Someday Dancer Page 14

  “So you’re staying for Christmas, too?” she says, and all the air comes out of me like a balloon let loose. “Will you be staying at The Ritz?”

  She bites her lip like she’s sorry she said it, but I don’t care. I wish I could shrivel up and shrink through the floorboards, or disappear into dust and never be seen again. I forgot about Andrea, and I didn’t even think about Christmas. Christmas all alone without my mama. And here I’m telling tales to impress the Priss. The shame of it makes my ears burn hot as flames.

  Mrs. Everton rings the dinner bell and everyone moves out of the hallway. But I don’t think I can face dinner. I stare at Ann-Lee and she finally gets out of my way with one last humph, but she doesn’t say anything, so I know I must look terrible.

  I was going to call Andrea, but when I think about how mad she must be that I forgot about her audition, I can’t do it. Instead I dial the operator and ask to put through a person-to-person call to Warren, South Carolina. My voice trembles, and I fight to keep it firm.

  “Casey?”

  Mama’s voice hits me first, and the missing her hits me second. It comes so hard and strong that I have to sit down on the stairs to stop from crying.

  “Casey, it’s so good to hear your voice. How is the city in winter? Are you keeping warm?”

  Mama’s voice sounds so far away down the line I can hardly speak.

  “I got all of Christmas off from the hospital, so when you come home we can spend lots of time catching up. I’ve really missed you. The house is so empty without you clattering around.”

  And without Gran to fill it up with laughter and the sound of Perry Como . . . She doesn’t say it, but I know we’re both thinking it, and the thought of Christmas without Mama and Gran is too much to keep inside. The thought of Christmas together was the only way I got through Thanksgiving, and now that’s been taken away, too.

  “Casey, what’s wrong?”

  And it all comes out, like a river bursting its banks in the rainy season. Miss Martha and the company and the Imperial Theater, forgetting Andrea’s audition and how mad she must be, and not coming home for Christmas. “Maybe I shouldn’t do it, Mama,” I say, because part of me wants to just go home and hide. But Mama isn’t having any of that.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Casey Quinn. You are in New York to dance, not give up the second you get homesick. This sounds like a good opportunity and you need to take it.”

  Mama’s voice is strong. And I take a deep, shuddery breath after she says good-bye. My legs feel old and weary as I walk up the steps. The cabbage smell makes my stomach lurch.

  Miss Priss’s half of the room is decorated with ballet posters, which are OK, and cutouts from Teen Idol of Frankie Avalon and Fabian, which are silly and as sickening as the cabbage smell.

  My side of the room has just two pictures: one of Miss Martha performing, her leg sweeping her skirt through the air behind her and even her face dancing. The other picture is the one Mama painted of the leafy oak tunnel leading to our house, like it’s just waiting for me to come home.

  I unhook the painting and curl up on my bed, hugging the picture close to my chest. I wish Gran was here, because Gran always knew what to do. She’d tell me how to make things right with Andrea. She’d shake me by the shoulders and tell me to stop acting so selfish. But she isn’t here, and I miss her and I miss Mama, and the hurt of it makes me go numb.

  I close my eyes and wish Mama could come to New York City like the Ryders. But my mama can’t afford The Ritz. And I wish the Priss would just disappear. It isn’t fair that she gets everything she wants. It isn’t hard for her at all.

  Part of me knows that this isn’t true. I’d rather miss my mama than be stuck with Mr. Ryder for a pa. But it is easier to be mad than it is to be sad, so I lie on my bed and growl at the thought of Ann-Lee as hard as I can.

  The city feels very big, or maybe it’s just that I feel so small. I keep my eyes shut, hugging my mama’s painting until I fall asleep.

  I wake up in the morning when it is still dark outside, but I can see the snow falling under the streetlight through our tiny window. I pad out of bed with the covers pulled tight around my shoulders, and tiptoe to the window.

  My breath makes a pool of fog on the glass, and I wipe it away and peer at the snow-covered city. Priss Ann is snoring like a grizzly in the bed behind me, so I pull the blanket up over my head. New York looks like something out of a storybook. It is quiet and still, like it’s just for me. Sometimes I want to pinch myself to make sure it’s all true. That I really live in New York City.

