Audition (12 page)

 

Rem pulls his hands away,
His expression unreadable, bland.
“How’d it get so late?
We should get you home.”

 

 

I stand up,
Follow Don
To the flashing neon exit sign.

 

 

“How about you sit up front, Sara,
So you can show Paul
Where you live.”

 

 

“Don’t you know where Señor Medrano . . . ?”
I start,
But Rem and Don are already
In the back,
Paul’s lips are pursed,
The engine is humming.

Rem doesn’t get out
Or offer to walk me up
The crumbling stairs.

 

 

I watch Paul pull away from the curb,
Try to recount the number of beers
Rem drank.

 

 

Is this what a first kiss is supposed to be?
Disapproving eyes, probing hands, curious guilt,
A lonely walk to the door.

 

 

Señor Medrano’s front hall is icy from open windows
Battling the acrid smell
Of something recently burned in the kitchen.

 

 

I wonder at the raw tenderness of my lips
And whether Remington will still like
Partnering with me
Tomorrow.

Is the Fall Formal
At Upton Academy,
Which has become the obsession
Of Katia and Anne
And the few other girls I’ve gotten to know
In the little time I spend at the school
Before rushing to the studio,
Missing every sport, club, casual gathering,
Missing everything that high school
Really is.

 

 

At Upton I am a wave
Passing through—
A shadow that will not be missed
If I turn up late or leave too early.

 

 

I do not even care
About the stupid theme,
Arabian Nights,
Nor the dresses
Nor the rented limousines
Until Barry comes to me at break
Before history. He leans against my locker,

A flush creeping up to his narrow blue eyes,
Tugs at his regulation tie
As if it’s strangling him.

 

 

Barry asks if I know whether anyone’s asked Katia
To the dance.

 

 

The question is odd
Since Katia is not my close friend.
And if he had really wanted to know
He should have asked Anne.
But I stupidly say I’ll find out
And he agrees to call me after school.

So I ride the evil bus down Harris Avenue,
Heart pounding,
Unusually distracted.

 

 

By the time the bus arrives
At the studio,
I have decided Barry was trying
To ask
me
to the dance
And that I should suggest we go together
When he calls.

 

 

I cannot sit still.
Pace the studio halls
Trying to forget
The tantalizing electricity of Rem’s lips,
The disapproval in Don’s stare,
The urgent knot in my stomach,
Until my cell rings
Three minutes before class.

 

 

I slide into a corner.
“Hey, Barry.”
“Hey, Sara.
I guess I don’t need any help.
I asked Katia.
She said yes.”

 

 

My stupid heart
Drops into my worn ballet slippers.

 

 

My face burns.
Ears ring.

 

 

I stumble into the studio
Even though, until four hours ago,
I had not stopped dancing long enough to reflect
On fall formals, Arabian Nights,
The kind of music ordinary teenagers move to,
Or whether any of it is made
Of violins, violas, twinkling pianos
That are an easy fit
For ports de bras
And pliés.

But he gives me a curious look over her shoulder.

 

 

My insides clutch,
Remembering
His hands under the table.

 

 

I cannot figure
Whether I care
About Barry’s rejection,
About Jane’s fingers
Twirling through Rem’s straight hair,
About Upton Academy,
Or ballet,
Or anything at all.

Where Shannon has posted the cast lists.
I have the part of Mama Bear
In the “Goldilocks” Tour.

 

 

But all I can think about
Is my role as a Snowflake
In
The Nutcracker
,
Which will mean I cannot go home
For Christmas.

Well, not completely.
I eat dry toast at breakfast time,
Ignoring the strange bean-based meals
And stinking cups of
maté
Señora and Julio enjoy.

 

 

At lunch there is the salad bar at Upton:
Grapefruit sections, lettuce,
And sometimes a cookie.
I have little self-control
And I hate myself for that.

 

 

I am not hungry anymore,
Though I crave chocolate, sweets, love.
I am numb to the days as they pass;
Their numbers no longer lead to my escape
Back to Vermont.
And there are rehearsals all the time.

 

 

For another thing,
It turns out Rem is my Papa Bear,
Which feels more dangerous than dessert.

My cell rings.
Mom’s voice is garbled
By the shearing wind.

 

 

Ruby says
She will not close
The convertible’s roof
Unless there’s an inch of snow at her feet.

 

 

On the awful bus yesterday
Before Barry called,
I had texted Mom,
“I might need
A new dress.”

 

 

Now, regretting typing every letter,
I shout my pat replies
About breakfast, lunch, dinner,
Dreams.
Pretend I don’t hear questions
I cannot answer.

 

 

Mom has not come to Jersey to see me.
Says her bank schedule keeps her in Vermont.

Perhaps she has begun to enjoy
Parenting from a distance,
Clean and sanitary
Without visible tears.