Someday Dancer Read online

  After rehearsal is over, Miss Martha doesn’t say anything to me. She just goes over to the piano player and starts talking about the music.

  “I was terrible,” I say to Edith.

  Edith puts her hand on my shoulder. “Why don’t you come early tomorrow? I’ll show you the part. Just the two of us. You’ll pick it up in no time.”

  “Really?”

  “Once you know the steps, you’ll feel a lot better. OK?”

  “OK!” I say.

  Edith smiles and heads off to change, but I wait for Miss Martha to finish talking.

  “Miss Martha?” I say quietly, because even though she is my teacher, Miss Martha still scares me just a little.

  She looks at me and waits.

  “I just wanted to let you know that Edith is coming in early tomorrow to help me learn the part. I promise I’ll be much better at the next rehearsal.”

  Miss Martha doesn’t say anything. In fact, she looks almost angry.

  “So Edith is going to train the perfect understudy?” she says. “I hope she isn’t planning on being sick.”

  I’m confused. Why would Edith do that?

  But Miss Martha doesn’t give me a chance to ask the question. “Go now. I have important things to do.”

  I nod, and hurry out of the theater.

  “OK, Casey, let’s go through it slowly,” Edith says. “You shadow me like last time.”

  We’re standing on the stage, just the two of us, and her voice echoes in the empty space.

  Edith counts the beats slowly, and as she counts, she moves. Watching Edith dance is like trying to stare at the sun, but I need to keep looking. Her arm twists out from her shoulder and I do the same, like I am sculpting the air. The beat changes and Edith falls to her knees, and I am beside her, moving from the waist to bring my head to the floor. Edith turns to look at me every few steps to make sure I am keeping up, and when she sees I am, she smiles. I follow her as we leap across the stage.

  “OK, that’s really good. Do you think you can do it faster?” Edith asks. She’s breathing hard and so am I.

  I nod. Edith turns on the record player, and I take a deep breath and settle into my body, waiting for the music to lift me up and carry me across the stage. I can feel Edith checking on me as I move, but I keep going, letting the music tell me what to do. I kneel and leap and sway, and try to keep dancing beyond the tips of my fingers and toes. And then the silence comes and I am oh-so-still, staring across the seats to the back of the theater.

  “I knew you could do it, Casey!” Edith says.

  Some of the dancers from the company are standing in the audience watching us. They clap and smile. I can feel myself going red, but Edith just grins and puts her arm around me.

  “What did I say? She’s good, right?”

  My smile is so wide it makes my cheeks hurt.

  “Come on, let’s all run it together before Martha gets here.”

  The other dancers climb up on the stage and take their places.

  “OK, Casey, you dance your part. I’ll dance up front.”

  I can see the other company members stealing little glances at each other. But the music starts and I don’t have time to think about anything but dancing.

  I start from the beginning, twisting my arms slow and strong out from my body like Edith showed me, and now I am in time with the other dancers and I can feel the beat running though all of us. Edith is dancing Miss Martha’s part, curving her body around my arms and then falling away. It’s like our bodies are talking to each other.

  When I go onto my knees with the company, Edith leaps up, and as the rest of us leap, she seems to fall into the floor. It is like we are two halves of a soul, pushing and pulling the space in opposite directions.

  The music stops and so do we. My legs are shaky from leaping.

  “Very nice, all of you.” Miss Martha’s voice drifts down to us from the back of the theater. Edith steps back quickly, and the other dancers nod and smile, but I can tell they are nervous. Miss Martha walks silently down the aisle and onto the stage. Her eyes catch the stage lights, and sparkle in the darkened theater.

  “Casey, you will observe from the audience.”

  I scoot off the stage and into a seat quick. Miss Martha is talking soft, but she is in a dangerous mood. I see her glare at Edith.

  The pianist arrives and takes his place at the piano.

  “From the top, please,” she says, and moves into position onstage.

