A Lotus Grows in the Mud Read Free Page A

boys. I can smell her perfume as she stands close to me, staring over my shoulder. She watches me color my elephants while David is reading his book.
    “Why don’t you have a reading book like David, Goldie?”
    I shrug my bony shoulders and carry on with my drawing. “I don’t know, Mommy. Maybe because I’m in the Purple Balls.”
    “The purple what?”
    “The Purple Balls, Mommy,” I say, proudly. “It’s a special reading group, and it’s really neat.”
    “Why is it neat, honey?”
    “Because I’m the only one in it.”
    “David, why doesn’t Goldie have a reading book?” Mommy asks him when she can’t get a sensible reply out of me. He mumbles something, but my mother can’t understand him, so she turns to me and asks, “What did he say?”
    “He said, ‘Because she’s too dumb,’ ” I reply, without even looking up from my happy elephants.
    “You’re too what?” my mother asks, screwing her cigarette into the ashtray. “How come I don’t know this?”
    She gives me a strange look, and helps me pack up my things. “Come on, honey, it’s time to go home.”
    The next day, Mom comes to the Silver Spring Intermediary Elementary School with me, something she never does. Instead of going straight to class as usual, I am taken to the principal’s office for a meeting with my teacher, Mrs. Povitch. I sit silently listening to their conversation.
    “Yes, Mrs. Hawn,” Mrs. Povitch confirms, “the Purple Balls is the lowest reading group in second grade, I’m afraid. It’s not that your daughter doesn’t try, or that she isn’t a good girl. She just gets easily distracted.”
    “Anything else I should know?” Mommy asks with a sigh.
    “Yes, there is, actually.” Mrs. Povitch laughs. “Every time we ask Goldie to color in the fruits in the coloring book—red for apples, purple for grapes and so on—she paints everything in yellow. When I ask her why, she says, ‘Because I like yellow.’ ”
    “Well, it is her favorite color.” Mom bristles defensively.
    “Oh, and she’s such a sweet child,” Mrs. Povitch says, throwing her head back and laughing. “She always signs her unfinished papers ‘Love Goldie XX.’ ”
    “Well, that’s my Goldie,” Mom replies. “She must love you very much.”
     
    S tep, two-three, glide, two-three, pirouette and turn. The moves are etched into my brain in a continuous loop. Now balancé, two-three, and into the arabesque…
    Dancing is my sport, my life, my purpose. Moving my body, challenging myself, sweat dripping from every pore, I feel the music vibrating within me, sending me to ecstasy. Competing with no one but myself, just moving molecules in the air, I reach such an emotional high in physical expression.
    Everything goes away when I am dancing—schoolwork, boys and my loneliness. Dancing is something I can do. This is where I belong. I am good at this, and I know if I practice really hard I can make myself even better. When I am dancing, I am able to escape to my own little world. And, for the first time in my life, I realize that my unusual father is just the same; he dances to the beat of his own drum.
    Picking me up from dance school one night, I overhear my mother talking to my dance teacher, Aunt Roberta.
    “There’s a talent show at Goldie’s school next month,” she says. “I thought she could do the parasol dance she did in her recital.”
    “No, Mommy,” I pipe up as I peel off my tights and leotard and wriggle back into my school dress, “I want to improvise to ‘Sleigh Ride.’ ” This is the song I whirl and twirl around the living room to every night when I get home.
    “Don’t you want to do your parasol dance?” Mommy asks. “You know it really well.”
    “I want to dance to ‘Sleigh Ride,’ Mommy,” I insist. “It makes me happy.”
    Happiness was always important to me. Even at the young age of eleven, it was my biggest ambition. People would ask, “Goldie, what do you want to be when you grow