84 Ribbons (2 page)

The hall clock read one-thirty. Ten minutes before her audition began. Marta straightened her practice skirt and completed her warm-ups. She mentally danced her selection one last time and took deep breaths to quiet the gathering butterflies.

Damien Black opened the door. “Mr. Dankin? Miss Sel, Sel-birth?”

Marta smiled and stepped forward with the other dancer. Her turn began in minutes. Why had he called two names?

He ushered Mr. Dankin into the ballroom and stepped into the hall. “We’ve changed the dance order,” Damien said as he scanned the list. “You’ll be last.”

Her insides dropped like an elevator moving from the top floor in the Bon Marche to the bargain basement. She gritted her teeth and nodded; her skin warmed like she’d stepped into a furnace. Now she’d be wandering the hall for more than three hours. She wanted to scream. Instead, she dropped a dime in the pay phone and dialed.

“Good afternoon, Holland Dance Studio. This is Elle.”

“Hi, Mom.”

“What’s wrong, honey?”

Marta explained the change of schedule while attempting to stay calm.

“You know what they say; save the best for last.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Keep your spirits up,” Her mom said. “You’re a talented dancer.”

“Thanks, Mom. I’d better get back. See you at home.”

h

The hour hand crawled around the clock as one by one dancers entered and exited the ballroom. She stretched, replayed the dances in her head, and paced the corridor.

At a quarter of five the music inside the ballroom stopped once again. She swallowed hard, retied her black practice skirt, and fingered the trickle of sweat above each ear. The ballroom door opened. Could the exiting dancer hear her heart pounding like a snare drum?

Damien scanned his clipboard. “Miss Sel-birth?

Marta followed him into the ballroom. Light flooded one section of the polished floor. The judges watched her stop to rosin her
pointe
shoes.

“This is Miss Sel-birth,” Damien said. “After the group waltz she’ll dance “The Sugar Plum” from Tchaikovsky’s
Nutcracker
.” He turned to Marta. “When you’re ready, signal the pianist.”

Marta moved past the judges to stage right. She positioned herself, nodded to the pianist, and waited for her musical cue.

The waltz music rushed through her, filling her with energy. She moved from one side of the room to the other, letting the music overtake her thinking. Each step automatically blended into the next. Her arms remembered every position and nuance.

During her dozen dizzying
pirouettes
, she slipped once, but covered the slip with a tiny hop. As she ended the selection, she held her pose for five seconds, then straightened to fifth position and watched the judges mark her evaluation form. The pianist sat quietly, waiting to play her individual piece. Back at the Bremerton studio, she’d walk in circles to relax; during an audition, such actions underscored an unprofessional dancer.

Madame squinted and set down her pen. A scowl ran from her brow to her chin in one long crease that sideswiped her nose. She spoke to Damien, then both resumed writing.

“You may begin your personal selection,” Damien said.

Marta moved to stage left. When the
Nutcracker
music began, she became the sugar plum fairy, gliding through each measure. As her solo neared the end, she adjusted her tension and took a deep breath. Her
relevé
to
pointe
prepared her to hop forward, using her flowing arms to distract her audience of judges from the strain of bearing her body weight on the tip of one
pointe
shoe.

When the pianist played the last chord, Marta held her ending pose, again for five seconds, while she slowed her breathing through semi-closed lips. After curtsying, she straightened, collected her music from the pianist, and stood before the judges.

Minutes passed. She relaxed, moving from exhilaration to total fatigue. Madame’s face wore a stony glare of displeasure; maybe she preferred the alternate choreography with head whipping
fouetté
turns. As the other judges finished writing, they shared impersonal smiles with Marta.

Damien’s head popped up. “Did you take all your training in Bremerton?”

“Yes.”

“What traditional ballet solos and ensemble pieces have you danced?”

“I’ve danced “The Sugar Plum,” as well as many
Nutcracker
character dances. I’ve also performed several sections from
Sleeping Beauty
and
Swan Lake
, including the cygnets.”

“Ah, yes, the swans. Any others?” he asked.

Marta’s mind went blank. “Ah, didn’t I write them on my form?”

“No.”

