Authors: Stasia Ward Kehoe

Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Stories in Verse, #Love & Romance, #Performing Arts, #Dance

Audition (5 page)

BOOK: Audition

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I make it upstairs

To my new room.
Close the door.

Stare at myself
In the long mirror on the wall,
Eyes still fighting tears.

“I can do this,”
I whisper.
Draw my arms up
To fifth position’s gently rounded frame
Around my face.
Settle into a plié in fourth.
Push off with my back foot, though
It is difficult to spin a pirouette
On red shag carpet.

The call from Mom

Startles,
Though I knew it would come.
My cell vibrates in my pocket,
Jolts me from my stupor.

“Get there okay?”

I do not mention Dad’s usual
Trouble with directions.
“Yes, Mom.”

“Have you unpacked?”

The suitcase’s zipper teeth
Sneer at me from the far wall.
“Pretty much.”

“Had dinner yet?”

I do not wonder aloud
How I can even turn the knob,
Wrest open the door,
Enter a stranger’s kitchen,
Ask for food.
“In a few minutes.”

“When did Dad leave?”

“Half an hour ago
Maybe.”

She talks on and on.
Asks if he smoked
Asks if he got lost
Asks if he’ll make it home before dark.

I let her voice
Wash over me.
Her dissatisfaction
Is familiar.
Her anxiousness
Telegraphs through every high-pitched word,
Clicking tongue.

My eyes
Travel
To my half-opened dance bag.
Leotards and tights
Spill from the top.

Leg warmers in pink and gray
And a pair knit with red flowers
Brighten the pile.

In the hallway going up to my bedroom in Vermont
Is a black-and-white photograph
Of my great-grandmother
And her three sisters
All wearing giant, knitted hats to cover
Heads shaved by their mother
Against the rampant lice of their immigrant tenement.
Her solution
To a risk?
Remove the problem.

Was I a problem for them?
A risk to be removed?

I know I said I wanted this chance,
To dare this dream.
Yet now I wonder how
They let me go—
Whether leotards and leg warmers
Will mask my sense of abandonment.

One more week before school begins,

But classes never stop
At the Jersey Ballet.
Señor Medrano brings me at noontime.
He has a company class to teach
Long before my lesson begins
In the afternoon.

As I wait,
The company dancers
Sweat and posture
Beyond the glass window
Of the largest studio.

Across the hall, little girls
Come and go.
Their proud mothers
Smooth back their hair,
Send them into A class.

I watch them giggle,
Scurry inside,
Where a sweet-faced young teacher
Pats their heads,
Sends them to the barre.

The mothers sit just outside,
Knit, text, read magazines,
Chat about their kids,
Glance proudly
Through the viewing glass.

In the studio, I see the teacher’s lips smile.
Her eyes are sharp.
Looking
For the ineffable
Something
That makes one child
A ballerina.

I am wearing leg warmers

As I sit in the hall, stretching
At two o’clock.

Inside my lunch sack,
Señor Medrano
Kindly packed
A peanut butter sandwich
Enhanced
With a slice of last night’s chicken.

This bizarre concoction
Promptly finds its way into the trash,
Where I should have thrown
My pink leg warmers
When I saw the other girls come in.

At home, at the country dance school
Leg warmers
De rigueur
Fend off the New England cold
Of a drafty studio too ramshackle,
Too expensive to heat.

Here the real dancers
Bask in torpid air

Moist with sweat,
Chalky with resin and cigarette residue
Reminding me of Dad’s car—
The first time the smell of cigarette
Is home.

I am wearing a pale blue leotard,
The designated shade
For my level.
An ungenerous color
That does not conceal
A single awkward angle
Or threatening curve.

In the dressing room
I watch the other girls
Trade bobby pins and tampons,
Unabashed nakedness,
And learn not to wear underpants
Under my tights.

My leotard has gauche long sleeves,
Not the chic spaghetti straps, low backs
Of the city girls.
I spot a safety pin on the floor,

Dash into a bathroom stall,
Gather the leotard front together
In little pleats.

Better?

The mirror tells me
I still look like a hick.

Their eyes are not unwelcoming,

Just curious.

A tall, thin girl with a giant blonde bun,
Lisette,
Melts into a split.

Her friend,
Bonnie,
Maybe thinner
With thick, dark eyebrows,
Bounces her knees:
A butterfly in seated first position.

Another,
Simone,
Black-haired, roundish,
Lounges on a wooden bench, talking about a boy
To a taller, redheaded girl, Madison.

These chosen girls
Are in the E class, but I
Have been told by Yevgeny
That I must begin my stay in Jersey

In C class, two levels down.
“Just to tidy up that small-town technique.”

Though he has assured me that I have the talent
To leap quickly to the higher levels,
What I see now is mostly shorter, younger girls
Waiting for C class by the doorway down the hall.

While Simone and Madison,
Who look high school age, like me,

Bonnie and Lisette,
With their ballerina-straight backs,

Lounge regally outside the largest studio.

So where do I sit?

New England girls

Say “Mr.”
“Ms.”
Or “Mrs.”
To adults and teachers.

But here,
Except Señor Medrano,
Everyone is simply, strangely
One short name.

Shannon
With cropped brown hair,
Pale skin, thin lips.

LaRae
Bright silk scarves around her head
Her neck, arms, legs unimaginably long.

Yevgeny
A greyhound, pointed nose, narrow eyes,
Froths of fine curls
Tumbling over his sharp brow.

I cannot say

These names.
Just try not to ask questions.
Nod.
Obey.

Yevgeny pats my back.
Speaks in regal, nasal tones.
“Good to see you here, Sara.”

We begin technique class:
Tendus, jetés,
Pliés.

Trying to disappear,
I chose the spot at the far end of the barre.
Now, when we turn to do the left side,
There is no one in front of me
To follow.

Everyone is behind me
As I bend my knees in a deep grand plié,
Try to keep my spine pointed down, straight, remember
The things Ms. Alice taught me, the only things I know.

I can feel them judging
Even though it is my first day
And I have yet to learn the combinations
They have been taught at the Jersey Ballet
Since they were old enough to walk.

But there are no excuses
In the studio.
Yevgeny is not interested
In my story,
Only in my
Mistakes.