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

like the conservatory
    vomits me
    out of its belly.
    It’s still sprinkling.
    I step off the curb.
    A car screeches, honks,
    and swerves around me.
    I rush across the street.
    I feel so dizzy
    stumbling past the shops.
    I breathe faster and faster.
    Sidewalk squares shift.
    I splash through puddles.
    Lights pierce my eyes.
    There’s Grandpa’s hedge,
    the porch swing,
    Grandpa asking me something.
    I’m falling.
    Darkness.
    Finally.
    Lying in the backseat.
    I don’t have my seatbelt on.
    â€œIt’s okay, love,” says Grandpa. “It’s okay.”
    Grandpa helps me out of the car.
    Wheelchair
    squeaking.
    Thermometer
    beeping.
    Blood pressure cuff
    tightening.
    Stretcher
    zooming.
    Rubber strip
    squeezing.
    Needle
    jabbing.
    IV
    taped down
    to the pale hairs
    on my arm.
    Dehydrated.
    That’s all.
    Dehydrated.
    I twirl the armband on my wrist
    and stare at the needle
    submerged in my skin
    dripping clear liquid into me.
    How embarrassing.
    I can’t even keep enough water down
    so I don’t faint,
    let alone dance.
    The ER corner’s empty
    except for a picture of Goofy in Disneyland
    and the Space Needle taped to the wall.
    Neither one is enough to distract me
    from the IV
    and the mysterious machines.
    This must be the kids’ cubicle.
    The two curtains shift as someone walks by.
    I shudder
    and pull the warm blanket
    to my chin.
    The cold IV
    is chilling me
    inside out.
    Grandpa comes in.
    He tugs the drapes closed behind him.
    â€œYou gave me a scare, love.”
    I bite my lip.
    He smoothes my stray hairs
    back toward my squashed bun.
    â€œIt’ll be all right.”
    I shake my head no.
    Tears pop out.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I whisper.
    â€œNo harm done.”
    â€œI’m sorry.
    â€œClare, we only need to make sure
    you drink more.”
    â€œI mean about not making the company.”
    â€œSh. Stop. I know all about it.
    Madame called me
    right after the audition.”
    â€œEveryone knows
    I’m not a dancer—”
    â€œYes you are, Clare.”
    My lips start blubbering.
    Grandpa still
    doesn’t get it.
    â€œI called your mom and dad.”
    â€œOh, no,” I groan.
    â€œClare, they needed to know.”
    I kick at the blanket,
    which hurts my feet,
    but I don’t care.
    Grandpa straightens it out.
    â€œThey are on their way home.
    They’ll make it back tomorrow.”
    Our dream’s dead,
    and it’s all my fault.
    I shut my eyes.
    Drip, drip.
    Grandpa holds my free hand.
    â€œOwwwww!” yells a little boy.
    â€œThe stick went into his eye!”
    squeals a woman.
    The screams are right on the other side
    of my curtain.
    I watch a group of feet
    shuffle beside gurney wheels
    out of sight and earshot.
    I loosen my grip on Grandpa.
    His eyes are closed.
    Is he praying for them?
    Drip, drip.
    â€œHere, suck on some ice,” Grandpa tells me.
    Next there’s a man who’s hurt his back
    and can’t walk.
    â€œPlease, please give me more pain killer,”
    he begs.
    Drip, drip.
    â€œOne more bag, Clare.”
    The nurse adjusts the flow.
    A woman wails,
    â€œMy baby!”
    She brushes my curtain open
    racing down the hall.
    Grandpa pulls it closed.
    How can stupid dehydration
    compare to this stuff?
    So much pain!
    Why doesn’t the doctor tell me
    to go home already?
    Shame heats my skin.
    Because,
    deep down,
    it feels like my dream dying
    does compare to all of this.
    It’s as bad as poking out your eye,
    or your back hurting,
    or your baby getting taken away.
    My dream was like a baby to me.
    I’m totally selfish.
    How sickening.
    â€œI have to use the bathroom.”
    â€œLet me get the nurse, Clare.”
    Grandpa hurries off.
    I sit up, swing my legs
    over the side,
    and the Goofy picture spins.
    â€œHold it there.”
    The nurse catches me.
    â€œNow try.”
    I stand on wobbly ankles.
    And I’m not even on pointe!
    She pushes the IV stand
    into the