Chapter 15
L
illy made plans for the weekend without meânot that I was surprised. She and Madison needed some time apart. Plus, Madison's dad had followed through on his promise to score us Saturday night tickets to
Firebird
. We were seated on the floor, fifth row center, which is a blessing and a curse. From the close vantage point we'd observe every movement, every step of choreography, every intricate detail, but we'd also lose the magic. Ballet is an athletic dance (something Madison, Emily, and I knew very well). From up close, you can see the males strain to lift the ballerinas; you can hear the dancer's thud following every jump; you can see the company waiting in the wings behind the curtains. The fantasy was spoiled.
“Now, you girls have never performed
Firebird
have you?” Mr. Fox asked from the driver's seat.
“No, Dad.”
Madison and I were seated side by side in the bucket seats of her family's SUV. Emily was perched on the bench seat behind us. It was the first time I hadn't sat in the back since school started, and it was only because I physically jumped in the car before they did. When Emily realized she had to climb to the back, she actually shot me a snarky look like I had broken an unspoken rule. I energetically ignored it.
“Well, the performance has gotten great reviews,” Madison's mom added, twisting from the passenger seat. “Maybe you'll pick up some pointers.”
Asking us to pick up “pointers” from a prima ballerina was about as realistic as asking a high school football player to “learn a thing or two” from Peyton Manning. We can either lift our legs that high, or we can't. You can't teach talentânot talent like that.
“So what's Lilly doing tonight?” Madison whispered, her tone biting.
“She's going to the football game.”
“Figures.”
The ethnic rumble on Thursday made yesterday's carpool quite interesting. I tried to convince Lilly that Madison did not mean offense, and that while it was a loaded term in Lilly's world, in my world the nickname was more ironic. Spring Mills wasn't exactly the Great American Melting Pot. With Vince gone, she and I accounted for the school's entire Hispanic population. She was well aware of my limited exposure to Puerto Rican culture. And since I had never taken my heritage seriously, I couldn't blame Madison and Emily for not treating it that way either.
Lilly, however, felt very differently.
“What up bitches?” Lilly hollered as we got into the car yesterday. (She had watched a “Real World” marathon and had clearly picked up a few things.)
Madison and Emily's heads immediately swung around.
“What, you think you're funny?” Madison barked.
“Don't take offense, hoe. I don't mean anything by it.” She smiled.
“Oh, you're so clever.” Madison crinkled her nose and squeezed her lips tight.
“What? It's just a word.”
I tried to break it up, but they shot spiky comebacks at each other the rest of the day. Emily sat silently on the sidelines, acting like the entire dispute had nothing to do with her, when she was just as guilty as Madison of tossing around the insult. I wasn't sure if she was playing innocent or just not paying attention. Half the times I saw her lately, she seemed to have only one ear in the conversation while her mind was somewhere else.
“Now, do you girls know the story behind
Firebird
?” Mrs. Fox asked, jolting me back to the present.
“Oh, um, I think so,” I answered. “It's a Russian fable about good versus evil, love conquering all. The usual. Except there's also a magic bird.”
“Oh, okay. Well, that sums it up.” Her father chuckled.
“Yeah, it's pretty standard. Bird dances, people turn into stone, they all come back to life at the end. Yadda yadda.”
“You can see Mariana has a bright future as a dance critic,” Madison quipped.
“Well, we all need something to fall back on.”
We both giggled. It was the first time things had felt normal between us in days.
We pulled up to the Academy. From the outside, the building looked more like a Quaker Meeting House than a theater worthy of ballets, operas, and musicals. It was old and historic, constructed with brick walls so thick that even with the multiple lanes of traffic on Broad and Locust streets, not the slightest hint of street noise squeaked inside.
We hustled into the horseshoe-shaped theater trimmed with gold and red accents. A poetic mural covered the ceiling. The room was accented by Greek columns and a massive crystal chandelier. I nestled into my seat between Madison and her dad and tore open my package of Junior Mints. There was something about the theater that sparked a mint-chocolate craving in me. I never ate a Junior Mint outside of a cultural performance.
“So how long is this thing?” Madison's dad mumbled to her mom as I popped a mint into my mouth.
I knew he wasn't much of a ballet fan. I doubted he'd ever been to a performance aside from our recitals. It was nice of him to go out of his way to score the tickets. My dad would rather eat shards of shattered lightbulbs than sit through a balletâmy recitals included. He slept through half my solos. (Vince always relayed the exact time allotted before Dad started snoring.)
Vince's ball games were a different story. He'd travel to the ends of the earth to watch my brother play second base, and he was heartbroken when I refused to take up softball. My mother, however, was secretly thrilled. She bought my first pair of ballet slippers when I was three years old, certain I'd fulfill the dance fantasies she had never realized. (There was limited time for expensive extracurriculars while growing up in the projects.) I was her little ballerina.
“When does the curtain go up?” I whispered to Madison.
She glanced at her diamond-studded watch.
“Not for another fifteen minutes.”
I stood up and stretched my legs. My last ballet practice left every muscle in my body sore. I rubbed the back of my neck as I stared into the balcony; almost every seat was filled. There was an elementary school class in the upper rows, tossing candy at one another, while a lonely adult flailed his arms wildly. I smiled and started to turn back around when my eyes clapped on a familiar face. My hand shot to my mouth as a snicker escaped my lips.
