On Pointe Read Free Page A

panes
    make things look ripply
    because the glass is curvy,
    from 1926,
    when the house was built.
    I love all Grandpa’s family’s antiques
    that were passed down to him,
    like the iron bed
    and antique dresser in here.
    And now this room,
    which used to be the guest one,
    looks like mine:
    clothes on the floor,
    bed unmade,
    stuffed animals
    lining the wide baseboard,
    books overflowing the shelves,
    and the giant poster of Mikhail Baryshnikov,
    the perfect dancer of all time—
    and drop-dead gorgeous, Rosella and I say.
    This room feels like mine
    already.
    By the time I double stitch
    a torn ribbon on my toe shoe
    and snip the loose threads,
    Grandpa’s calling me to eat lunch.
    The protein bar
    should hold me through class.
    â€œYou sure that’s enough food, Clare?”
    â€œYes,” I say with my mouth full.
    If he only knew what Rosella gets by on.
    Grandpa pats my back
    as I head out the door.
    â€œBye, Clare.
    Have a good time.”
    I turn and wave until he goes inside.
    The air is still cool.
    My clogs crunch the fir needles,
    sending a Christmas smell
    out into the summer air.
    I weave through the garden.
    I piqué and glissade
    where no one can see me.
    I jeté around the giant sunflowers.
    A chickadee
    hops in the birdbath.
    One last double pirouette,
    and I’m out the gate,
    onto the sidewalk.
    Nothing is better
    than Grandpa’s garden.
    I dig out the dill pickle
    I stashed in my bag earlier,
    unwrap it,
    and take a big bite.
    Mmmm.
    Not many calories and delicious!
    I munch and cut through the alley
    behind the bakery and gift shops
    to avoid the window shoppers.
    I try not to kick up dirt
    onto my tights.
    I run across Main
    when the traffic breaks.
    The last bite of pickle
    makes me burp garlic.
    Up the front staircase,
    I pull hard
    on one of the heavy wooden doors
    and step into the brick conservatory
    that pulses with music
    and movement.
    The door thuds closed.
    My heart skips a beat
    and is out of sync
    with everything around me.
    In the foyer
    I smooth my hair
    and mash my bun
    until I feel the bobby pins
    jab into my scalp.
    Hairspray sticks to my fingers.
    I press one stray pin
    back into the center.
    It pops halfway out again.
    I press it in,
    but it won’t stay.
    I shoulder my bag,
    pull the bobby pin all the way out,
    pry it open with my teeth,
    and shove it into the other side
    of my bun.
    Sometimes
    things don’t stay
    how you want them.
    With a deep breath,
    I step into the barre room,
    where the adult class teeters
    to keep their balance.
    The instructor looks over at me.
    â€œAnd hold it, hold it,”
    he directs them.
    I cast my eyes down
    and rush along the opposite wall
    to get to the dressing room.
    This place has a lousy design.
    People are always coming through
    at the end of someone else’s session
    to change and get ready for their class.
    Everyone knows to scurry by silently.
    Even if it is
    just the adults.
    In the dressing room,
    I glance sidelong at Ellen;
    she’s looking at Margot,
    who’s sneaking a peek at that new girl, Devin.
    Rosella’s not here yet.
    Except for me and her,
    no one’s really friends
    with anyone else.
    Ballet students at the conservatory
    don’t hang out at each other’s houses
    or even call to chat.
    The only time we speak
    is to ask
    to borrow a bandage
    or to say, “Excuse me,”
    before pushing past.
    Everyone is someone
    trying to be better
    than you.
    It’s risky to make friends.
    Or to care.
    Rosella and I met
    back in kindergarten.
    My mom drove me across town
    to an uppity preschool.
    The only really good thing about it
    was Rosella.
    We’ve been friends
    since the first day.
    We both drew ballerinas
    in the art corner.
    We took classes together for years
    at our old ballet school.
    Sharing the same dream when you’re kids
    is fun.
    But here,
    everyone is completely serious.
    Each person at the conservatory
    shares our dream.
    Each is a