Leap (7 page)

Petra seemed to emerge from a trance. She did a double-take when she saw Ms. Kelly in the observation chair. “I'm sorry, but I can't work like this.”

Ms. Kelly's mouth dropped open. “What do you mean?”

“You're welcome to watch the piece when it's finished, but during the creative process, I hope you'll understand—I need to be alone with the dancers.”

Ms. Kelly flushed. She glanced back and forth from us to Petra as if debating what to say. Finally, she stood and lifted her chair. The cushion, tied only to the back rungs, hung straight down. Ms. Kelly looked so hurt and offended that I almost felt sorry for her. Still, when she marched out, her high heels clicking, it felt like the prison warden had gone off duty.

First, we lay on our backs and closed our eyes. Petra told us to release our weight into the floor, to feel the heaviness in our limbs. We took deep breaths and imagined sending the air into any tight spots, then we blew out the tension. She told us to isolate one part of our bodies and focus our attention on it. How did it feel—was it sore, relaxed, twitchy? Did it want to move? In what way?

“Let the impulse arise from within,” Petra said. “Shut off your mind. Let the body part lead.” I had picked my right foot, so I circled my ankle, pointed and flexed my toes, and shook it. I was glad we kept our eyes closed. No one could see how dorky my moves were.

Petra told us to imagine that we weren't in a dance studio, but lying in bed on Sunday morning. Would we roll over, would we extend a toe outside the covers to test the temperature in the room? What would our sleepy, relaxed bodies want to express? It felt gooey and luxurious. I stretched my arms above my head. I reached the soles of my feet to the ceiling and let my legs flop down one by one. I rolled and squirmed.

She instructed us to stand, keeping our eyes closed, and to remain still until a movement impulse surfaced within us. “You may find that your body feels programmed to move a certain way. That's normal. You're advanced dancers with years of training. Allow yourself to move in that habitual way—whether it's pointing and flexing, pliés, jazz isolations, whatever. Keep repeating the movement until you recognize that it's a pattern, it's something you learned. Then ask yourself, what's underneath it? What happens if you release your limbs from the grooves of habit? What do they have to say for themselves?”

Pretending to lie in bed freed me, but when I stood up, my limbs got stuck, just like she said. I couldn't seem to break out of my rut until Petra said, “Imagine you're swimming in a pool filled with Jell-O.”

The air thickened and my limbs pressed against it. It felt like make-believe, not dancing. Petra kept giving us cues—“Now the Jell-O dissolves into mist; the wind is blowing so hard you can barely stand up”—and I responded from my gut. Minutes later, I opened my eyes as if waking up after a night of vivid dreams.

We sat cross-legged in a circle. Petra hugged her knees to her chest and clasped her wrist. “Improvisation will help you to develop a new dimension in your dancing. We'll also use these exercises to generate movement. You, as dancers, will help to build the piece. You're co-creators.” Petra smiled and made eye contact with each of us in turn, her green eyes luminous.

When we were leaving the studio, Ms. Kelly stepped out of the office. She had probably spent the whole afternoon looking for a knothole in the wall to spy on us. She crossed her arms and inspected us as we traipsed past her to the change room. I caught her eye by accident. “Did you enjoy yourself, Natalie?”

I flattened my voice to sound casual. “It was all right.”

But it was much more than all right. Inside, I was soaring.

Wednesday, July 14th

This morning, Ms. Kelly taught ballet again. The adagio was set to somber music and involved a lot of slow
ports de bras
. My arms seemed to push through water. As I stretched over my front leg in the lunge, I let my torso soften instead of holding it stiff like I usually do. This meant my fingertips actually swept the floor. I rose in one fluid motion, arms outstretched and framing my head, then arched backwards, my shoulders wide and my chest open. For once, Ms. Kelly didn't criticize me, but she gave me a weird look. Lisa leaned into me and whispered, “That was beautiful.”

The compliment startled me, and I jerked my head towards Lisa. She nodded, as if trying to convince me. “Really.”

“Thanks.”

Later, in jazz class, Ms. Kelly hounded me. She had just started to lead the warm-up to a pounding rock beat when she spun around and pointed the remote at the stereo. Silence filled the room.

“Natalie. Go change.”

I was wearing wide-legged sweat pants and a T-shirt. “All I have is my ballet gear—it's soaked.”

She strode to her desk in the back corner of the studio and snatched up a flyer. “May I remind you of the studio rules?” She folded back the first page of the pamphlet and smoothed the crease between her thumb and index finger. “Rule number four:
Close-fitting clothes must be worn for all classes except Stretch and Conditioning
. When you registered at this studio, you agreed to abide by the rules. I'll overlook it this time, but I suggest you do laundry tonight.”

In the past, when Ms. Kelly pissed me off, anger sharpened my lines, made me spin faster and jump higher. It ricocheted through my body and left me feeling roughed up and edgy, like I'd been in a fight.

It doesn't work anymore. Today, her attack made me sloppy. I couldn't control my limbs. You can imagine how well that went over with Sergeant Kelly. I think it reinforced her theory that loose-fitting clothes are the root of all evil.

Thursday, July 15th

I phoned Dad tonight. He sounded surprised because I usually call on the weekend. Well, tough. I'm not always going to stay in the little box he wants to keep me in.

“I miss you.”

“I miss you too, honey,” he said.

But when I suggested that he come out and visit, he said, “You know it works better when you girls come out here.” He just means it's more convenient for him.

“So why can't I go out there next month?'

“We already discussed this.” He sounded tired. “You came out by yourself last year, and now it's Paige's turn.”

“But what am I going to do? I'll be lonely out here.”

“You'll have your mom all to yourself.”

“Ha! You know what that's like. She has her nose in a book 24/7.”

“What about your friends? How's that friend of yours … Hannah?”

