Read On Pointe for Free Online Page A

around the room.
    It’s good Madame took care of it.
    We need the space,
    and it was horrible to have to look at her.
    Especially that big butt jiggling behind it all!”
    What?!
    Rosella tosses her towel on a chair.
    â€œCome on,” she says.
    I don’t move.
    She keeps walking.
    We bourrée—
    little tiny steps
    on pointe—
    from one corner
    to the other.
    In one long line.
    It’s the worst time to see
    how much I stick out.
    My head is way above all the other girls.
    My feet flick baby steps
    almost as fast as my heart beats.
    â€œAuditions will be held here, on Saturday.
    10:00 A.M . sharp,” says Madame.
    She runs her cane through her fingertips.
    â€œStudents from
    all over the Seattle-Tacoma area
    will come to compete
    for the sixteen City Ballet positions.
    If you were a member last year,
    you must audition again this year.
    Nothing is guaranteed.
    I expect your absolute best
    as you represent the conservatory.”
    I’m amazed
    her slick, tight bun
    actually lets her smile.
    I tug on my jeans.
    â€œWhat you said
    was pretty awful, Rosella.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œAbout Dia.”
    â€œOh, come on, Clare.
    It’s no big deal.
    I only said what everyone’s thinking.”
    I bend to get my stuff together.
    The room feels more crowded than usual.
    I’m bumping into rear ends,
    elbows, and knees.
    â€œI need to use the bathroom.
    Wait to walk out with me, Clare.”
    I grab her arm. “You have to stop doing that.”
    â€œClare, I have to pee.”
    â€œOh, right.”
    â€œI do. What is with you today?”
    She pulls away.
    I step around a pile of clothes
    and Margot changing her shoes on the floor.
    I follow Rosella to the stall.
    She does go.
    But when she flushes
    I hear her vomit.
    I knew it.
    This can’t be right,
    no matter what I was thinking before.
    She’s got to be losing strength.
    It’s dangerous.
    Rosella comes out and crosses her arms.
    â€œWhat?” she asks.
    â€œI’m going to tell your mom
    if you don’t quit it.”
    â€œBig deal.” She pushes by me.
    â€œMy mom’s the one who tells me to do it.
    Grow up.”
    She slips between the other girls
    and disappears.
    I stomp,
    stomp,
    stomp
    around the window shoppers
    looking into the gift stores.
    The sidewalk is extra crowded.
    I want to get away from everyone
    and back to Grandpa’s.
    I should have cut through the alley.
    Sure, my mom is like a cheerleader
    about our dream,
    and my dad says I can’t fail,
    but her mother
    tells her
    to vomit?
    Rosella’s mom has always
    been into clothes
    and cool cars.
    Going through three husbands
    and getting tons of alimony,
    she is used to having whatever she wants.
    Maybe Rosella has to be
    the daughter that fits her style.
    The perfectly thin ballerina
    to accent her vogue life.
    Vomiting
    to make her mother happy.
    It makes me
    want to puke.
    Grandpa pulls his little car
    up to the curb.
    â€œCome on, Clare.”
    I duck by the hanging basket and get in.
    â€œWhere are we going?”
    â€œIt’s a nice day for a short hike.”
    â€œBut Grandpa,
    I haven’t changed.”
    â€œYou’ll be fine.”
    He pulls out onto the street,
    turns on Main,
    and heads up toward the Cascade Mountains.
    â€œBut I need a snack.”
    â€œI packed some goodies.
    Relax, Clare.”
    â€œBut I’m wearing clogs.”
    â€œYour hiking boots and socks are in the trunk.
    Before you know it,
    ski season will be here,
    and I want to be in shape for some downhill
    on Crystal Mountain.”
    I shake my head.
    Grandpa has skied
    since forever.
    It drives Mom nuts with worry.
    I sink back against the seat
    and watch the traffic disappear,
    until we are alone on the road
    weaving up into the foothills.
    Grandpa flips on the radio.
    I close my eyes,
    shut Rosella out of my mind,
    and choreograph a dance
    to the classical music.
    The gravel crunches.
    Grandpa parks