Audition (25 page)

 

 

Señor’s black shoes
Slide in front of me.
I hold my breath,
Count the seconds as he passes.
Try to tell if he hesitates longer
Before me
Than all the others.

 

 

Turn my head subtly
To look again at Remington,
Now swinging his legs
In loose grand battements
As if he didn’t have a care,
As if he didn’t feel even a little bad
For not calling me last night.

But I could not bring myself
To open the envelope
Sitting on the Medrano’s kitchen table this morning.
Could not face more judgment.

 

 

Told Katia and Anne it had not yet come in the mail.

 

 

The slim packet weighs down my backpack
All the way to the studio dressing room,
Where I tell myself I am a ballerina
And silly school grades don’t matter to me.

 

 

“You look worried,”
Bonnie whispers.
Her face is gray,
Fine beads of sweat above her mouth.

 

 

“Are you okay?” I ask.

 

 

Bonnie draws the back of her hand
Across her damp lips.
Nervous brows furrow
Above her stage smile.
“Maybe we’re both a little off.”

I smile back,
Mine a little more real.
I care less about my grades
Than she about the thickness of her waist.

I say as I head for the dressing-room door.
Bonnie follows.
Chatter and piano music make the hall air fresher.

 

 

I lead the way to the far end of the hall
Where the ballerinas sit,
And Remington.

 

 

“Hey, there.”
He gives the faintest smile
As I drop on the bench beside him.

 

 

Maybe Bonnie makes me bold,
Sitting on my other side.
We slip into pointe shoes,
Draw the satin ribbons across our ankles,
Tie the knots,
Tuck them out of sight.

 

 

I feel Rem’s thigh against mine,
Warm. Press back.
Lean my head a little onto
His arm, white with straight, brown hairs.
He smells a little of smoke,
A lot of coffee.

Bonnie stands.
Puts her back to the wall.
Snakes one leg up toward the ceiling:
A vertical split.

 

 

I tell myself Jane made it up.
I don’t torment him
The way she said I do.

 

 

Rem plants a fast kiss
On the top of my head,
Then jumps away
As if I could sting him—
So fast I can’t understand whether or not I am forgiven
Or need to be forgiven.

 

 

I slide my satin-cased feet
Beneath the bench,
Draw the report card from my bag,
Trace its sharp edge with my fingertip.

 

 

“Maybe you should open it.”
Bonnie is red-faced from stretching upside down.
“Out is always better than in.”

Until after ballet.

 

 

Bonnie and I
Find places at the center barre.

 

 

Remington likes the barre on the far wall,
The spot nearest the mirror.
He can only see his reflection
When he is working the left side.

 

 

I do not feel jealous that Remington
Gets to make his own dances.
I am a part of them,
Of their creation.

 

 

I have watched him sweat and roar
Play and replay
Bits of music

 

 

Move and bend
In the narrow space
Behind the orange chairs
In his apartment.

Watched him come and go.

 

 

His giant presence
Warm,
His absence
A still, moist air,
A hollow space
In my gut.

 

 

I do not tell him
I write about his dances.
I do not tell him
I write.

 

 

Would he be jealous that I can make things, too?

 

 

I do not tell him
Writing about dancing
Is becoming the only thing
That makes dancing
Make sense.

A steady, adagio melody to accompany
Développé promenade.

 

 

Yevgeny sets the combination
A little bit differently
Each time.

 

 

Begin in first position, arms in fifth.
Or begin in the stage left corner,
Left foot front, right in coupé behind.

 

 

But always after a series of tendus, perhaps a pas de bourrée,
A high développé a la seconde,
Rond de jambe to first arabesque.
Then slowly, slowly promenade the standing leg
Around in one complete circle,
Keeping the arabesque high.

 

 

As you turn
The supporting foot clenches,
The thigh in arabesque grows heavier,
You reach your pointed toe to the ceiling,
Pull in your gut, your chin haughty,

Unwilling to admit defeat
By the laws of gravity.

 

 

Ballerinas are better than that,
Even though the accompanist’s fingers
Seem to slow to a near stop.
Each note stretches.
Eight counts will never come.

 

 

The weight of grades, Remington’s awkward kiss,
Make tonight an eternal promenade,
Everything pulling down.

We break up for separate rehearsals.
Yevgeny takes Remington,
Lisette, and Fernando
To the small studio.

 

 

I practice the Little Swans,
A dance for a trio of girls,
With Señor Medrano.
Arms locked together with Simone and Madison,
Heads precise, feet sharp.

 

 

The music hums and builds.
We point, piqué, step,
Counting hard to stay together.
Win Señor’s smile
Which makes the evening
Suddenly spin faster.

 

 

I am half grinning when I leave the studio.
Simone and Madison head for the dressing room.
“You coming?”

 

 

“In a minute.”
At the end of the hall
Is the small rehearsal studio.
I peek inside,
Hope to catch a friendly glance,
A be-right-out gesture
From Remington.

 

 

Strains of a slow waltz
Carry through the cracked-open door.

 

 

In the mirror, I see the reflection
Of Lisette
On her knees,
Forehead to the floor,
Arms stretching back.
Rem is showing Fernando
How to reach for her hand
Pull it beneath her
Raise her from the bed—
Our bed.

 

 

I know this movement.
I made it with Rem
A Saturday not long ago.

Something catches in my throat
As Remington grins at me
Through the mirror
Points to the imaginary watch on his wrist
Motions me to wait.

 

 

And I can’t help myself.

Fine, brown mane
Tripping over his forehead,
Brushing his upturned nose,
Arms outstretched.

 

 

“What are you doing?”
I sit up on the couch,
Wrapped in his plaid shirt
That smells of ships and vinegar.

 

 

“I’m looking for a beginning
For my dance.
It isn’t quite right yet.”
His eyes are exasperated,
Though I know, for this moment,
Not at me.

 

 

“First position,” I blurt.

 

 

Rem’s expression shifts,
Exasperation
Now more directed.