  Miss Martha starts first, her arms sweeping through the air. She is dancing the same moves as Edith, but they look so different. Miss Martha’s movements are full of sorrow. I move along with the company from my seat, twitching my muscles up and down. Miss Martha doesn’t leap as high as Edith, but her face dances like it’s a whole company all by itself. I wonder what my face does when I dance.

  When the music comes to an end, Miss Martha steps slowly from the stage. Each step is stiff, and for a second she reminds me of Gran, wobbling down the porch steps in Warren.

  “Again, from the top,” Miss Martha says. She walks slowly toward me and sits by my side. Her eyes flash as she watches the dancers, studying their feet, their legs, and their arms. She looks so intense I think maybe she’s searching inside them to make sure they’re dancing on the inside as well.

  “Do you see what it is about, Casey?” she asks me.

  I shake my head, and she sighs.

  “It is the story of Joan of Arc, the saint, remembering the three parts of her life: Maid, Warrior, and Martyr. The part you have learned is the Maid.”

  I’m not exactly sure what she means, but I don’t say anything.

  Miss Martha waves her hand for the dancers to stop. “Enough,” she says, “I’ve seen enough. Casey, go dance Edith’s part. Edith, come sit with me.”

  There is something going on. I can sense it in my stomach and I know that whatever it is, it’s no good. The pianist begins again and we dance. Miss Martha’s gaze is so heavy I can feel it, pulling me down onto the stage. My leaps are clumsy, and I grit my teeth and push harder.

  “Very good,” Miss Martha says as she climbs back onto the stage when we’re finished. “Very interesting. Yes, I think this works much better, don’t you?”

  Edith comes back onto the stage, too. Her face is hard and angry. “What do you mean?”

  “From now on, Casey will be dancing the Maid,” Miss Martha says simply, and my stomach drops down to my toes.

  There is a hum and a rustle around the circle, like a swarm of moths around a porch light. Edith steps forward, and the cold in my fingers starts creeping up my arms.

  “But that’s my part. Casey is my understudy,” she says, and the icy fingers snake faster.

  “Oh, so you still intended to dance the Maid?”

  Edith looks confused, and I want to say something to make Miss Martha stop, but I don’t know how. Miss Martha keeps on talking.

  “I know what you’re planning. You want Casey to learn the part of the Maid so that you can dance the part of Joan. My part.”

  Miss Martha’s eyes flash like they are full of fire, and Edith steps back. I realize Miss Martha is right. That’s what Helen meant when she teased Edith about having an understudy. Edith didn’t want me to be her understudy at all. She wanted me to dance her part so that she could take Miss Martha’s.

  I think Edith is going to run away, but she doesn’t. She stands up straight and tall, and looks Miss Martha right in the face.

  “Maybe I do want to dance the lead. I’m ready for it, and we all know you won’t be able to do it for much longer.”

  The room doesn’t make a sound but I can feel it gasp. Miss Martha takes three steps across the circle and slaps Edith hard across the face. The slap echoes through the empty theater.

  “Get out,” Miss Martha says, and we all watch as Edith gathers up her coat and slowly puts it on, still and proud, like her cheek isn’t bright red from Miss Martha’s hand at all.

  Edith puts on he
r beret, and walks away from the stage, each step strong and steady. At the top of the aisle she turns to face us once more, and I hope she will find the words that I can’t.

  But she doesn’t say anything. She just stares, and when her eyes sweep across my face they could cut right through me. I feel like a leaf shriveling in a flame. I wish I could disappear into the floor. I want to call out that I didn’t know, that I didn’t want to take her part, but she’s already gone.

  “That’s enough for today,” Miss Martha announces. “Rehearsals resume here, same time tomorrow.”

  The company dancers gather up their clothes and bags silently. I can feel them glaring at me, though they won’t even look my way. They think it’s all my fault. But I’m not the one who tried to take Miss Martha’s part.

  I put my outdoor clothes back on and lace up my sneakers slowly. I don’t want the other dancers needling me with their eyes all the way down the sidewalk. When I’m sure they are gone, I walk slowly out of the theater. As the lobby door shuts I hear the music start again. I peek back through the swinging doors.