Madame Cosper tapped her pen while staring at Marta.

“Let’s see. I did a solo from
La Sylphides
and … Miss Holland created a solo for the music of
Clair de Lune
.”

“Show us,” Madame said.

“I didn’t bring the music for either one.”

Madame nodded to the pianist. He began playing
Clair de Lune
.

Marta walked to one side and posed. The pianist nodded and began again.

The beginning
relevé
to
pointe
followed by a
développé
transitioned into
bourees
diagonally across the room. Marta lowered to fifth position and swept her arms overhead like a blossoming flower. After another relev
é
to
pointe,
she extended her right leg and left arm to an
arabesque,
which she held four counts.

Madame stood abruptly. “That’s enough.”

The judges looked at Marta, conferred, wrote, then looked toward Madame. This unexpected solo surprised Marta. No other auditions asked for additional dances. What could it mean?

Madame leaned on her cane. “Why do you want to join
our
company?”

Marta’s butterflies sank. She stared at the wall behind the judges while she organized her thoughts, wondering what Madame wanted to hear.

“Miss Sel-birth?”

Marta stretched tall and made eye contact with Damien, then Madame Cosper. “Last year I saw your Christmas tour in Bremerton, I mean in Seattle, I mean Spokane. I enjoyed the program. The dancers were so precise. I’m precise. I know I’d fit in.”

While the judges resumed writing, Marta held herself in fifth position with her fingers intertwined behind her back. The warmth of embarrassment tingled through her body. What a dumb answer!  Blah, blah. She sounded like a talking wind-up doll.

Damien stood. “Thank you, Miss Sel-birth. We’ll contact you with our decision within ten days. Sel-
birth?
Is that right?”

“Almost. It’s pronounced ‘sell-brith.’ Thank you for the audition.” She curtsied and exited. In the empty hallway she closed her eyes and sagged against a wall, replaying her audition, trying to decide if it had been a success or a mess.

The sunlight through the hall window cast late afternoon shadows as she entered the restroom to change into street clothes. Passing the mirror, she stopped. Who was she? A dancer who’d never stepped inside of the exclusive Cornish Arts School; a girl who took lessons twice week from an unknown instructor, not twice day from a famous retired dancer. Hopefully her performance today was enough.

She replayed each part of her audition. Did other dancers feel as let down as she did right now, or did they rush around bragging? How many had slipped or flubbed a turn? How did they answer the judges’ questions? Had others been asked to perform an additional dance? No matter. She’d know her fate within the next ten days.

She fumbled through her purse and checked the ferry schedule. Drat! She’d miss the six o’clock ferry to Bremerton if she didn’t hurry. She ran down the steep sidewalks, over to Marion, and across the trestle, dodging strolling pedestrians. She raced to the ticket booth, down the ramp, and over the grating to board the ferry just as the deckhands threw off the heavy lines.

When the ferry lurched from its moorings at Coleman Dock, she grabbed a support pole to steady herself. Once she felt the familiar jitter of the ferry, she walked to the stairway.

Marta loved everything about the ferry
Kalakala.
The shiny silver body with round windows dated back to World War II. It poked along the waterways like a silver slug and annoyed people in a hurry to travel between Seattle and Bremerton.

At the top of the wide staircase, she bypassed the circular cafeteria counter with its checkerboard tile floors and headed for the overstuffed vinyl seats along the edges. She preferred to ride backward, watching the twists of Rich’s Passage framed in the big, round windows. Staying awake became a challenge tonight.

h

Marta yawned as she stepped off the ferry and followed the snaking line of passengers up the ramp and out of the terminal. She trudged past the YMCA, inhaling the familiar scent of chlorine from the community pool. Her wait on First Street lasted ten minutes, which was more than long enough to stand in front of taverns, tattoo parlors, and pawn shops.

The bus headed north through town and west toward Callow. When she reached Fifteenth, she got off and walked down the hill to her street, Rhododendron. Her parents’ house with the postage stamp-size front yard welcomed her. August’s dusky sunset light glanced off the large side yard of fruit trees and the grape arbor. She smelled the freshly mown grass and watched the sprinkler trace a full circle on the lawn. If she’d had more energy, she’d have stood in the cool water, letting it wash away her tiredness.

