Audition Read Free Page B

have thrown
My pink leg warmers
When I saw the other girls come in.
     
     
    At home, at the country dance school
Leg warmers
De rigueur
Fend off the New England cold
Of a drafty studio too ramshackle,
Too expensive to heat.
     
     
    Here the real dancers
Bask in torpid air
    Moist with sweat,
Chalky with resin and cigarette residue
Reminding me of Dad’s car—
The first time the smell of cigarette
Is home.
     
     
    I am wearing a pale blue leotard,
The designated shade
For my level.
An ungenerous color
That does not conceal
A single awkward angle
Or threatening curve.
     
     
    In the dressing room
I watch the other girls
Trade bobby pins and tampons,
Unabashed nakedness,
And learn not to wear underpants
Under my tights.
     
     
    My leotard has gauche long sleeves,
Not the chic spaghetti straps, low backs
Of the city girls.
I spot a safety pin on the floor,
    Dash into a bathroom stall,
Gather the leotard front together
In little pleats.
     
     
    Better?
     
     
    The mirror tells me
I still look like a hick.

Their eyes are not unwelcoming,
    Just curious.
     
     
    A tall, thin girl with a giant blonde bun,
Lisette,
Melts into a split.
     
     
    Her friend,
Bonnie,
Maybe thinner
With thick, dark eyebrows,
Bounces her knees:
A butterfly in seated first position.
     
     
    Another,
Simone,
Black-haired, roundish,
Lounges on a wooden bench, talking about a boy
To a taller, redheaded girl, Madison.
     
     
    These chosen girls
Are in the E class, but I
Have been told by Yevgeny
That I must begin my stay in Jersey
    In C class, two levels down.
“Just to tidy up that small-town technique.”
     
     
    Though he has assured me that I have the talent
To leap quickly to the higher levels,
What I see now is mostly shorter, younger girls
Waiting for C class by the doorway down the hall.
     
     
    While Simone and Madison,
Who look high school age, like me,
     
     
    Bonnie and Lisette,
With their ballerina-straight backs,
     
     
    Lounge regally outside the largest studio.
     
     
    So where do I sit?

New England girls
    Say “Mr.”
“Ms.”
Or “Mrs.”
To adults and teachers.
     
     
    But here,
Except Señor Medrano,
Everyone is simply, strangely
One short name.
     
     
    Shannon
With cropped brown hair,
Pale skin, thin lips.
     
     
    LaRae
Bright silk scarves around her head
Her neck, arms, legs unimaginably long.
     
     
    Yevgeny
A greyhound, pointed nose, narrow eyes,
Froths of fine curls
Tumbling over his sharp brow.
     
     
    I cannot say
    These names.
Just try not to ask questions.
Nod.
Obey.
     
     
    Yevgeny pats my back.
Speaks in regal, nasal tones.
“Good to see you here, Sara.”
     
     
    We begin technique class:
Tendus, jetés,
Pliés.
     
     
    Trying to disappear,
I chose the spot at the far end of the barre.
Now, when we turn to do the left side,
There is no one in front of me
To follow.
     
     
    Everyone is behind me
As I bend my knees in a deep grand plié,
Try to keep my spine pointed down, straight, remember
The things Ms. Alice taught me, the only things I know.
     
     
    I can feel them judging
Even though it is my first day
And I have yet to learn the combinations
They have been taught at the Jersey Ballet
Since they were old enough to walk.
     
     
    But there are no excuses
In the studio.
Yevgeny is not interested
In my story,
Only in my
Mistakes.

I brush through the layers
    Of encrusted hairspray.
     
     
    My hours in the studio have doubled,
Tripled
From what I danced in Vermont.
     
     
    My arms ache from a thousand
Ports de bras, from pinning up a thousand chignons,
Lifting the brush,
Pulling it down.
My slick hair crackles
As I try to smooth away
The shellac
That coats my locks,
Clouds my mind.
     
     
    At home, I could see clearly
Where I stood:
In the front row at Ms. Alice’s studio
Where some of my dancer friends
Only came to ballet between lacrosse
And ski season, and didn’t think twice
About the color of their leotards.
    I knew what to do
To hold my place nearest the mirror.
     
     
    Here every step
Is