Audition (9 page)

 

 

For D and E students, and apprentices,
There is also the chance to be chosen
For a lecture-demonstration tour
Performing at schools and such
Along the eastern seaboard:
An introduction to barre exercises,
Some variations, and a story ballet.

 

 

Should I be more unsettled?
It seems to me that every day
Is an audition.

Worried about the audition announcement.
All my grand ego at being his partner
Erased by the fear
That when I piqué across the floor,
Glissade and leap,
He may not catch me on his shoulder.

 

 

The posting about the audition has not left me nervous,
Only uncertain.
I will think about it tomorrow
Or maybe the next day.
Now I am pointing my toes,
Lifting my arms.

 

 

While the others around me
Stumble and slip and think about the future,
My dreams have dissolved
Into this moment
When I have to jump.

Since they were very small.

 

 

Lisette, a miracle on legs,
Turned-up nose, giant smile
Belying the fierceness of her dedication.

 

 

Madison, casual, cool, ballerina chic,
Whose father is on the ballet board.
Half the company dancers were her babysitters.

 

 

Some days,
I partner with Fernando,
Feel LaRae pat my shoulder,
Catch a glimpse of Shannon’s smile.

 

 

But more days,
I tiptoe away from Señor Medrano’s disappointed shrug;
Feel the irritated pressure of Yevgeny correcting
The angle of my foot, the curve of my arm;
Chase mastery of some step, some line the other girls
perform with ease.

 

 

Once, Mom made me watch
A PBS documentary about the prodigy Mozart,
Whose first compositions came before
He knew how to write the notes on paper.

 

 

While I watched, Mom smiled approvingly,
Encouraging my glance
Into the mirror,
Where I saw Mozart’s eyes in
A girl who had danced
Since before she went to school,
Whose first memories
Were of standing in bright tutu, blue eye shadow,
new ballet slippers,
Skipping across a narrow stage.

 

 

Now, the edges of these memories sharpen.
I see the cracks in the studio floor beneath her feet,
The lack of turnout in her fifth position.

 

 

What I cannot see is answers.
Why was that blue-shadowed girl happy?
Where did she think she was going?
What did she want?

At last well turned out, on a professional stage,
Can she get anywhere so late in the game?
Where does she think she is going?
What does she want?

During the break between barre and center work,
Stretching my legs,
Working my arches.

 

 

Instead I linger in the hall
Where Remington stands
Talking to some corps dancers
About choreography.

 

 

I should be drinking water.
Instead I surreptitiously sneak
M&M’s from the bag
I bought at the drugstore near the bus stop.

 

 

I should be thinking about the stripe-tied boys from Upton.
Instead I steal glances
At the wiry hairs peeking over
Rem’s white T-shirt collar,
Imagine the feel of the dark stubble
Shadowing his cheeks and chin.

Simone stands beside me.
“Can I have some?”
She points to the candy
Tucked behind my dance bag.

 

 

I nod,
Watch her toss a giant handful
Of bright orange, red, blue, yellow
Into her mouth.

 

 

“God, I love chocolate.”
She gives the slight curve of her stomach
A rueful pat.

 

 

I shrug.
Don’t know if Julio is coming
Or if Simone’s bright, black eyes
Have spotted any of my secrets
Less innocent than candy.

Straight up.
The girl stands in front of the boy.
He pliés low,
Puts his thumbs together,
His palms pressing up against her thighs.
She jumps, leaning back a little,
Leveraging her straight body
To balance against the strength
Of his hands.

 

 

Today I am not with Fernando,
Who touches girls
Like vaguely disgusting objects
He is taking to the trash.

 

 

Today I am with Remington
And his hands feel different
When they slide along
The backs of my legs.

Crime and Punishment
,
Pride and Prejudice
,
This and that.

 

 

In bed at night
When I can’t sleep,
I think of Rodya dreaming of horses,
Sonya’s pale face,
The misdirected loves of the Bennet sisters.
Wish my life were inside a book
So I could turn to the ending,
See if it is a love story
Or a gothic disaster.

 

 

At the studio,
The company dancers
Sit at the table in the corner
Littered with diet soda cans.
Some read books with corseted bosoms
And bare-chested men
Swooning across the covers.

 

 

No symbols.
No images.

Just the story of a man and his member,
A girl and her desires.
No AP literature essay required.

 

 

And then sometimes I dream myself,
Torn frock, hair flowing,
Draped across the rippling arm
Of Remington.

To my school adviser,
Who arranges a ride for me
From Upton to ballet.
I no longer have to ride the city bus.

 

 

But the solution is a convertible,
No windows to close,
Driven by the giant-haired
Ruby Rappaport,
Whose father owns a restaurant chain.
The car is cherry red
With a white, collapsible roof,
Gleaming silver hubcaps.

 

 

She drives her boyfriend sometimes—
Adnan, with bronze skin
And a laid-back way of lounging in the seat.
I sit behind,
Thinking how handsome they are together.
Jealous of their easy conversation,
Barely intelligible through the windy air,
Of Ruby’s slightly aggressive speed,
Open-topped along the urban thruway.

They are polite
But when they drop me
At the studio
I know they are relieved.
I cannot find the words
To reassure them
My awkward quiet is not judgment
But envy.

 

 

There’s no such thing as an easy ride.