  Miss Martha is on the stage dancing the role of Joan of Arc. She seems to be trying very hard to keep up with the music, and her face is so sad it looks like it might break. I close the door softly, letting it rest on my fingertips until I am sure it is fully shut, because I don’t think Miss Martha would want anyone to see her that way.

  Andrea is at the diner when I get there. Her pointe shoes are around her neck, and her hair is sticking out like a lion’s mane. She waves me over to the counter and I climb up on one of the round spinning stools, but I don’t feel much like celebrating. My head is full of Miss Martha and Edith, and there is a dread in my stomach that grows bigger with every breath I take.

  I order coffee and take a silent sip as Andrea tells me about being a snowflake and flying across the stage in a flutter of feet and arms, and the insufferable Ann-Lee prancing like a princess. “We saw the pictures for our costumes today. They’re all silvery, like something an ice queen would wear.”

  The coffee is bitter and sweet at the same time, and I hold it on my tongue ’cause it makes me think of Gran.

  “The dance is so pretty, and I get to be right in the front row because I’m short, so I guess it isn’t so bad to be small sometimes. And there’s tons of leaps, which I love. Although your friend —”

  “She’s not my friend,” I say, and Andrea giggles.

  “I know, but you should see her. All she has to do is sit on a cushion at the side and watch us dance; she hardly has to move at all. But she acts like she’s the prima ballerina. Mr. Balanchine practically yelled at her for being a diva.”

  But even that doesn’t make me smile.

  “What’s wrong?” Andrea asks, tipping her head to one side, but I can’t explain it, not even to Andrea, who is so good at understanding.

  “Nothing,” I say, but she knows it isn’t true.

  “Tell me,” she says, and I sigh heavy.

  “Miss Martha gave me Edith’s part.”

  “Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”

  “No, they had a huge fight and Miss Martha kicked Edith out of the show and now all the other dancers hate me.”

  I feel very small. In Warren I always knew what I wanted to do, because I had a dream to be a New York City dancer. But now that I am one, I don’t know what to do anymore. It’s so big and bright and close that it scares me, like it all might burst, or like I might wake up and discover it isn’t real at all. That I just dreamed the whole thing.

  “Oh, they don’t hate you. Besides, it’s not your fault that Edith and Miss Martha had a fight, is it?”

  I shake my head.

  “So don’t worry about it. You’ll be dancing, Casey! You can show them all what you’ve got.”

  I nod, but it’s hard to look on the bright side when I’ve got so many tears stuck behind my eyes. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “That’s better,” Andrea says, then looks at the clock on the diner wall.

  “I’ve got to run. I promised I’d be home for dinner. I’ll see you on Monday, OK?”

  Andrea hugs me and says she’ll see me at school, and I walk back to Mrs. Everton’s slowly, wishing I could see Mama and wishing more than anything that I could see my gran. Gran always knew what to say, and she believed in me like nobody in the world. “You follow your dreams, Casey,” she’d say. Just remembering her say it makes me feel a tiny bit better. My steps get lighter through the snow, leading me all the way to my New York City home.

  On Monday there are only five more days until Christmas vacation.

  It is cold outside again, and the sky looks heavy with snow as I slip-slide toward the studio. My feet slow down. Step. Step. Stop. As I get close to Miss Martha’s I go all weak and panicky, that evil, wriggling worm burrowing back into my stomach. But I won’t let it. Not this time. I’m not even afraid of snakes, so a lil’ ol’ worm won’t so much as dare to show its face. No dance studio, not even a big city dance studio, is gonna make my knees shake.

  I speed up again, stepping one foot in front of the other faster and faster, until I’m chugging down the sidewalk like a steam train one-two-three-four-one-two-three-four, my breath coming out in little puffs of steam.

  I burst through the door and up the steps without slowing down. And then I stop cold. Because there is Edith warming up in the middle of the room, same as always, and definitely not looking my way.

  I feel sick as sick can be, spin noiselessly on my heel, and go straight to the changing room, where I pull off my outside clothes quiet as I can. Everything I do sounds loud, like all of a sudden I’m some clumsy elephant.

