is not alone.
I pack my bag,
Watching his slow plié,
His pressed-together lips.
Second position
Second base
Second place
Not destinations—
Transitions.
Not first, not best,
Not last.
En route.
Can Rem be satisfied
With second?
When first place looms,
A taut and elegant Lisette,
Reflecting back your own missed
Possibility.
When you flirt with the mirror,
You never stand in second.
Yet, there he is,
Feet splayed.
Still, the invitation comes
Before I put my pointe shoes away.
Audition Page 15