Audition (34 page)

 

 

There’s a girl with a straight back,
Taut ponytail, bulging bag
That could easily hold ballet shoes.
She smiles out from page five.
And I grab a copy of the application,
Not just because it saves me from going
To morning math tutorial.

As Ruby Rappaport races me
Down Harris Avenue,

 

 

Turning her head away
From the road
To point out a rainbow,
Mottled pink and yellow arches
Costuming the white-and-neon Rite Aid building
With a kind of grace.

 

 

A text from Bess.
Six words:

 

 

“On Easter I kissed Billy Allegra.”

 

 

I picture them at the annual orchard Easter Egg Hunt,
Bending to grab the same bright, plastic egg
From the crook of a gnarled apple tree,
Brought together by the traditions
Of Darby Station, where, eventually,
Every path crosses another

 

 

If you don’t go away.
I imagine their foreheads
Nearly touching,
Their sneakers damp from running through dewy fields.

 

 

I doubt Billy has discovered
The musical note,
Purple on Bess’s thigh
Near the elastic of her underpants.

 

 

Should she feel any more sorry
Than Rem for continuing his curious friendship with Jane
Despite me?

 

 

I can’t bring myself to feel anger,
Though the thought of their kiss
Dissolves the dream of returning home to Vermont,
To be the girl I was before,
Into another siren’s island, another place
Where I have failed in courage, in voice.
Another myth of safe harbor.

 

 

“Sara, we’re here.”
Ruby taps my shoulder.

 

 

I look up to see the cracked asphalt,
The heavy, metal double door.

 

 

Realize I’ve been staring
At those six words
A long time
Without answering.

A dog-eared paperback to the studio:
Nory Ryan’s Song.
“It’s a great story,” she says.

 

 

A million notions scuttle through my mind,
Hopes for friendship, understanding.
I want to ask her how she feels
Doing the movements Rem teaches.
Instead . . .

 

 

“I don’t want to dance anymore.”
I hear my confession

 

 

To Lisette’s
Upturned nose,
Dirty-blonde bun.
Her eyes round,
Like Coppélia’s,
Astonished buttons.

 

 

I want to paint
Red circles on her cheeks—
Complete the costume
Of incomprehension.

 

 

But it’s me
Who is Remington’s toy
He can play with
Or abandon
On his whim.

 

 

I leave Lisette
With her well-read book,
Run into the dressing room,
Lock myself in a toilet stall,
Cry
As if every bone in my body
Were shattered.

I have managed to cover the dark circles
Beneath my eyes,
Dust my red, snuffling nose
With enough powder
To avoid curious looks.

 

 

“Bonnie, she is sick.
You will dance Aurora
On the tour this week.”

 

 

A thunderclap. I grab
At a chance
Of silver linings.
A moment on center stage
Almost erases the memory
Of my confession to Lisette.

 

 

A thrill roils my stomach,
Rattles up my throat
To a catch in my breath.

 

 

“Uh-huh.” I nod,
Then blush
At the speed of my reply,
My failure to ask what’s the matter
With Bonnie or when she’s coming back,
At how quickly I plan
To put off completing the Swarthmore application.

 

 

The girl who doesn’t want to dance
Staring at a chance to be
Prima.

Repeat, repeat, repeat.

 

 

Simone says Bonnie’s not so much sick
As struggling with her hatred of her weight,
Now dangerously low.

 

 

I imagine her amidst the cats and chaos
Of her crowded house,
Or here between the perfection of Lisette
And the flamboyance of Simone,
Twisting the white elastic she keeps around her waist
Tighter and tighter until
Her body disappears like my voice
When I look too closely in the mirror
Without the pages of a notebook, a pen
To save me.

 

 

The
Sleeping Beauty
music
Burns into my brain as I développé, tendu, turn.
In their eyes I see them compare me
To Bonnie’s absent form.

 

 

I fear the shadow of their disappointment
And, some nights, can no more connect
My reflection to the knowledge that I will be Aurora onstage
Than my heart to the desire I once had
To celebrate sixteen in pointe shoes.

 

 

In the dressing room on Tuesday night,
I scribble my fears
Onto the back of an old social studies assignment.

 

 

“What are you writing?”
Lisette peers over my shoulder.

 

 

Is there a graceful way
To cover my words with my hand?
Protect my secrets without losing
Her offer of friendship?

 

 

 

 

I turn over these words,
The page.
“Just some stupid stuff
For school,” I say to Lisette.

 

 

At Señor Medrano’s
I will type my notion
Into the computer keyboard.

 

 

Print a hard copy
On fresh, white paper.

I ask Remington.
My voice, a little louder than I planned,
Turns a few heads
But I don’t see Jane.

 

 

Rem raps his cigarette pack
Against his palm.
Answer sliding slowly from his silky lips.
“Okay.”

 

 

I have never asked for anything before.
Never shown my want beyond the press of a thigh,
The strength of a glance.

 

 

But, later, sitting across from his distracted eyes,
Soaking in the oily smell of cheese,
Pizza crust singed in a busy brick oven,
My will dissolves.
I ask nothing,
Only whisper, when he stands,
Lifts up the helmets,
“I can’t tonight. I have too much homework.”

 

 

“Then why did you . . . ?”
I can’t explain.

 

 

Is there somewhere, in the allegro beats of days ahead,
A time
When Remington will stop
Letting me huddle in his bed?

 

 

What will I become
If I stop waiting when he tells me to,
Show him the dances I write,
Ask for something different, something more
Than stolen kisses, secret afternoons,
Rem’s voracious gazes
That do not fill me up?