tournant
That explode into a line of piqué turns,
Tough and spectacular.
Every girl dreams of performing them—
Lisette and Bonnie, Simone and Madison—
All of us tendu and spin
Again and again.
This will be the last Variations class
Until The Nutcracker is over.
A long time to remember
Even delightful steps
To delicate music.
I try to drive them into my muscles
Beside the incessant ache
Of yearning.
“Tonight, Madison, Bonnie, and I Are going to the movies.”
I tell this to Señor Medrano.
Try to keep my eyes casual
Like I do not really care
Who else is going out tonight.
Or that I will get a ride with Remington.
Señor smiles, pats my head
Like I’m a little girl.
I watch him push through the metal door,
Disappear from the studio.
Turn back to the strange adventure,
Uncertain bed
I have made for myself.
Madison’s dad comes
For her and Bonnie.
“You sure you don’t need a ride?”
Madison heaves her chic, black, quilted ballet bag
Over her shoulder.
I look at the solid, suited man
Standing in the doorway,
Poking at his cell phone,
Tapping his foot.
I imagine his car’s thick, safe metal,
Airbags,
Clean, leather seats.
From the corner of my eye,
I see Remington
Joking with Paul and Don.
He nods at me.
“I’ve got a ride. I’ll meet you there.
Text me the movie you pick.”
I ride on the back of Rem’s motorcycle.
Try to forget my fear
Of the wind
Turning my sleek braid
Into a messy ponytail
Set behind a frazzled halo
Of escaped brown strands.
“... if we make a quick stop at a party?”
He hollers into the wind.
In answer, I can only squeeze him tighter.
Rem turns up a narrow road,
Stops at a house as big as mine in Vermont.
Dark wood and stucco decorate the front.
A dusty chandelier lights the grand entry hall
Bedecked with a tattered Persian rug.
Bamboo shades slant over the windows.
Rem saunters through a crowd of faces
To a kitchen with dingy tile floors,
A glass-and-iron table with mismatched chairs,
A dark gold refrigerator.
He takes out a beer,
Lights a cigarette,
Deftly twists the flame toward his palm,
Offers it to me, saying,
“You shouldn’t smoke.”
I take the thing.
Hold it in my hand a while.
Hope that I look sophisticated.
Remember the myriad cancer threats
Spoken like mantras by Mom to Dad,
A constant refrain of my childhood.
Draw the smoking tumor to my lips.
Hold it there long enough to look courageous.
Satisfy myself by striking a studied pose,
Left arm across waist
Right elbow balanced on left knuckles
Right palm up, cigarette pointed coolly,
Safely
Away.
The party is crowded.
Rem nods at people,
Taps his foot to the pulse of the room.
The music is loud.
Ballerinas look all wrong
Bouncing and thrusting
To beats driven by drums
Instead of the sweeping bows of violins.
I think of Variations class
Just hours ago,
Safe under the eyes of Yevgeny and Señor Medrano
Trying to meld my body
To Tchaikovsky’s lilting tune.
I could not hear the music quite right,
Felt like Señor wanted me to take the first step
A moment before each measure began.
Felt my solid, even strong, fouetté turns end
Always a moment too late.
Now I resist
Spinning a circle of fouettés
To try to see if I could do them
To this music,
So loud it pounds into my gut.
How could I fail to follow?
The snaking cigarette ash
Threatens
To fall onto the carpet.
I wander,
Open a door looking for the bathroom—
A place to flush away the cigarette,
Try to repair my ravaged tresses—
Only to find a bedroom,
Paul and Don
Kissing.
I am jealous of the dance they do.
Steps already learned.
Timing right.
No test to pass.
Audition over.
With Remington
I am back at the studio in Boston—
Sun glinting sharp
Against giant mirrors,
Turning my reflection
To a harsh, uncertain glare—
Wondering how I came to this place.
If Remington has given Jane’s part
To me.