  I tiptoe back into the studio, sit down all silent on the floor, and start to stretch myself out. My muscles are bunched up and protesting from the cold and the worry.

  When I look up, Edith is standing in front of me. I hold my breath and get ready to fight, ’cause that part is mine now and no one is going to take it away from me. But Edith doesn’t yell at me. She just sits down and offers me her hands.

  I’m nervous, but I put my hands in hers and we sit foot-to-foot, stretching back and forth on the floor until I can’t keep quiet anymore. The words spill out of me like my very own snowstorm.

  “I didn’t know she was gonna give me your part,” I say. “Honest I didn’t. I would have said something.” I stop then, because there is nothing I can say that could ever make it any better. I stop and Edith smiles, just a small smile but it is a smile all the same.

  “It’s OK, Casey. It isn’t your fault. I wanted you to be there in case Martha couldn’t dance. I wanted her part. It was a gamble, and it looks like I lost.”

  I feel red-raw with shame, ’cause there’s no way I’d be so kind if it was the other way around. I think Edith is the bravest person I’ve ever met. I don’t know if I’d have the guts to show my face again after what happened.

  “Why did you come back?” I ask, but what I really want to ask is, How? How did you get so brave?

  Edith laughs at me and tugs me forward. I feel my muscles protest again.

  “I’m a Graham dancer,” she says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Martha would never let me back if I went and sulked, and I want to be here when she finally admits she’s too old to keep dancing some of her roles.”

  “Do you really think she isn’t good enough?” I ask, whispering like Miss Martha might hear me. Edith shrugs and pushes me back to the floor.

  My head spins. I can’t imagine anyone saying Miss Martha shouldn’t dance, but then I think about how tired she looked practicing up on stage.

  “Someday she’ll need one of us to dance for her, and I plan to be around when that happens. So I’ll keep coming back, no matter what she throws at me.”

  Edith is quiet for a minute. “Casey, I want you to know. I didn’t just pick you to be my understudy so I could dance the lead. You’re a good dancer and I know you’ll do a great job with my part.”

&nbs
p; The door bangs open and Miss Martha sweeps in, and I go all guilty, like I was the one talking about taking her place, not Edith. I hold my breath because I think Miss Martha is going to shout and yell. But she doesn’t. She just claps her hands for music.

  After class, I walk to the Imperial Theater for rehearsal with the company. No one is even a little impressed by how well I know my steps. They’re probably just thinking, That Casey Quinn is no Edith. I grit my teeth and dance harder, curling my body across the floor like nothing can hold me back, because I will show them that I deserve to be here. That I’m a born dancer with passion and fire practically leaping out of my skin.

  We dance until it is well past dark, but I keep going and don’t let anyone see I am tired. My legs burn down to the bone, but I tell them to be quiet and leap, and they listen.

  “Enough,” Miss Martha says, and stops suddenly in the middle of the stage. Under the floodlights her face is white and weary. She doesn’t turn to look at us, just says we’re done for the day and waves us away. I almost can’t feel my legs beneath me, they’re so numb from dancing. I lean against the soft velvet of the orchestra seats to keep my balance as I pull my outside clothes on top of my tights and leotard. And I grab the backs of the chairs all the way up the aisle to the exit.

  Back at Mrs. Everton’s house, I hang my coat on my hook and shuffle-step-slouch into the kitchen. My heart sinks low down in my stomach because the Priss and some of the new ballet crew are already there, lounging around the table like they own the place.

  I set my shoulders square and walk past them to the icebox, busying myself inside it like I don’t have time to be bothered with their ballet talk and I’m not tired at all. But they aren’t talking about ballet.

  My hands and heart go cold, and it’s not because I have my head in an icebox. The Priss is talking about her parents and all the things they’re going to do together in New York City: staying at The Ritz, watching the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall, taking carriage rides in Central Park. Each word hurts like a million tiny pinpricks, making me think of Mama and how I’m missing her something awful.