  I sway quietly in front of the window, watching as the snowflakes flutter and fall through the frosty air. I still feel rotten inside about Andrea. The worry worm is back, burrowing in my middle and turning my soul sour. It says I should just crawl back into bed and never show my face again, but I take a deep breath and stamp it down hard. I know what Gran would tell me to do, and since Gran isn’t here to tell me to do it, I tell myself.

  I pull on my dance clothes, another layer on top, and two pairs of socks, and creep out of the room. It may be dark but it’s not that early, and there’s already a pot of porridge on the stove in the kitchen. I ladle some into a bowl and hold it tight, warming up my fingers. Mrs. Everton makes her porridge with water, not with milk like Gran. It doesn’t taste as nice and it certainly doesn’t send my toes tapping under the table, but it does warm me up inside out.

  I finish my porridge and put on my coat to try and trap the heat while it’s still inside me. Then I take a big breath and step outside. New York is muffled with white. I crunch down the steps, making a small rhythm with the soles of my sneakers as I step down the street toward where Andrea lives. I want to see her before I go to my first rehearsal, and tell her I’m sorry.

  I walk slowly up the five flights. I’m a lot stronger than I used to be. I don’t need to stop and take a break, and I am still breathing easy when I get to the top.

  “Andrea,” I whisper at the door, knocking softly, because it’s too early for social calls. I say her name again, a little louder this time. I am holding my breath in my chest, hoping she hears me. Someone stirs behind the door, and I try to cross my fingers inside my mittens. The door creaks open. I let out the air with a whoosh of relief. It is Andrea.

  “What are you doing here?” She scowls at me. The worm bites hard at my heart ’cause I can see how mad she is, but I ignore it and try to be brave. Andrea is still wearing her nightgown, and her knees are knocking together with the cold draft coming up the stairs. She pulls on her coat, puts on the boots by the door, and comes into the hall. I can tell she’s still sore at me by her scrunched-up shoulders. I don’t blame her, though. I’d be sore, too.

  “Sorry I forgot about your audition,” I say. We sit next to each other on the top step. Somewhere in the building a baby is wailing like a siren.

  “I was really nervous,” she says. “I needed you to wish me good luck.”

  I hang my head low. “I know. I felt awful all night worrying about it.”

  Andrea doesn’t say anything.

  “Are we still friends?” I ask, my voice quiet and scared.

  Andrea looks at me, her mouth turned down at the corners and a straight, serious line pinched between her eyebrows.

  “Well,” she says, her face lifting a little, “at least this time you remembered before I yelled at you.” She puts her arm around me. I can feel the warmth all down my spine. My shoulders start to relax.

  “So did you get the part?” I ask.

  Andrea shrugs.

  “What does that mean?” Andrea must have gotten a part. I’ve seen her dance and she is beauty-full of grace.

  Andrea smiles at me, her curls all loose and bobbing to and fro. “I’m a snowflake,” she says.

  “That’s perfect for you!” I say. I remember the snowflakes falling down and spiraling back up outside my window, floating without a weight in the world. I think Andrea can see I am impressed, because her smile grows even wid
er.

  “It’s not the lead. Your friend Ann-Lee got that . . .”

  “We are not friends. We just share a room,” I say. I think of Miss Priss and her snotty snake face with pink lips and her bragging about sleeping at The Ritz, and I frown like I’ve just sucked a lemon.

  “She’s gonna be hard to live with now, that’s for sure.”

  I nod. Miss Priss thinks she’s the bee’s knees on a regular day. Now she’ll be sure she’s the dancing queen.

  “And what are you twitching to tell me, Miss Quinn?” Andrea can read me almost as good as Gran could.

  “Miss Martha said I could be the understudy. It means I can’t go home for Christmas, but Mama says I gotta take the opportunity.”

  “That’s great, Casey! Why aren’t you more excited?”

  I frown. “I told Ann-Lee I’m gonna perform, and when she finds out I’m just an understudy . . .” I can’t find the words to say how low I’ll feel, so I stop talking.

