Audition (28 page)

From Mom,
Which is weird
Because she is a chronic, addicted texter.
Makes me wonder how busy she can be all day
At the bank.

 

 

When I lived in Vermont
Dad always came home first,
Dirty from hours in the orchard.
Dad started dinner.
Drove me to ballet class.

 

 

When I got back, Mom was always there
To check my homework,
Wash my tights,
Ask about my day.

 

 

Now I unfold
Three long, computer-printed pages
Of single-spaced
Times New Roman twelve-point.
Pages littered with words she rarely speaks:
How much she loves me.

How she worries about my future.
How she had such hopes for dancing.
How she wonders, now, if she guided me in the wrong
direction.

 

 

After a while I can’t read anymore.
Set down page two.
Tie on my pointe shoes.
Dance the Little Swans
Without Simone and Madison
In front of the narrow bedroom mirror.

 

 

My feet wobble on the shaggy rug.
My nose tickles with the scent of dampness,
Once revolting,
Now almost as comforting
As the smell of stale cigarettes
Lingering in the dark gray velour
Of Dad’s well-kept Volvo.

The best dance I’ve been given
Since I came to Jersey,
Even though it’s with two other girls.

 

 

The three of us drill and drill.

 

 

Señor Medrano smiles like he’s just finished
Eating chocolates.
Pats our heads.
Sends us to wardrobe
To be fitted for skirts
Ready for the next round
Of school-tour stops.

 

 

Since starting rehearsals for this dance,
My pointe shoes are wearing through faster.
I am too hungry to resist
Señora Medrano’s terrifying, oil-fried eggs,
Too tired to cry myself to sleep
Thinking of Jane’s grin.

Want to fix up
Their innocent ballerina friend
With some friend of Barry’s
Who goes to another prep school
Down the road.

 

 

Bess IMs me about
A zillion boys a week
And the glories of second base,

 

 

And I reply
As if I don’t know
Anything about that.

Without a single kiss.

 

 

Each time Remington passes
In the hall,
Each syllable of his name
Conjures a movie in my mind.

 

 

Lisette
Forehead down
Arching
Reaching her hand
For him.

It is not exactly desire.
I am lonely,
Want
The comfort of Rem’s heat.

 

 

I want Rem to tell me he’ll protect me
From Jane,
From failure,
From the nagging fear that I am making the wrong choices.
From the dance I saw him teaching to Lisette and Fernando.

 

 

I linger near the studio entrance,
Hoping to see Remington’s long, sauntering shadow
Cross the foyer.
But when he comes
He is talking with Jane.

 

 

I look down, fast.
Hear him say, “Hang on.”

 

 

He walks over to me.
“Hey, Sara.

Why don’t you wait a minute?
Just got to finish something up here.”

 

 

All I can do is nod.
His eyes twinkle.
He makes a “stay there” gesture with his hands.

 

 

My legs go numb.
I slide down to the floor,
Pull
The Jungle
from my bag,
Pretend to read.

Staring at the jumble of letters
That swim before me
On the page.

 

 

Listening to the garbled whispers, gentle laughs
That waft from the conspiratorial mouths
Of Remington and Jane.

 

 

I try to strike a pose
Neither paranoid nor angry,
Hurt nor vengeful,
Nor even just curious about their conversation,
Though I am all of those things.

 

 

Head down,
I peek from beneath lowered lids
At Jane’s arched back,
Fingers pushing back her coarse curls,
Face a study in controlled casual.
Rem’s hand, occasionally touching her arm
Just above the elbow.

 

 

I watch Bonnie and Simone,
In street shoes, stop before me.
They look at Rem and Jane.
Look at me.

 

 

“Wanna walk over to the Rite Aid with us?”
Bonnie asks. “Simone needs hairnets.”

 

 

“Rem asked me to wait.”
My cheeks feel hot.
I don’t look up.

 

 

“Well.” Simone’s hand is on her hip.
“Doesn’t he have some nerve?”
Her voice is a stage whisper.
She makes no attempt at looking away,
Shiny black eyes send darts
In Jane’s direction.

 

 

I whisper,
“I’ve got a lot of reading to do.”

 

 

“If you’re sure.”
Bonnie hesitates.

 

 

Simone rolls her eyes,
Tugs Bonnie’s sleeve.
“Well, okay then. Bye.”

 

 

The book slips from my hands.
I pick it up.
Cannot find my page.

Music sonorous, wandering,
Movements melting, blending, stretching,
Connecting the notes
Without coming up for air.

 

 

This night is all adagio.
Each second an hour.
Each movement unnaturally extended,
Painfully unreal.

 

 

“Hey, Sara.”
Lisette plunks down beside me.
“What’s that book?”

 

 

Is there a spotlight over my head?

 

 

“
The Jungle
.”

 

 

“What’s it about?”
She scrutinizes the orange-and-black woodcut
On the paperback cover,
Absently peels a Band-Aid
From her index finger.

“A horrible factory, and
An immigrant trying to make it
In America.”
I give the rote answer of a diligent schoolgirl,
Still trying to overhear the conversation
Happening down the hall.

 

 

“Oh. Ever read
Nory Ryan’s Song
?
That’s about an Irish girl trying to get to America.”

 

 

I want to scoff.
I read that in fourth grade.
But it was a good book
And I have immigrated
To an alien planet
Where Remington is flirting with Jane
And the beautiful Lisette is asking me about books,
Not dancing.

 

 

“I read it first years ago,” Lisette continues,
“But it’s still one of my favorites.”

 

 

I flirt with the possibility
That Lisette could be a friend.
But I would have to forgive her
For taking my dance,
As if she or anyone here knows
They should be sorry.

 

 

“Oh, there’s my mom.”
Lisette waves to a tall woman near the door.
“See you later.”

 

 

The hall is nearly empty now.
Just a few others besides
Me against the wall,
Rem and Jane by the small studio,
Heads a little too close
To make my legs
Strong enough to stand.

 

 

The clock’s second hand ticks adagio-slow
Past the one, two, three, four
Past the five, six, seven, eight
Past . . .