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fourteen hands, which made him a quarter inch short of being a horse. He wascalm and sweet, as befitted his full name, Sir Gentleman. I had ridden many horses, but none as special as Gent. After we had been paying for our rides for a couple of years, the owners of the stable offered to sell us our favorite horses for a price so ridiculously low that even we could afford them. I bought Gent for the $150 in allowance money I’d been stashing away in a teddy-bear-shaped bank for two years.
    What I didn’t realize was that the reason Gent was so calm was that as a stable horse he was being ridden every day. I rode him only a few hours on weekends, and he wasn’t used to being cooped up in his stall for such long stretches of time. While his gallop was still magical, his boundless energy was more than my tiny frame could handle. Heading out, he was as calm as ever, but the minute we turned back toward the stable he was transformed into a demon. No matter how hard I pulled back on the reins, within seconds he’d be flying so fast that all I could do was squeeze my legs hard and cling to his neck for dear life. As it turned out, Gent’s temperament was as wild as my own; we were made for each other.
    Eventually we moved our horses to the ranch owned by my mother’s younger sister, Rhonda, and her husband, Michael. This was a great move for two reasons. First, because the ranch was much closer to home, so we could ride more often. And second, because Rhonda and Michael were my favorite relatives and they, in turn, thought I was really cool. In fact, they enjoyed my company so much that they’d call my mother and ask if I could come and stay for the weekend. Children of the sixties, they hadlava lamps, beanbag pillows and tarot cards, and they’d named their infant daughter Raynbow. Unlike my uncommunicative parents, they demonstrated their fondness for me and for each other and I could talk to them for hours about esoteric things like past-life experiences, out-of-body experiences and UFOs. We read tarot cards together, and Michael even did faith healing with a laying-on of hands. Secretly, I wished that they could be my parents.

SIX
    As time went on, ballet became the most important part of my life. I had friends in the neighborhood and I was working hard in school, but I was also spending more and more time at the studio either taking a class or waiting for the next one to begin.
    Each January, ballet schools around the country sent representatives to audition students for their summer programs. When I was thirteen, Sheila decided I was old enough to try out for Balanchine’s School of American Ballet and for the school of the San Francisco Ballet. The previous year, Michele had attended SAB, and I remember devouring her letters and imagining what it would be like to ride the bus or walk with her to class. Now, if the audition went well, it would be my turn.
    Hundreds of girls from all over the state gathered at a local ballet school. For the San Francisco audition we were crammed into a studio with a number pinned to our leotard just above our chest. As two judges looked on, a teacher put us through the usual steps, starting with pliés at the barre and moving on to balancing, jumping and turning in the center of the room. After each group of combinations, the judges called out the numbers of the girls they were eliminating. Those who made it to the end had a good chance of receiving an acceptance letter. Michele and I were both still standing at the end.
    The audition for SAB was entirely different. We were separated into age groups with twenty girls in each group and again given numbers to pin to our chests. Sheila had instructed us to wear white leotards and dance skirts to give us a clean, professional look. I had pinned little pink flowers in my hair. After waiting literally hours, my group was called into the studio.
    The person in charge of the audition was Susan Hendl, a soloist with