looked a bit numb from shock and confusion. Between us, Helen wore an expression I couldn’t decipher. The three of us were as different as could be, and—despite the sudden revelations—I had a hunch that the two of them were harboring deeper truths, just as I was. In the same way I sensed that Helen and Grace had attached themselves to me like sucking sea creatures, I understood that I had glued myself to them too. The realization shook me something fierce. This was stranger than moving to Hawaii with my parents; defying them with my attitude, smart mouth, and boys; returning to the mainland to live with Aunt Haru and Uncle Junji; or abandoning the identity I was born with for one that might be more practical. Friendship was uncharted territory for me, maybe for all of us. Would the three of us end up as good companions or as vicious enemies?
None of that mattered to me if I didn’t get a job.
GRACE
A Few Glorious Minutes
“Smile, damn you. Smile!” Mr. Biggerstaff yelled. It was late November, and we were at his studio, about midway through rehearsals for the Forbidden City’s opening. He’d explained that we’d be doing three one-hour shows each night with five acts of dancing, singing, and what he called novelties. In between those acts would be short bridge routines by the ponies, culminating in a big production number for the finale.
“Do it again! One, two, three, four … Again! Five, six, seven, eight!” He made us practice at the barre to build our strength: “Keep your knees directly above your feet.” He ordered us to do crawling splits across the floor to increase our flexibility: “Wider, wider!” He had us twist into pretzels—all edges erased—to improve our agility: “Stretch. And keep smiling, damn it. Didn’t anyone teach you to smile? Show your teeth! Teeth! Teeth! More teeth!”
Mr. Biggerstaff put me in charge of the line. I kept an eye on the other girls—especially Ida Wong, who could be a real nuisance—making sure they hit their marks, didn’t get lazy with their turns or kicks, and stayed in time to the music. This caused jealousy among some of the gals, and they stopped talking to me for a few days, but I had to be tough on them, because they were now my responsibility.
“Rehearse, perspire, perfection!” Mr. Biggerstaff encouraged us. “Rehearse, perspire, perfection!” He made us dance and dance anddance. “I want your hop to come on the drummer’s downbeat. The kick is on the upbeat. Listen! Don’t you hear it?”
Everything he asked us to do was easy for me, but most of the other girls had never danced before. They were getting my thirteen years of experience in six weeks. If a girl didn’t learn the routine quickly, he went after her, cutting her down, making her cry, but ultimately forcing her to improve. It was hard work and long hours. I forgot the time. I forgot to eat. And for a few glorious minutes each day I forgot to miss my mother or feel bad that I couldn’t write to her, knowing that, if I did, my father would find out, track me here, and drag me back to Plain City.
“Take five, girls,” Mr. Biggerstaff called.
Helen and I sat on the floor a little apart from the other ponies, who massaged one another’s feet, stretched, and gossiped. Every day Helen arrived at rehearsal in a dark wool skirt, long-sleeved black sweater, and charcoal-gray wool stockings, but she quickly changed out of them. To my eyes, it seemed like she was shedding not just layers of clothing but layers of tradition. Now we huddled together—inseparable—watching Eddie warm up for his routine by entertaining us with little combos. He ended with his left leg tipped behind his right, his elbows close to his torso, and his fingers spread wide. He winked flirtatiously, and we clapped. He’d taken a couple of ponies on dates, but he’d never asked Helen or me. When I pointed that out to her, she wrinkled her face like she’d just smelled a glass of sour milk.
After
None of that mattered to me if I didn’t get a job.
GRACE
A Few Glorious Minutes
“Smile, damn you. Smile!” Mr. Biggerstaff yelled. It was late November, and we were at his studio, about midway through rehearsals for the Forbidden City’s opening. He’d explained that we’d be doing three one-hour shows each night with five acts of dancing, singing, and what he called novelties. In between those acts would be short bridge routines by the ponies, culminating in a big production number for the finale.
“Do it again! One, two, three, four … Again! Five, six, seven, eight!” He made us practice at the barre to build our strength: “Keep your knees directly above your feet.” He ordered us to do crawling splits across the floor to increase our flexibility: “Wider, wider!” He had us twist into pretzels—all edges erased—to improve our agility: “Stretch. And keep smiling, damn it. Didn’t anyone teach you to smile? Show your teeth! Teeth! Teeth! More teeth!”
Mr. Biggerstaff put me in charge of the line. I kept an eye on the other girls—especially Ida Wong, who could be a real nuisance—making sure they hit their marks, didn’t get lazy with their turns or kicks, and stayed in time to the music. This caused jealousy among some of the gals, and they stopped talking to me for a few days, but I had to be tough on them, because they were now my responsibility.
“Rehearse, perspire, perfection!” Mr. Biggerstaff encouraged us. “Rehearse, perspire, perfection!” He made us dance and dance anddance. “I want your hop to come on the drummer’s downbeat. The kick is on the upbeat. Listen! Don’t you hear it?”
Everything he asked us to do was easy for me, but most of the other girls had never danced before. They were getting my thirteen years of experience in six weeks. If a girl didn’t learn the routine quickly, he went after her, cutting her down, making her cry, but ultimately forcing her to improve. It was hard work and long hours. I forgot the time. I forgot to eat. And for a few glorious minutes each day I forgot to miss my mother or feel bad that I couldn’t write to her, knowing that, if I did, my father would find out, track me here, and drag me back to Plain City.
“Take five, girls,” Mr. Biggerstaff called.
Helen and I sat on the floor a little apart from the other ponies, who massaged one another’s feet, stretched, and gossiped. Every day Helen arrived at rehearsal in a dark wool skirt, long-sleeved black sweater, and charcoal-gray wool stockings, but she quickly changed out of them. To my eyes, it seemed like she was shedding not just layers of clothing but layers of tradition. Now we huddled together—inseparable—watching Eddie warm up for his routine by entertaining us with little combos. He ended with his left leg tipped behind his right, his elbows close to his torso, and his fingers spread wide. He winked flirtatiously, and we clapped. He’d taken a couple of ponies on dates, but he’d never asked Helen or me. When I pointed that out to her, she wrinkled her face like she’d just smelled a glass of sour milk.
After
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