Audition (30 page)

Which makes the sap flow quick.
“There’ll be plenty of maple syrup
This year.”

 

 

“Great.”

 

 

As always, the metronome
Beats.

 

 

I know he will not ask me
Any real questions.
Everything is in the silence
Of his pauses,
The twitch of his fingers
Because Mom will not let him
Smoke cigarettes when he uses the phone
In the house.

 

 

I remember one Sunday.
I was nine years old.
Mom and Dad had had another quiet fight
About his smoking.
Mom packed a bag,
Bundled us into the car.

Drove down to the bottom of the hill
Just past the orchard gates.
Pulled to the curb.
Set the car in park.

 

 

We sat there, engine humming,
Her eyes brimming wet,
Me, uncertainly patting her shoulder from the backseat.

 

 

Twenty minutes later
She turned the car around
To go home.

 

 

All these years, through
Her myriad threats,
Newspaper clippings about cancer and heart disease,
His halfhearted stabs at quitting,

 

 

I somehow always knew:
Though he might never stop,
She would never leave him.

When I tell him I am going out
With some friends.
“I’ll get a ride home.”

 

 

“Sah-ra, you have rehearsal all day tomorrow
And schoolwork.
Your parents, dey worry
About your grades.”

 

 

“My essay for Monday
Is almost finished already.
Plenty of time to touch it up
On Sunday.”

 

 

He shrugs.

 

 

What can he do?

 

 

I am not his daughter.
I am no one’s daughter here.

Pushing a stray hair
Away from my eyes.

 

 

My body shudders.

 

 

“I can’t wait for us to be together again.”
There is something calculated
Behind his words.

 

 

“Remington?”

 

 

“I’ve got to work with some dancers
Tonight. It’ll be late.”

 

 

I watch him walk away.
Don’t linger to check for Jane because
I have to find Señor Medrano
To get a ride.

About my change of plans.
Still I am glad
My cell rings in the car
On the way home.

 

 

“I’m promoted to E class,”
I tell Mom.

 

 

“That’s wonderful.
You should exchange those green leotards
For the next color.”

 

 

“Sure.”

 

 

“Unless.” She comes up for a moment’s air.
“Did you cut the tags off already?”

 

 

“I did. Sorry,”
I lie.
Despite the expense
Measured in apples and peaches,
Forsaken weekend drives home.
Don’t want the long explanation
Of how to make an exchange,

Her suggestions for the cut
Of the leotards I should buy,
To listen any longer
To Mom’s rushing anxiety.

 

 

“I’ll send you some money.”
Mom is still talking.
“Don’t forget to do your homework.”

For whatever offense he committed.
Now we speed even faster
Down the avenues,
Her head always half turned
Toward his tanned smile.

 

 

I clutch the white leather seat,
Wait for a complete stop in the studio parking lot
Before I undo the buckle.

 

 

In the studio,
I try not to look too desperate
Casting around for Remington.
Wishing I were a magnet that could hold his gaze.

When Rem comes late to class.
He holds a curious place
Between student and teacher.
Perhaps that’s why they overlook
His tardy ways.

 

 

We développé and rond de jambe
While he pliés at the end of the barre,
Works his feet through slow tendus.

 

 

We grand battement, soutenu turn
While he coupés and jetés.

 

 

Later, at rehearsal,
My angry Mama Bear still swoons
Beneath his guiding hand
Beckoning me out into the woods
While, had I stayed to fan the porridge,
Goldilocks might not have upended our house.

 

 

During the break, Simone whispers,
“Rem’s dance got second place
At the Young Choreographers Workshop.

He wants Yevgeny to add it to the repertory
For the tour.”

 

 

I am not certain whether this is good
Or bad
Or who told Simone,
Though I suppose she knows everything
Except how to resist
That second donut,
Slice of pie.
Still her black hair shimmers.
Perhaps from buttery treats or not caring so much
If her Lycra uniform
Hints at a little softness.

 

 

“Girls!”
Yevgeny clicks his tongue from the doorway.
Simone giggles.
Red-faced, I scurry
Back into the rehearsal room
Where Lisette is already practicing bourrées.

 

 

I watch Rem’s face for a smile
When Madison, Simone, and I
Finish a near-perfect Little Swans.
But I find it hovering
On Yevgeny’s lips.
“That’s right, Sara.”

 

 

Remington’s back is stiff.
He is staring through the mirror
Into some island no one else can see.

Barely aware
He is not alone.

 

 

I pack my bag,
Watching his slow plié,
His pressed-together lips.

 

 

Second position
Second base
Second place

 

 

Not destinations—
Transitions.

 

 

Not first, not best,
Not last.

 

 

En route.

 

 

Can Rem be satisfied
With second?

 

 

When first place looms,
A taut and elegant Lisette,

Reflecting back your own missed
Possibility.

 

 

When you flirt with the mirror,
You never stand in second.
Yet, there he is,
Feet splayed.