  “Oh, don’t let Her Highness get you down. How’s she gonna know anyway? It’s not like she’ll be coming to see you dance, is it?”

  “No,” I say slowly.

  “So forget about it. If she asks, I’ll say you stole the show.”

  I nod and try to smile, but I still feel a fool all over for wanting to make myself big like that. Especially to the Priss. What do I care what she thinks?

  “What’s really getting you?” Andrea asks.

  “I miss my mama,” I sigh. And I feel like a big baby saying it, but Andrea doesn’t laugh. She just hugs me tighter.

  “I understand,” she says. “I miss my mom and dad, too, though I guess it helps to have Linda around, even if she spends all day talking about Alice. I think you’re super brave to move to New York all by yourself. And when you’re famous, you can fly down to see your mama in a private jet.”

  I nod, but I still feel glum.

  “Come on, cheer up!” Andrea says. “We need to celebrate. Do you have rehearsal all day today?”

  I nod again, a little more excited this time.

  “Me, too.” Andrea thinks for a minute. “But it’s only a half-day rehearsal on Sunday. So we could meet for a donut tomorrow afternoon? At the diner on Fifty-seventh and Fifth?”

  “That sounds good,” I say, smiling for real now.

  “And don’t worry about being in the city for Christmas. You can spend Christmas with us.”

  “What about your sister?” I say, and look darkly at her apartment door.

  “Are you kidding? Ever since Thanksgiving she’s been begging me to invite you!”

  “OK,” I say. It won’t be the same as being with Mama, but it’ll be a lot better than being all by myself.

  “Now get going. If Linda finds me out here in my nightgown, she’ll go nuts.”

  I hug Andrea, sudden and fierce, and she hugs me back. She looks at me with laughing eyes. “I’ll see you after rehearsal tomorrow.”

  I nod, and with another quick squeeze I am back on the stairs, clattering down five flights, racing full force toward the door. I think if I had a sister, she would be just like Andrea, and I would love her wide as the sea.

  I come crashing onto the sidewalk, which isn’t empty at all anymore. It’s filled with New York. People bundled up in wool coats and scarves, walking to work and to shop and to see the sights. Their faces are all lit up with the snow, and I think there must be some magic in the fresh whiteness of it all.

  I can feel the dance bubbling up inside of me. I am going to be an understudy in the company. And maybe I’ll even get to dance one night. The idea is almost too bright to look at.

  I am one Casey Quinn, and I have places to go. I cross all the way to the curb and pass the crowds on the outside, holding my arms out wide to keep my balance.

  I get to the theater a little before nine and stop short, staring up at the big golden door like it might open into another world. My heart beats hard. I place my hands on the big brass handle and pull. The door creaks open, just a small crack, and I slip in sideways. It feels like if I open the door all the way I might let the magic out.

  It’s cold inside, and dark. My breath floats on the air in front of me. The lobby of the theater is all red velvet and gold trim like the inside of a royal jewelry box. I hold my hat tight against my head and tip my neck all the way back to stare at the chandelier hanging high up above me. Even without any lights on, it still makes my breath catch in my throat. Little flashes of sunlight split into a million rainbow dots, scattering along the wall on the other side.

  I hear the front door open and shut, but I don’t care. I am looking up through the ceiling to the stars. It is even more beautiful than the theater I went to with Gran.

  “Hi, Casey.”

  I look toward the voice and see Edith staring at me. I can feel my mouth hanging open and I snap it shut. My teeth click together so sharp it hurts, and I go all red up to my ears. Edith smiles, and looking at her, I feel like a hillbilly.

  She’s wearing a soft purple swing coat and a hat she got in Paris that she calls a beret. I can see the laugh tumbling in her eyes, and I stand up straight to shake off the country. But instead of laughing at me, she looks up.

  “It is amazing, isn’t it?” she says. “I can’t believe I forget that sometimes.”

  I follow Edith through the double doors behind the lobby and step into the actual theater. It makes my jaw fall open all over again.

