Audition (2 page)

Summary: When sixteen-year-old Sara, from a small Vermont town, wins a scholarship to study ballet in New Jersey, her ambivalence about her future increases even as her dancing improves.

ISBN : 978-1-101-54789-2

PZ7.5. W24Au 2011
[Fic]—dc22
2010044307

 

 

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In loving memory of
Kevin James Kehoe
,
Sr
.,
and Charlotte Elizabeth Eck

The dance, drama, and school teachers who opened my mind to the stories I could tell on stage and on paper ...

 

SCBWI Western Washington, a generous, hard-working group of writers, through which I connected with awesome beta-readers Molly and Dawn . . .

 

My agent, Catherine Drayton, who found me the perfect editor . . .

 

Kendra Levin, whose insight into the lives of young artists brought such depth to the editorial process, and with whom it is an absolute pleasure to work . . .

 

All the wonderful folks at Viking/Penguin, whose talent and energy turned my manuscript into this beautiful book, especially Regina Hayes, Susan Cassel, Janet Pascal, and Kate Renner . . .

 

My parents, Mike and Janet Ward, who were uncomplaining chauffeurs through years of dance classes, play practices and performances, and are now a fantastic cheering squad . . .

 

Thomas, Mak, Sam and Jack, who told everyone that their mom was a writer long before I dared speak those words aloud myself...

 

My husband, Kevin, who makes me smile every day and is eternally on my team . . .

 

And my sister, Kristin, whose compassion, creativity and courage are a constant inspiration . . .

 

Thank you!

You learn the beginning
Is first position.

 

 

Heels together,
Feet pointed as far to the sides
As your rotating hips will allow.

 

 

And when you are small
And at that beginning,
Your body is as flexible
As your mind.

 

 

There you stand,
Potbellied,
Eager.

 

 

They do not say to you then
That, when you are sixteen,
Doubt may cramp your muscled calves,
Arch your arrow back,
Leap into your mind.

 

 

They do not say to you
When you start in first position
That you may never be

 

 

Thin enough
Strong enough
Flexible enough

 

 

That you may never be
Enough.

On the third of July,
I stand with a hundred other girls,
From stick-thin to gently rounded,
From tiny, taut packages of muscle
To gawky, long-limbed sylphs,
All wearing pink tights,
Black leotards.

 

 

Hair
Sprayed slick
Against our scalps,
Up and away.
Not a single stray strand to distract
From the tilt of our heads
Or the length of our necks.

 

 

I notice a few girls dared
Garnish their chignons
With beads, flowers.

 

 

Would it help them grab the attention
Of Dame Veronique de la Chance?
Of choreographer Yevgeny Yelnikov?

Of one of the other important teachers
Who have come to scout talent
Here in Boston today?
Or even catch the spectacled eye
Of the secretary in heavy, blue skirt,
Thick shoes,
Taking notes on a battered clipboard
Where our names
Are connected
To the numbers we wear pinned
Onto front and back?

 

 

I was given number 78.

 

 

Should I have worn flowers in my hair?

The giant windows
Of the ballet school in Boston,
Announcing a kinder time
Than the predawn car ride
I took to get here.

 

 

A nervous yawn builds in my throat.
I swallow it down.
Repeat with the others a series
Of tendus, pliés,
Ports de bras in center.
Then hands on barres
And me in the middle,
Neither tall nor short,
Gaunt nor round,
Certain of little more
Than that I have never danced
In a city studio before.

 

 

I learned each step I know
From Ms. Alice, the neighborhood ballet teacher,
Whose handyman husband made over
Their Darby Station, Vermont, basement
With wooden barres, wide mirrors,
Hopeful posters of satin pointe shoes
Photographed in stop-motion.

 

 

I have no way to measure
My training, my technique
Against these other girls
Until, toward the end,
Yevgeny Yelnikov nods,
Points to me.
The secretary writes something down.
An hour later, Mom, Dad, and I sit
Before a scholarship offer:
A year of study at the Jersey Ballet.

 

 

And though the July Fourth fireworks
Are still a sunset away,
My heart explodes.

From my leotard.
The safety pins have left little holes
In the black nylon.

 

 

I smooth the paper rectangles,
Fold them once.

 

 

I know that other girls
Were offered places at ballet schools
In better cities:

 

 

Boston, Miami, New York.

 

 

But though I did not admit this to Ms. Alice
Or Mom
Or even Dad,
I was uncertain
Number 78
Would be good enough
For any place beyond Darby Station.

 

 

Ms. Alice signed me up
For this audition,
Said I was ready.
Dad glowed with silent pride.
Mom preened, prompted, pressing
For details on what time to arrive,
Best place to park.

 

 

I nodded
As if I had dreamed of this day
Before it was suggested to me—
As if I had imagined
Dancing up Ms. Alice’s basement stairs
Into some sort of real world.

 

 

Before yesterday, prima
Of small-town Vermont
Was all that I imagined.
Now
My head reels.
My dream shifts,
Expands.

Hard to share
In a small town.

 

 

Kari, Tina, and I sit on tinny bleachers
Behind the high school,
Watch Billy Allegra drive his dad’s tractor,
Plowing down waist-high weeds
From the county fairground fields
Beyond the fence.

 

 

“I’m leaving,” I say, not too loud.
Watch Billy, tanned and shirtless,
Turn the tractor.
“I got a dance scholarship.”

 

 

First they squeal,
Pat my back.
Then

 

 

Tina rolls her eyes.
“Least you’re getting out of here.”

 

 

“That’s so cool,” Kari says.
But her shoulder is just a little bit turned away.