Audition (38 page)

Of colleges to visit this summer.
I look it over as I fold my Upton uniforms,
Clothes she mostly chose, sent
To Jersey with me last fall.

 

 

Twist the unraveling shoulder seam
Of the cheap maroon blazer
She persuaded me to buy last August.

 

 

“I know you’re busy at work,”
I write in reply.
“I’ve made a list, too.
Maybe I’ll plan a trip
With Dad.”

 

 

I try to imagine long afternoons
Without ballet classes, rehearsals,
Standing in damp sand,
Watching the little Allegra girls,
Now all one year taller,
Splash and giggle and pretend sometimes
To be ballerinas.

When I try to explain
Into the chasm of half-understood English
That this is not their fault, that they have been very kind.

 

 

Julio interjects
The occasional Spanish phrase
In my support,
His thick brows furrowed,
Replacing a guitar string,
Not looking up at me.

 

 

“Okay, okay,” Señor says at last.
“Julio, he will miss you.
We all miss you.
You a nice girl.”
He gives my back a firm pat.

 

 

Señora stands up.
“I make coffee,
Those little cookies you like.”

 

 

Now Julio chuckles.
I catch his eye.
“Rummy?”

He lays his guitar in its case.
“I’ll get the cards.”

 

 

“I’ll miss you,”
I say as he shuffles, deals.
“It’s been fun having a little brother.”

 

 

“Little brother!” Julio drops the deck,
Punches my arm.
“I’ve got six inches on you!”

 

 

“Just deal!”
I punch him back,
Relieved to hear Señora announce
She doesn’t have enough butter
To make the cookies.

So I ride to the studio
With Señor Medrano
Every day.

 

 

Tendu and stretch.
Join the occasional company class
To fill the morning hours
Before the other students arrive.

 

 

Even though I won’t be there for senior year,
Begin working my way
Through the Upton summer reading list.
Though, at night,
The Thorn Birds
Still tempts.
It is hard to sleep alone
All the time.

 

 

One afternoon, I find the courage
To tell Yevgeny I’ll be going home.
He pats my head.
“Perhaps we should have sent you
To the audition in New York this spring.”

 

 

I don’t know how to answer
Through my pride.
Perhaps I should have asked
To go to New York with Bonnie and Lisette
Instead of staying silent.

 

 

A kind of panic wafts over me,

 

 

Like the moment your partner lets go your hand
And you have to balance alone in arabesque
Or spin a pirouette
Without his palms against your waist;
The moment the penny leaves your fingertips
Bound for the wishing well
And you wobble, uncertain,
That you envisioned the right dream.

 

 

I want to turn time in reverse,
Retract my farewells,
Reclaim the dream everyone
Dreamed for me
For so long ...

 

 

But only for a moment,
A heartbeat.

Now, I draw my chin up,
Make my voice loud.
“Thanks, Yevgeny.”
I even say his name.

The Saturday of the final student performance,
The air unusually humid for June.

 

 

I’ve come to the theatre with Señor
So, as usual, I am early.

 

 

But Bonnie and Simone will be here soon.
Lisette, Madison, Fernando,
And Remington, who came to the dress rehearsal last night,
Wrapped in his favorite plaid shirt
To accept everyone’s congratulations
On his commission to make a dance for the company
Next year.
Rem, wide hands clasped together,
Exuberant gaze tilted politely downward,
Not casting about for Jane
Or me.

 

 

Standing at the portable barre in the middle of the stage,
I work through half a dozen grand pliés.
My arm is softly rounded, fingers graceful
As I bend my knees, hold my turnout,
Allow my heels to come slowly

Off the floor. My heart aches a little
With my shins.

 

 

This performance may be on the grandest stage
I will ever grace, the last time I dance
Sewn into tulle and satin.

 

 

But I have stopped wanting
A life without words beyond
Fat romances to fill the moments
Between dances
That make me consider pressing my thigh
Against anyone in hopes
Of feeling my worth.

 

 

I’ve collected applications for half a dozen colleges
With dance programs, literary magazines.
Or I may choose someplace
Entirely different,
Someplace I haven’t found yet, though
I am certain when I get there
I will know how to drive.

 

 

The thought makes my breath come sharp,
My eyes as bright
As the dancers around me
Swinging their legs, pinning up their hair,
Preparing for the radiance of the stage.

Bonnie’s beautiful Aurora,
Lisette and Fernando.

 

 

Then it’s my turn:
The Little Swan in the middle
Framed by Simone and Madison.
Heads angled symmetrically
We piqué, plié, pas de chat,
End in tight fifth positions
On the music’s final plinking note.

 

 

We step forward to curtsy
A révérence nearly the same
As we do at the end of a class,
Offering the audience our best
Vaseline-slick smiles, well-sprayed buns, sucked-in guts,
Gratitude for their applause.

 

 

We are the last variation before intermission.
We pose center stage as the footlights dim.
The houselights rise,
Revealing glimpses of the audience standing, stretching—
Friends, teachers, families, including Mom and Dad,
Who drove to Jersey early this morning,
Their Volvo trunk empty,
Ready to fill with the boxes I’ve packed.

 

 

Whispers of conversation slip
Between the folds of the closing curtain.

 

 

Simone and Madison release my hands,
Relax their shoulders, unglue their grins.
But I stand there a minute longer,
Back straight, neck long,
Left foot front, right foot crossed behind,
Smiling at the streaked beige satin of the curtain lining,
The echo of applause,
The tickle of lace against my legs,
The heat on my cheeks.

 

 

I know,
For Lisette, for Rem, this stage is a paradise found;
For Bonnie, an altar at which she sacrifices.

 

 

The curtain closed, the work lights come up.
Stagehands sweep.
Dancers rush to change into their next costumes.

 

 

In my head, I choreograph a poem
About reverence.