Audition Read Free Page A

a real ballerina.
Now my bags lie piled
On a floor lacking hardwoods or braided rugs in dull hues,
    Breathing coffee-scented air unrelieved
By the sooty comfort
Of a kitchen woodstove.

“Got to get going.”
    Dad jangles his keys
In his jeans pocket.
“Got a long drive.”
     
     
    I follow him
To the shadowy front hall.
Wetness stings the backs
Of my eyes.
I fight my rigid throat.
Release two words:
“Um, okay.”
     
     
    “We’re proud of you, your mom and I.”
     
     
    “I know.”
     
     
    “And we love you.”
     
     
    “I love you, too.”
     
     
    Lines
Scripted,
Repeated like mantras.
    Preparatory phrases
For a conversation never spoken,
A port de bras
Before
An undanced dance.
     
     
    His arms encircle me.
His heart thumps into my chest
A thousand more beats
Than the syllables that escape his lips,
     
     
    As afraid of conversation
As I am of boys,
Of men,
Of wind blasting through
Open car windows.

I make it upstairs
    To my new room.
Close the door.
     
     
    Stare at myself
In the long mirror on the wall,
Eyes still fighting tears.
     
     
    “I can do this,”
I whisper.
Draw my arms up
To fifth position’s gently rounded frame
Around my face.
Settle into a plié in fourth.
Push off with my back foot, though
It is difficult to spin a pirouette
On red shag carpet.

The call from Mom
    Startles,
Though I knew it would come.
My cell vibrates in my pocket,
Jolts me from my stupor.
     
     
    “Get there okay?”
     
     
    I do not mention Dad’s usual
Trouble with directions.
“Yes, Mom.”
     
     
    “Have you unpacked?”
     
     
    The suitcase’s zipper teeth
Sneer at me from the far wall.
“Pretty much.”
     
     
    “Had dinner yet?”
     
     
    I do not wonder aloud
How I can even turn the knob,
Wrest open the door,
Enter a stranger’s kitchen,
Ask for food.
“In a few minutes.”
     
     
    “When did Dad leave?”
     
     
    “Half an hour ago
Maybe.”
     
     
    She talks on and on.
Asks if he smoked
Asks if he got lost
Asks if he’ll make it home before dark.
     
     
    I let her voice
Wash over me.
Her dissatisfaction
Is familiar.
Her anxiousness
Telegraphs through every high-pitched word,
Clicking tongue.
     
     
    My eyes
Travel
To my half-opened dance bag.
Leotards and tights
Spill from the top.
    Leg warmers in pink and gray
And a pair knit with red flowers
Brighten the pile.
     
     
    In the hallway going up to my bedroom in Vermont
Is a black-and-white photograph
Of my great-grandmother
And her three sisters
All wearing giant, knitted hats to cover
Heads shaved by their mother
Against the rampant lice of their immigrant tenement.
Her solution
To a risk?
Remove the problem.
     
     
    Was I a problem for them?
A risk to be removed?
     
     
    I know I said I wanted this chance,
To dare this dream.
Yet now I wonder how
They let me go—
Whether leotards and leg warmers
Will mask my sense of abandonment.

One more week before school begins,
    But classes never stop
At the Jersey Ballet.
Señor Medrano brings me at noontime.
He has a company class to teach
Long before my lesson begins
In the afternoon.
     
     
    As I wait,
The company dancers
Sweat and posture
Beyond the glass window
Of the largest studio.
     
     
    Across the hall, little girls
Come and go.
Their proud mothers
Smooth back their hair,
Send them into A class.
     
     
    I watch them giggle,
Scurry inside,
Where a sweet-faced young teacher
Pats their heads,
Sends them to the barre.
    The mothers sit just outside,
Knit, text, read magazines,
Chat about their kids,
Glance proudly
Through the viewing glass.
     
     
    In the studio, I see the teacher’s lips smile.
Her eyes are sharp.
Looking
For the ineffable
Something
That makes one child
A ballerina.

I am wearing leg warmers
    As I sit in the hall, stretching
At two o’clock.
     
     
    Inside my lunch sack,
Señor Medrano
Kindly packed
A peanut butter sandwich
Enhanced
With a slice of last night’s chicken.
     
     
    This bizarre concoction
Promptly finds its way into the trash,
Where I should