  In front of me are rows and rows of red velvet seats that feel soft as rabbit fur against my fingers. In front of all the chairs is the stage. It has a big picture frame around it, like something from the book of fairy tales Gran used to read me when I was little. Up on the ceiling, which is so high it must be miles away, is an even bigger chandelier than the one in the lobby.

  I walk slowly, feet dragging on the thick carpet and up the black wooden steps leading to the stage. My legs feel oh-so-heavy, but my heart is light as a sparrow. I am standing on a real-live, honest-to-goodness New York City stage. I bow deep from my hips, like President Eisenhower himself is in the audience. The sparrow in my chest is all aflutter, and my arms are fair tingling to move. I can hardly wait for the rest of the company to arrive so we can start dancing!

  Edith is on the floor, stretching her legs like taffy. I sit down next to her.

  “Thank you so much for talking to Miss Martha.” My voice is shy and soft in my throat, and I can feel my face going hot-pepper red, so I keep it pointed straight down at the floor between my knees.

  “That’s OK.”

  Edith opens her legs to the side and lays flat on the floor between them. I can feel the stretch burn along the inside of my legs as I copy her. She holds out her hands to me and I take them. We sit toe-to-toe, taking turns pulling each other forward.

  “Did you always want to be a dancer?” Edith asks as she pulls me.

  “Yes,” I say, and then I yelp just a little as the pain shoots up my legs.

  Edith laughs. “Relax and breathe into the stretch. That’s it.”

  I can feel my legs letting go, like cool water running over a burn.

  Suddenly the stage is full of kicking legs and reaching arms, and people rising up from the ground and falling again without a sound. The rest of the company has arrived, and I didn’t even hear them come in. I shuffle to the back of the stage, eyes wide. What if I’m not good enough at all and the whole of New York City laughs at me when I dance? Back in Warren I never gave two hoots if those small-town coots didn’t like the way I moved, because what did they know anyway? But New York City is different.

  “Attention please, dancers,” Edith says to the company, dragging me forward until I’m right in the middle of them all. “You remember Casey. She watches us rehearse sometimes. She’s going to be my understudy.”

  “An understudy, Edith?” one of the women says. I think her name is Helen. She glances at me with bright blue eyes, then back to Edith. “You must be moving up in the world. Don’t tell us you’re leaving?”

>   Then the stage goes quiet and I know Miss Martha has arrived.

  She sweeps up the steps in a long black cloak and throws it off with a flourish, dazzling us with a flash of bright green lining that Gran would call chartreuse. She is wearing her dancing clothes underneath. Miss Martha always dances with the company. Miss Martha makes up all the dances and is always the star. It is Miss Martha’s company, and Miss Martha is the company.

  She claps her hands. “Places, everyone.”

  The company dancers take their positions with Miss Martha at the front. I start to step off the stage, but Miss Martha stops me.

  “Casey, you will stand behind Edith and try to be her shadow. You must learn her part as if you are going to be performing it.”

  My heart is drumming in my chest. I step behind Edith and swallow hard.

  “Good luck,” she whispers.

  Then Miss Martha nods at the piano player to begin.

  The dance starts slowly at first, with just Miss Martha moving, like she is carving a space for her body in the air around her. And then, gradually, the company begins to move behind her. Just gently at first, like the basic drills we do in class. I keep my eyes glued to Edith’s back, trying to read each movement before it happens.

  But as the music gets faster, I fall further and further behind. Everyone is moving in different directions and with different beats of the music, and I can’t follow. They aren’t anything like a swarm of starlings now. More like a swarm of bees with Miss Martha as the queen.

  The music shifts suddenly and I crash into another dancer. My bones shudder.

  “Casey!” Miss Martha snaps at me.

  The dancers all stare. My heart sinks to the bottom of my stomach when I think about Edith speaking up for me and saying I could do it. But how am I supposed to know the steps already?

  “Sit down,” Miss Martha says, pointing a red talon toward the row of seats in front of the stage. I slink down the stairs with a drag-shuffle-step to watch the company dance without me. At first I am just sore. But as I watch the company dance, the soreness sort of melts away until all I can see are Miss Martha and her dancers moving in and out of the music onstage. They run through the dance once, and then again, and I watch Edith as hard as I can, dancing along with them in my head.