Audition (6 page)

Of encrusted hairspray.

 

 

My hours in the studio have doubled,
Tripled
From what I danced in Vermont.

 

 

My arms ache from a thousand
Ports de bras, from pinning up a thousand chignons,
Lifting the brush,
Pulling it down.
My slick hair crackles
As I try to smooth away
The shellac
That coats my locks,
Clouds my mind.

 

 

At home, I could see clearly
Where I stood:
In the front row at Ms. Alice’s studio
Where some of my dancer friends
Only came to ballet between lacrosse
And ski season, and didn’t think twice
About the color of their leotards.

I knew what to do
To hold my place nearest the mirror.

 

 

Here every step
Is danced under sunless, fluorescent lights.
No open fields
In which to disappear, to pause; only, always
Mirrors
Reflecting stray wisps
Escaping from the nets and pins
No matter how much spray
I put on my hair.

Talking?
I can almost count
On my bitten fingernails
And battered toes
The number of words I have said
Each day
Since I arrived in Jersey.

 

 

I could talk to Mom at night
But it hurts to call home.
I am too proud to say
That when LaRae looks at me,
Her lips are forever
Pressed in irritation,
Señor Medrano
Smiles with pity,
Yevgeny
Barks in frustration.

 

 

Madison turns triple pirouettes to left and right,
Stops without a wobble,
An expression of sheer disinterest on her face.

Bonnie’s jetés jut with military precision,
Her stomach perfectly flat except
Where the bony knobs of her hips rise,
A little like Frankenstein bolts.

 

 

Lisette is a driven, dancing angel
Whose balancés and piqué turns draw a smile
Even from the eternally angry Yevgeny.

 

 

To the left, I can at best turn a solid
Double pirouette.
My tendus will never match Bonnie’s
Geometric perfection.
My Vermont accent,
Inferior as my angular ports de bras,
Reveals my rural roots, basement ballet technique.

 

 

If I open my mouth,
It will only remind them
Of the imperfections of my limbs.
Silence feels safer.

I text Bess.

 

 

“He’s FUN.
Movies 2nite.”

 

 

Her answer,
A sweet Vermont breeze
That assumes all is still wonderful with me,
Does not ask why I’m texting
Instead of stretching right now.

 

 

“Any cute boys in Jersey?”
Her question blinks.

 

 

In my class there are so many girls,
So few boys.
There are more amongst
The advanced students and apprentices,
And the company dancers,
Ethereal and mighty.

 

 

From my world apart, I watch
Fernando’s perfectly sculpted arms,

Vincent’s dark drama,
Remington’s tall, quiet power that sometimes
Makes me wonder how Bess feels to be touched by Stephen.

 

 

Impossible to fit this reply
Into my phone’s tiny screen

 

 

Even 4 Bess.

Whether to thank my ambitious mother
Or to curse her
For my place
At the lofty prep school
In which I have been enrolled.

 

 

A few of the other chosen girls
Go to an arts school—
Forgiving,
Undemanding,
Maybe fun.

 

 

I, instead,
Am the new junior
Amongst the wealthy, college-bound
Boys and girls
Of Upton Academy,
Who are extraordinarily well-dressed
Despite a strict dress code of burgundy
And beige.

 

 

Everywhere I turn,
There are colors I must wear on my back.
Every time I try,
I don’t match the others.

Behind an elegant row
Of green pines,
Hidden from the gritty road.
A grand oasis of
Stately walkways
Linking redbrick buildings
With heavy oak doors.

 

 

Inside, trim, modern desks,
Computer stations,
Dark, paneled libraries,
A student den with leather chairs,
Where I sit pretending not to notice

 

 

Clean-cut boys flirting
With smiling, well-dressed girls.

 

 

Pretend I don’t wonder
At the thousand little conversations,
Sprinkles of laughter,
Memories of freshman and sophomore year,
The summer that just ended,
That weave into a fiber of friendship
Where I am only the fringe.

Is a living nightmare every day.
I stand beside the cold bus stop signpost four blocks from
Upton,
Beyond the protection of the pine-tree fence,
Where tattooed boys
Lean from the windows of motley cars,
Beckon with thick arms.
“Hey, baby . . .”

 

 

Their voices make me shake,
Long for the unpaved streets of home,
Where the route to dancing was a cleared path
Traversed by familiar faces.

 

 

The bus’s arrival
Barely brings relief,
With its steps too large to climb with grace.
The other passengers glance up—
The housecoated lady with witch’s eyes,
The pale young man who must be dying of something.
I sit in the open seat nearest the driver
Trying to make myself invisible.

 

 

Wait
For the bus to stop a block away
From the ballet school.

 

 

Dash across the four-lane avenue.
Run through the cracked, asphalt parking lot.
Heave open the industrial door.
Clamber down the linoleum steps
Into a cocoon
Of sweat and dreams.

When I arrive.
Waiting for his father,
I guess.
I never know the plan,
Only hope someone will be there
To take me home at the end of each day.

 

 

He grins when I come in.
Walks over,
Gives my shoulder a playful push.
He is two years younger than me,
Even though dark hairs
Play across his upper lip.
My body stiffens
Against his touch.

 

 

The other girls
Beg him to play his guitar.
(He is a hopeless flirt and he does.)
Simone says I am lucky
To be a big sister in his house—
To sit at his table with Señor and Señora
And listen to talk of music and dancing every night.

But I don’t feel
Like a big sister,
Only a frightened fool
And perhaps a bit above
Playing with a little boy of fourteen
Despite sometimes feeling five years old.