Her mom opened the front door. The music of Mozart flowed across the yard. Her mom smiled, reaching down to pet Bubbles, the cat, now stretched across the sidewalk. “Long day, huh? How did it go, honey?”

Marta hugged her mom, then picked up the cat. “Okay, even though I had to wait forever.”

“Wish I could have been there,” her mom said. “Tell me every detail.”

h

After dinner, her mom set a bowl of garden-fresh strawberries on the table and sat down to enclose Marta’s hands in her own. “Honey, you’ve always done your best. Give them their ten days. They’re missing a dedicated dancer if they don’t select you.”

Marta watched her mom move around the kitchen. They shared many features: same height, same slender build, and same curly brown hair, but her mom wore hers shorter, shaped closer to her face. At thirty-five, her mom looked more like her sister than her mother.

A shudder ran down Marta’s spine as she thought of Madame Cosper’s stern face. “Madame Cosper tapped her cane constantly as we danced. It’s annoying. I’m probably better off not making her company. You won’t be able to get rid of me as soon as you’d like.”

“Marta! What a thing to say. You think I want to get rid of you?”

“I know you love me, Mom, and I can stay here as long as I want, but--”

“I want you to get that position if that is what you want. Deep down, however, I don’t want to lose you this soon. Since your father died, you’ve been my support. Plus, you love the music he loved. That’s like keeping a piece of him close by.”

A lump clogged Marta’s throat. Her mom turned away with her head down.

“What’s wrong?” Marta asked.

Her mom inhaled a ragged breath, turned back, and smiled. “Nothing. I love you, and I know that whatever happens you’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.”

h

After her mom went to bed, Marta paced the small house, then took a hot bath. As she towel-dried her hair, she rummaged through her dad’s records, smiled, and put
Clair de Lune
on the turntable. She lowered the volume on the stereo and grabbed the afghan off the back of her dad’s leatherette rocker.

Miss Holland created that dance just for her after learning it was one of Marta’s dad’s favorite selections. She settled into the chair and rocked. The music pulled at her like moonlight tugging the tide. She closed her eyes and let herself drift off to sleep, knowing that her mom, and her dad, would be proud of her no matter what happened.

2

T
he following week Marta ambled home from her tutoring session with Mrs. Richard. Over the past two years, they’d worked to ensure she’d graduate from high school. Algebra and science bored her and were not useful to a dancer. But high school demanded she sit in class and learn formulas and facts if she wanted to graduate. And, graduation was a family requirement she planned to honor. She’d be the first.

During late spring, Marta completed a blur of ballet company audition forms with Mrs. Richard’s help. Today they’d filled out store clerk applications, just in case she ended up working at Woolworth, PayLess Drugs, Bremer’s, or Barr’s Hat Shoppe. She’d miss Mrs. Richard’s support, but the time had come to move on.

“Did I get any mail?” Marta asked as she dropped her supplies on the kitchen table. Expecting the reply, “No mail,” that she’d heard each day since the audition, she disappeared into her room to change clothes.

Back in the kitchen, she washed her hands and reached for a hand towel. “What’s for dinner?” No answer. She turned to ask again. Her mom dangled a large envelope at eye level.

Marta read the return address: Intermountain Ballet Company. Her stomach did a flip flop. “Did you open it?”

“Of course not. This is your mail.”

Marta’s knees turned to mush. “Open it for me.”

“Come on, honey. Be brave.”

Marta hesitated, then snatched the envelope and held it against her chest. Her hands shook and her body pulsed, ready to explode. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and ripped open the envelope.

The packet of papers stuck to her sweaty fingers. She waved them back and forth like a thick paper fan, then stopped and read the cover letter to herself.

Tears clouded Marta’s eyes. She read the letter again.

The Intermountain Ballet Company has completed its auditions for 1957. We are happy to inform you that you’ve been selected....

Marta took a deep breath and wiped her eyes. She walked into the living room and back to the kitchen, staring at the letter. A smile played across her lips as she made a slow turn, then jumped up and down. “They want me, they want me! Mom, they want me!”