Read Online On Pointe by Lorie Ann Grover - Free Book Online Page A

ball,
    crying.
    â€œI’ll never make it!” she bawls.
    â€œI’m not good enough.”
    How humiliating!
    â€œClare.”
    I look up.
    Madame is calling me
    from the doorway.
    â€œWould you join me in my office?”
    I clasp my hands
    to still the shaking.
    â€œSit down, Clare,” says Madame.
    I sit on the very edge of the chair.
    My pelvis
    nails the wood.
    Madame slides into her seat
    behind her big oak desk.
    She opens a file.
    My name is on the edge.
    â€œClare,” she says.
    My skin creeps.
    â€œClare, you are a fine dancer.”
    Yes!
    â€œYou are qualified
    to be a member
    of City Ballet Company.”
    I’m busting open,
    my smile is so huge.
    Tingles race
    over my goosebumped skin.
    â€œBut . . . ”
    What?
    â€œBut . . . ” She flicks through my paperwork.
    The air whooshes out of me.
    I’m like a paper doll
    about to drift
    off the chair.
    â€œYour body is not well designed
    for the ballet.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œYou are too tall,
    and I speculate you haven’t finished growing.
    Clare, I hate for you
    to devote yourself
    at this level
    to an art
    you will never be suited for professionally.”
    The sweat on my back
    freezes.
    â€œBut, Madame, I danced as well as anyone
    at the audition.”
    â€œYes, you did.”
    â€œI did really well.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œMy développé was above hip level.
    My, my—” My throat closes.
    At least it stops my pathetic begging.
    â€œClare, I am sorry.
    You are a dancer.
    Which is why
    I wanted to give you a chance at this audition
    in case a taller group of girls turned out.
    But it’s not the case.
    We have to face that you’re not shaped
    for classical ballet.
    Before long
    you’ll be too tall
    even for Pacific Northwest Ballet.
    And in New York,
    you would need to be a superstar
    to succeed.
    I don’t see that potential in your work.”
    Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
    â€œI have to remove you
    from your class, Clare.
    The group is going to consist
    only of City members now.
    They will be dancing far more
    with their additional commitment,
    and you will be left behind.
    Several other girls will be shifted
    to alternate classes.
    You in particular,
    because of your height,
    are welcome to join the adults.”
    â€œThe adults?” I squeak.
    â€œThe adult class.
    There you could continue to dance
    for your own enjoyment.”
    â€œI need to go now, Madame,” I whisper,
    and stand.
    â€œI am truly sorry, Clare.”
    She closes my file.
    Everything inside me
    wants out.
    I retch into the toilet
    again
    and again
    until nothing else comes up,
    but my guts keep trying
    to crawl out
    of my throat.
    I heave sharp air,
    then wipe the last dribble of vomit
    off my lips
    with a wad of toilet paper
    and flush.
    Everything swirls away.
    I passed people
    when I ran from the office
    to the bathroom.
    The reporters were still in the barre room
    with a bunch of girls.
    The dressing room
    was full too.
    But I don’t remember any faces.
    I’m not coming out of this stall
    till everyone is gone.
    Someone actually knocks.
    â€œAre you okay?” she asks,
    but gives up when I don’t answer.
    â€œWe made it! We made it! We made it!”
    two girls yell.
    â€œI completely blew it,” says another.
    â€œMy father’s going to kill me.”
    I sit on the cold toilet cover
    and wait till all the excitement, disappointment,
    rustlings, and zippers disappear.
    Rosella never found me.
    Did she look?
    I lean against the wall
    and taste my thick, sour tongue.
    I can’t stop shivering.
    The stall door creaks
    when I come out.
    Everyone’s gone
    from the dressing room.
    Shaking,
    I pull on my jeans,
    clogs,
    gather my stuff,
    and cram it into my bag.
    I run out.
    The barre room’s empty.
    At least I don’t have to look
    at anyone.
    Rosella.
    Or Elton.
    I race out onto the wet street.
    It’s