Rem’s giant
That explode into a line of piqué turns,
Tough and spectacular.
Every girl dreams of performing them—
Lisette and Bonnie, Simone and Madison—
All of us tendu and spin
Again and again.
This will be the last Variations class
Until The Nutcracker is over.
A long time to remember
Even delightful steps
To delicate music.
I try to drive them into my muscles
Beside the incessant ache
Of yearning.
“Tonight, Madison, Bonnie, and I Are going to the movies.”
I tell this to Señor Medrano.
Try to keep my eyes casual
Like I do not really care
Who else is going out tonight.
Or that I will get a ride with Remington.
Señor smiles, pats my head
Like I’m a little girl.
I watch him push through the metal door,
Disappear from the studio.
Turn back to the strange adventure,
Uncertain bed
I have made for myself.
Madison’s dad comes
For her and Bonnie.
“You sure you don’t need a ride?”
Madison heaves her chic, black, quilted ballet bag
Over her shoulder.
I look at the solid, suited man
Standing in the doorway,
Poking at his cell phone,
Tapping his foot.
I imagine his car’s thick, safe metal,
Airbags,
Clean, leather seats.
From the corner of my eye,
I see Remington
Joking with Paul and Don.
He nods at me.
“I’ve got a ride. I’ll meet you there.
Text me the movie you pick.”
I ride on the back of Rem’s motorcycle.
Try to forget my fear
Of the wind
Turning my sleek braid
Into a messy ponytail
Set behind a frazzled halo
Of escaped brown strands.
“... if we make a quick stop at a party?”
He hollers into the wind.
In answer, I can only squeeze him tighter.
Rem turns up a narrow road,
Stops at a house as big as mine in Vermont.
Dark wood and stucco decorate the front.
A dusty chandelier lights the grand entry hall
Bedecked with a tattered Persian rug.
Bamboo shades slant over the windows.
Rem saunters through a crowd of faces
To a kitchen with dingy tile floors,
A glass-and-iron table with mismatched chairs,
A dark gold refrigerator.
He takes out a beer,
Lights a cigarette,
Deftly twists the flame toward his palm,
Offers it to me, saying,
“You shouldn’t smoke.”
I take the thing.
Hold it in my hand a while.
Hope that I look sophisticated.
Remember the myriad cancer threats
Spoken like mantras by Mom to Dad,
A constant refrain of my childhood.
Draw the smoking tumor to my lips.
Hold it there long enough to look courageous.
Satisfy myself by striking a studied pose,
Left arm across waist
Right elbow balanced on left knuckles
Right palm up, cigarette pointed coolly,
Safely
Away.
The party is crowded.
Rem nods at people,
Taps his foot to the pulse of the room.
The music is loud.
Ballerinas look all wrong
Bouncing and thrusting
To beats driven by drums
Instead of the sweeping bows of violins.
I think of Variations class
Just hours ago,
Safe under the eyes of Yevgeny and Señor Medrano
Trying to meld my body
To Tchaikovsky’s lilting tune.
I could not hear the music quite right,
Felt like Señor wanted me to take the first step
A moment before each measure began.
Felt my solid, even strong, fouetté turns end
Always a moment too late.
Now I resist
Spinning a circle of fouettés
To try to see if I could do them
To this music,
So loud it pounds into my gut.
How could I fail to follow?
The snaking cigarette ash
Threatens
To fall onto the carpet.
I wander,
Open a door looking for the bathroom—
A place to flush away the cigarette,
Try to repair my ravaged tresses—
Only to find a bedroom,
Paul and Don
Kissing.
I am jealous of the dance they do.
Steps already learned.
Timing right.
No test to pass.
Audition over.
With Remington
I am back at the studio in Boston—
Sun glinting sharp
Against giant mirrors,
Turning my reflection
To a harsh, uncertain glare—
Wondering how I came to this place.
If Remington has given Jane’s part
To me.
Rem’s giant
Similar Books
