On Pointe Read Free

let you go.
    You need to get your rest.”
    I let go of the sheet
    and try to smooth it out.
    â€œOh, and Dad sends his love, Clare.”
    â€œLove to him too.”
    â€œAnd he says to remind you, ‘Work hard.
    Failure is not in your future.’ ”
    â€œYeah. Right.” Dad’s favorite line. “Night, Mom.”
    â€œGood night, my little ballerina.”
    Click.
    Little?
    Ballerina?
    Why can’t Mom focus
    on one thing?
    Why can’t I think about City Ballet
    without the pressure of PNB
    or some New York company
    in the way far-off future?
    City Ballet is what I’m working for.
    Isn’t that enough, Mom?
    â€œClare,” Grandpa calls
    through my bedroom door
    in the morning.
    â€œClare.”
    I don’t answer
    and wait for him to give up.
    He cracks the door
    and peeks in.
    I close my eyes and lie
    perfectly still.
    He closes the door
    and heads out to church.
    Every week he tries this.
    I take class six days out of seven.
    Let me at least chill out on Sunday!
    Even Mom said I didn’t have to go to church.
    Everyone agreed to that
    before I moved in.
    We’ve never gone.
    Why should I start
    because I’m staying with Grandpa?
    I snuggle down
    under my covers.
    After I wake and eat lunch,
    I go out and weed
    in Grandpa’s garden.
    I rip out the clover enthusiastically
    to make up for not going with him.
    â€œHi.” I wave as Grandpa pulls in.
    â€œWhat’re you doing there, Clare?”
    â€œSome weeding.” I beam,
    ready for sure praise.
    â€œOh.” He shuts the car door.
    â€œWant to help me?”
    â€œNo. But thanks. I don’t work
    on the Lord’s Day.”
    The trowel slips from my muddy hand.
    â€œOh, right. Sorry.”
    â€œWhy don’t you come in,
    and we’ll have a simple lunch.”
    â€œI—I already ate.”
    He nods and goes inside.
    Ugh. I stab the dandelion roots
    with the weeder stick
    and yank the plant out of the dirt.
    I heave it at the wheelbarrow.
    Why can’t I ever seem to do the right thing
    to please Grandpa?
    He naps
    then goes back to church at night.
    For evening service
    he doesn’t bother knocking on my door.
    Just leaves me a note saying
    he’ll eat dinner with his friends
    afterward,
    and I can find something
    in the freezer.
    I hide out in my room
    through the afternoon.
    Reading and napping to avoid him
    till he leaves again.
    Come on.
    Everyone needs a down day.
    Right?
    â€œMorning.”
    â€œMorning, love.”
    Since Sunday’s over,
    everything will be normal again between us.
    Not weirdo stressed.
    It’s been the pattern since I moved in.
    Grandpa’s smiling,
    which helps me smile back.
    I kiss his cheek
    and smell warm prune juice.
    Yuck.
    He dabs his mouth. “Aha!”
    â€œWhat?”
    He fills in the last squares
    on his crossword.
    â€œNot in unison is discordant.”
    I stir my breakfast drink.
    This is it for me.
    Rosella vomiting makes me feel too guilty
    to eat anything else.
    â€œD-i-s-c-o-r-d-a-n-t,” he spells.
    â€œWhen something doesn’t fit in
    with the rest. Like a note in music.”
    He looks up at me.
    â€œRight,” I say.
    Discordant.
    Like one girl who’s taller
    than the rest.
    The skin on my back
    crawls against my T-shirt.
    My tights squeeze my legs.
    My leotard encases my body.
    I wind my ponytail tighter and tighter
    and pin it to my head.
    I’m a ballet student
    who feels like a lean linked
    sausage.
    I shove over the covers,
    sit on my bed,
    and cut foot holes
    in my new tights.
    Snip, snip.
    Perfect.
    Just the right size.
    And the tights aren’t running.
    At least something on me
    is perfect today.
    Even if
    nobody will see.
    Yeah.
    It’ll be fun to spend the school year
    at Grandpa’s.
    I like the little town,
    and I’ve always loved this house.
    The same one Mom grew up in.
    It has a rich full smell
    with smooth wood floors.
    The small window