“Oh. My. God.” I mumbled through my palm, swatting at Madison with my other hand.
“What?”
“You are not going to believe who's here.”
Madison immediately shot to her feet. “Who? Where?”
I couldn't stop from grinning as my eyes locked on my target. He slowly raised his hand to his brow as if to conceal his identity, but it was way too late for that.
“Over there,” I pointed, freeing my hand from my lips.
Emily was now out of her seat beside us. “What? Who are we looking at?”
“Evan Casey.”
They followed my pointing finger until they spotted Evan and his white-haired grandmother seated about ten rows back.
“Omigod!” Madison chirped. “This is classic!”
“Guess he's not so tough now,” I muttered.
Eventually he dropped his hand and raised his lip in a crooked sneer. It was a good attempt to cover his embarrassment; too bad his face was a brighter shade of red than the seat he was planted in.
Â
The first act was amazing. Every time I attended a ballet, I itched to start practicing. I knew I'd never have a career as a professional dancer, but I thought it was amazing that there were people who did. They were paid to dance every day, while my father had to sit at a computer. I swore I would never sit behind a desk for a living. I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life, but I knew I couldn't possibly do thatâespecially when there were women who got to put on their ballet shoes for a paycheck.
“Why can't Madame Colbert put together choreography like that?” Emily asked, as she walked down our aisle toward the women's bathroom.
It was intermission.
“Because if she could, then she wouldn't be
our
instructor,” Madison stated.
“Very true,” I added. “And it's not like any of us can dance like them. Did you see her jumps?”
“Omigod. She looks like she's doing completely different moves than us,” said Emily.
“I don't even want to think about what I look like compared to them,” Madison muttered.
We worked our way into the lobby. A pale marble floor sat below dozens of sweeping archways framed with gold-trimmed glass panels. Sparkling chandeliers swung from molded ceilings lighting the timeless corridor. I felt like an adult dressed in my black pencil skirt surrounded by such sophistication.
We strutted toward the bathroom and, no sooner did we see the sign, than we crashed face-to-face with Evan.
“Well, look who it is!” I cheered, staring at Evan who was carrying a plastic cup of ice water. “Is that for your date?”
“Very funny,” he snapped, staring off in the opposite direction.
I saw his grandmother in line for the ladies room. The line was about twenty women deep.
“Might as well get comfortable. Your date might be a while.” I grinned.
“Evan Casey's a ballet enthusiast. If I had only known! We would have invited you to our performances,” Madison glowed.
“Wait, maybe he's a dancer?” I teased.
“Or is this just a kickin' Saturday night for you?” Emily added.
“It could be the men in tights.”
“Ah, Evan, is there something you want to tell us?” Madison beamed.
“Oh, shut up!” he cried. “So I'm at the ballet? Big deal.”
A rash of pink swept over his face, and we all flooded with laughter.
“You like ballet!” I giggled.
“I do not! I'm here with my nanna.”
“Your
nanna
!” Madison squeaked, still laughing.
“Stop it! It's her birthday! It's what she likes to do.” His hands were waving frantically as he spoke, and I could barely look at his face, it was so burnt red.
“Okay, okay,” I said, calming down with deep breaths. “But your macho act is officially shattered. No more body slams in the hallways.”
He flicked his eyes toward me. “Then no more embarrassing stories in front of crowds.”
“Well that depends, does this one count?”
My friends and I erupted in giggles once more. Tears filled the corners of my eyes. He pretended to ignore our reaction as he scanned the masses for his “nanna.”
“By the way, where's Lilly?” he asked, glancing at the three of us.
Madison immediately stopped smiling.
“She's at the football game,” I stated. “Where I thought you'd be.”
“Do your friends know you're here?” Emily asked.
“No, and they don't need to,” he said in a stern tone.
“Whatever, twinkle toes. Your secret's safe with me.” I shrugged.
Just then, his creased-faced grandmother with salon-curled hair waddled over. Her black dress looked older than I did, and her stockings were bunched around her ankles and tucked into dark orthopedic shoes. She touched the strand of pearls around her neck as she approached. Her nails were painted pink.
“Evan, are these young ladies friends of yours?” she asked, examining us closely.
I instinctively pulled at the hem of my skirt. It fell past my knees, but from the way she was looking at my bare legs I felt almost naked.
“Um, yeah, I guess. They go to school with me,” he grumbled, clutching her arm to assist her balance.
“Oh, lovely. Are you enjoying the ballet?”
“Yes, of course,” I replied. “We're all dancers.”
“What?” she yelled, leaning her head toward us.
“We all dance ballet,” I enunciated in my loudest speaking voice.
“Oh, wonderful! Evan used to dance! You should have seen him as a boy. So handsome in his tights. He had real promise.”
She grinned with such pride that it took every ounce of willpower I had not to explode with giggles in her wrinkled face. I held my breath and chewed on both my lips to keep from smiling. Madison was not so restrained and immediately smacked her palm to her mouth and darted toward the ladies room. Emily was right behind her.
“Did I say something?” his grandmother asked, glancing at Evan.
His eyes were closed. No doubt he was trying to erase the last two minutes from his life. I could almost see him mouthing the prayer. He placed his fingers to his forehead, hung his head, and breathed slowly. I took it as my cue to leave.