“Sasha, Dad, her name's Sasha. Is it that hard to remember? I don't go around calling your girlfriend Vicky or Veronica.”

He chuckled at that. “You know I'm bad with names.”

“It doesn't matter.
Sasha
isn't speaking to me.”

The conversation dragged on, and I wasn't feeling any happier by the time I hung up. Mom keeps asking if I'm going to the cabin with her and Marine next month. She says maybe I could stay with Grandma in Courtenay for part of the week if the cabin idea turns me off. But Paige and I visited Grandma on spring break. I haven't seen Dad in a
year!

Friday, July 16th

As Ms. Kelly watched us stream out of the studio after Petra's rehearsal today, she said, “Where are your pointe shoes?”

Jamie, who happens to be incredibly good at pointe (her feet are just as strong as the rest of her), told her we weren't using them. “We're learning a modern piece.”

Ms. Kelly pursed her lips and marched into the studio. We overheard her confront Petra. Turns out she assumed that Petra would set a pointe piece on us. She hadn't intended for Petra to introduce us to modern at all. Before long, Ms. Kelly barged into the change room and ordered all of us to leave, except Jamie.

While we waited in the parking lot, Lisa reviewed the choreography. Sasha crammed her fists into the pockets of her hoodie and kicked at the gravel. We've barely talked since Kevin's accident. I was figuring out what to say to her when Jamie burst out the door and ran up to us. “I'm doing a pointe solo in the showing!”

“Right on!” Lisa high-fived Jamie.

“Congratulations,” I said.

Sasha shoved Jamie. “You're such a bunhead!”

Rehearsals for our group piece continue in bare feet.

Saturday, July 17th

This evening I biked to The Ice Cream Place. Claire was working, and I hadn't visited her since she started the job. The place was swarming with customers. When Claire saw me, she glanced at the long line ahead of me and shrugged an apology. I watched her scoop for awhile—she has already built up her muscles and she gauges cone sizes expertly—then claimed a table on the sidewalk.

Cars rumbled in and out of the parking lot and exhaust fumes had nearly driven me back inside when a Camaro rolled up. It was full of guys I'd crossed paths with at Sasha's—friends of Kevin's. They cruised the parking lot and pulled into a spot. Two of them jumped out and headed for the store. I ducked my head. There wasn't much chance that they would recognize me, but still. “Look at that line-up!” one of them said. “Screw this. Let's just head.”

“What time was Kev supposed to meet us?”

“At eight—it's twenty after now.”

They paused beside my table. “Have you seen a guy hanging around here, about yea high, curly hair, looks kind of like Rafael Nadal?”

“Curly hair? Looks like Nadal? What, are you in love with him, faggot?”

The guy who had described Kevin shoved the other one. “Who're you calling faggot? Takes one to know one, faggot!”

They wrestled until I thought they'd forgotten about me. But when the first one finally broke free, he turned to me. “Guess you haven't seen anyone who fits that description?”

“Sorry. Maybe you should try the tennis courts.”

“She's a riot, eh, Brad? Hey, what are you doing out here by yourself? Want to come party with us?”

The guy named Brad took his friend by the elbow. “You've got to excuse Tyler. He can't decide whether he's a fag or a pedophile tonight.”

“What do you mean pedophile? She's old enough!”

At that moment, the driver yelled out the window of the Camaro and the guys took off just as Claire appeared with a hot fudge sundae. “Were they bothering you?” She watched the car peel away. Despite the apron and puffy, short-sleeved blouse, she looked ready to defend me.

“I think I held my own.”

Claire led me around back to a staff picnic area bordered by a couple of pine bushes. She offered me a spoon to share the sundae, but I thought about those spandex unitards and shook my head.

“Are you sure?” She shrugged and helped herself. It didn't look as though working in an ice cream store had hurt her figure any.

“We miss you at the studio.”

“I hate to say it, but I don't miss the studio that much. I miss the girls, but—I'm having fun this summer. I feel so much older now that I have a job. And I met this guy …”

“Really?”

“He kept coming into the store. I was like, no one eats that much ice cream! When I bugged him about it, he got really red—it's so cute when he blushes—and asked me out. We ride our bikes everywhere and play tennis and stuff. His older sister has a car and sometimes we go places with her and her boyfriend. We're all going camping next weekend.”

Claire's coworker called for help and she left the sundae behind. A breeze stirred the bushes and the smell of pine sap took me back to the lake. The rough planks of the picnic table turned into the wooden dock. The memory of lying there with Kevin stirred me up inside. I felt a tingling in my crotch and wanted … him. What did it mean? Was I a slut like Sasha said? What Claire had described with her boyfriend sounded so innocent and safe. Not like what I had done with Kevin. Slut, tramp, whore, slut, tramp, whoreslutrampwhoreslutrampwhore …

I found myself staring at the bottom of an empty ice cream dish. I had grabbed the half-eaten sundae and wolfed it down until chocolate burned the back of my throat. Nausea pulled me out of my trance. What a relief it would be to throw up. There was a name for that: bulimia. We saw a film about it in Health class. Well, I'm not interested in turning bulimic. I just need to start exercising some self-restraint.

I threw away the dish and strolled back to my bike. As I was unlocking it, someone said my name.

I turned and stared: Kevin in the flesh. For a split second, I thought I was imagining him. I shivered to shake off the dream. He leaned back on his bike, one hand resting on the seat, the other on the handlebars. The position pushed his shoulders into a shrug.

“Hey. How you doing?” he said.

“I'm okay. How are you?”

“I've been better.” He wrinkled his forehead. “Maybe you heard?”

“Yeah.” Talking to Kevin made me feel exposed and prickly. It was hard to hold up my end of the conversation, and all I really wanted to do was ride away. “Do you have a court date yet?”