there, she remembered the first time she knew she wanted to be a choreographer. She was seven years old and had been taking classes with Mrs. Truman for about a year. One day after class she’d realized that she’d left her mittens in the dance studio and had gone back to get them. Mrs. Truman was still there, alone, with some music on, dancing. Gwen had stayed in the doorway, not realizing she was hidden.
The music was lively and loud, and Mrs. Truman, watching herself in the mirror, took big, swooping steps, swinging her arms. Then the music got soft and light; it made you want to go on tippy-toes. Mrs. Truman did little, quick turns, first one way, then the other, always watching herself in the mirror with a small frown on her face.
Gwen stared. Was Mrs. Truman practicing a new dance? Would she show it to her students sometime? And why didn’t she look happy? Gwen didn’t know the answer, but she could tell that Mrs. Truman was concentrating, and she knew she shouldn’t interrupt. She stayed where she was, quiet.
Mrs. Truman started the music again. This time, instead ofthe swooping steps, she traced a circle of joyous leaps all around the room. At the open doorway, she stopped short. “Gwen! What are you doing here?”
By now Gwen had forgotten all about her mittens. “What are you doing, Mrs. Truman?”
“Choreographing.”
“Chor – ee – what?”
“Making a dance.”
“Making a dance,” Gwen repeated. Didn’t dances just exist, ready-made, waiting for someone to pluck them out of the air and dance them? She felt a pang of disappointment. It took away some of the magic to learn that dances were
made
.
But then a new thought came to her. If Mrs. Truman could make up dances, other people could too.
She
could. She had all these things inside her – leaps and skips and twirls, silly wiggles and graceful swoops – and she’d never known what to do with them. Until now. She could pull these things out of herself and put them together in a real, proper dance. She turned to go.
“Gwen?” Mrs. Truman was holding up her mittens. “Forget something?”
Gwen giggled. “Oops.”
That evening, speaking carefully so she would correctly say the new word Mrs. Truman had taught her, she announced to her parents, “I am going to be a chor-e-o-gra-pher.”
She hadn’t stopped making up dances since. In the living room, on the street, at the playground. One time, she and herdad had been grocery shopping, and she was making up a dance about a tornado. As she twirled down the cereal aisle, she’d knocked down an entire display of corn flakes, boxes and boxes crashing down from a carefully arranged pyramid. The store manager had hollered. Her dad had apologized and, playing the stern parent, scolded her. But once out in the parking lot, they had looked at each other and burst out laughing.
A couple of years later, she’d read Carl Sandburg’s poem “Fog,” and the words “The fog comes on little cat feet” had made her feel like creeping, pouncing, tiptoeing. She’d made up a dance, all stealthy movements floating on air. Mrs. Truman liked the dance so much that she asked Gwen to teach it to the class, and they performed it at their final concert. Gwen still remembered when Mrs. Truman announced, “And now we’d like to present ‘Fog,’ created by our very own young choreographer, Gwen Torrance.”
Choreographer
.
And Dancemakers was going to take her to a new level.
But Dancemakers was gone. She was no longer a dancer. Now she was a gimp with a cane.
A few days after coming home, Gwen sat in the living room, looking at the rain outside. That was all it had been doing the last few days; the snow was nearly gone, almost as if it had never existed.
If only
, she thought, watching the downpour.
There was a tap at the kitchen window. Percy was upstairs, and her mom was asleep, having arrived home from Vancouver late the night before. She’d asked Gwen if she wanted to come, but Gwen had
The music was lively and loud, and Mrs. Truman, watching herself in the mirror, took big, swooping steps, swinging her arms. Then the music got soft and light; it made you want to go on tippy-toes. Mrs. Truman did little, quick turns, first one way, then the other, always watching herself in the mirror with a small frown on her face.
Gwen stared. Was Mrs. Truman practicing a new dance? Would she show it to her students sometime? And why didn’t she look happy? Gwen didn’t know the answer, but she could tell that Mrs. Truman was concentrating, and she knew she shouldn’t interrupt. She stayed where she was, quiet.
Mrs. Truman started the music again. This time, instead ofthe swooping steps, she traced a circle of joyous leaps all around the room. At the open doorway, she stopped short. “Gwen! What are you doing here?”
By now Gwen had forgotten all about her mittens. “What are you doing, Mrs. Truman?”
“Choreographing.”
“Chor – ee – what?”
“Making a dance.”
“Making a dance,” Gwen repeated. Didn’t dances just exist, ready-made, waiting for someone to pluck them out of the air and dance them? She felt a pang of disappointment. It took away some of the magic to learn that dances were
made
.
But then a new thought came to her. If Mrs. Truman could make up dances, other people could too.
She
could. She had all these things inside her – leaps and skips and twirls, silly wiggles and graceful swoops – and she’d never known what to do with them. Until now. She could pull these things out of herself and put them together in a real, proper dance. She turned to go.
“Gwen?” Mrs. Truman was holding up her mittens. “Forget something?”
Gwen giggled. “Oops.”
That evening, speaking carefully so she would correctly say the new word Mrs. Truman had taught her, she announced to her parents, “I am going to be a chor-e-o-gra-pher.”
She hadn’t stopped making up dances since. In the living room, on the street, at the playground. One time, she and herdad had been grocery shopping, and she was making up a dance about a tornado. As she twirled down the cereal aisle, she’d knocked down an entire display of corn flakes, boxes and boxes crashing down from a carefully arranged pyramid. The store manager had hollered. Her dad had apologized and, playing the stern parent, scolded her. But once out in the parking lot, they had looked at each other and burst out laughing.
A couple of years later, she’d read Carl Sandburg’s poem “Fog,” and the words “The fog comes on little cat feet” had made her feel like creeping, pouncing, tiptoeing. She’d made up a dance, all stealthy movements floating on air. Mrs. Truman liked the dance so much that she asked Gwen to teach it to the class, and they performed it at their final concert. Gwen still remembered when Mrs. Truman announced, “And now we’d like to present ‘Fog,’ created by our very own young choreographer, Gwen Torrance.”
Choreographer
.
And Dancemakers was going to take her to a new level.
But Dancemakers was gone. She was no longer a dancer. Now she was a gimp with a cane.
A few days after coming home, Gwen sat in the living room, looking at the rain outside. That was all it had been doing the last few days; the snow was nearly gone, almost as if it had never existed.
If only
, she thought, watching the downpour.
There was a tap at the kitchen window. Percy was upstairs, and her mom was asleep, having arrived home from Vancouver late the night before. She’d asked Gwen if she wanted to come, but Gwen had
Similar Books
