The Year My Sister Got Lucky

  So I simply glide over to the spot behind Trini and rest my hand on the barre, remembering to keep my neck long and straight. “Like a duck,” Claude tells us — meaning a swan, of course. We’ve learned how to decipher his mangled English over the years.

  Trini angles her head toward me as Alfredo starts playing Beethoven. “You okay?” she asks out of the corner of her mouth. Trini and I have perfected the art of talking during class without our lips moving.

  I lean forward and whisper, “Later.”

  Claude lifts his silver-handled walking stick and brings it down hard on the shiny wooden floor. Thud. “Allons-y,” he commands, still watching me slit-eyed. “Pliés.”

  Automatically, I shift my feet into first position — heels together, toes pointing outward — and bend slowly, slowly at the knees. Then I rise up, letting my arm follow in a swoop. My stomach is still in knots, but I’m soothed by the thought that, in the studio next door, Michaela is doing the exact same thing as I am. Every dance class, no matter what the level, begins with pliés. Down, up, down, up. I feel a burning in my calves — I didn’t have time to stretch earlier — but the motion is so familiar, so built into my body, that it’s a little like breathing. Alfredo’s fingers fly over the keys, and the music washes over me, along with the sunlight, warm and sweet. I’m already half forgetting about Fir Lake.

  This is why I love to dance.

  Claude is counting out the beats, banging his walking stick on the floor for emphasis. “Et one — et two — et what is this ugliness?”

  I freeze, assuming he means me, but, no, his latest victim is beautiful Hanae Murasaki, who is the best Lower Intermediate dancer — the Michaela of our class. There is a small swell of joy in me, and in all the girls, I’m sure. It’s like we’re nine movie villains, rubbing our hands together and cackling, “Bwah-ha-ha!” Ballet dancers pretend to support each other, but when it comes down to it, we’re forever waiting for the star to get sick as a dog so the understudy can take over. I feel a flash of sympathy, though, when Claude taps Hanae’s shoulder blades and hisses, “Alors, Mademoiselle Murasaki, why do you stand like une bossue?”

  Only a handful of us girls speak French — I studied it in junior high, and know how to say hello, good-bye, and where are the toilets? — but, thanks to the great Claude Durand, we all understand the word for “hunchback.” Because we’ve all been there. If we dare to let our shoulders droop even the tiniest bit, it’s over — we’re Quasimodo.

  But — but — if we stand up straight and carry ourselves with a bit of grace, there is the chance that Claude will call us by our full names, and we will glimpse a slice of heaven.

  Which makes all the pain and humiliation worthwhile.

  Kind of.

  Miraculously, I get through the barre exercises — élevés, piqués, rondes de jambes, attitudes, arabesques — without Claude screaming at me. By the time we all gather in the corner for jetés, I’m pleasantly sweaty and feeling pretty good about myself. We’re supposed to cross the floor in jumps, one by one, and I’m last in line. Renée Jackson, the tallest girl in the class, is first, and I watch her take off, the ribbons she always wears in her hair rippling behind her. Alfredo is playing Mozart’s Piano Sonata 11 — my favorite.

  I lean against the wall and let my eyes drift toward the windows that face the grand plaza of Lincoln Center. It’s so fitting; we’re close to that dreamworld, but not inside. Sometimes when I study the elegant white buildings, I wonder if the dancers in there ever stare out their windows and wonder about the dancers in here.

  And that’s when it hits me, with a suddenness that makes me start, that this is it.

  This is the last time I will stand in this studio and gaze down at Lincoln Center. This is the last time I will watch Hanae and Trini and my other friends leap across the floor. The last time I will hear Alfredo — wonderful, funny Alfredo, who winks at us with his good eye — play this upbeat, sprightly melody. And the last time I will be able to think I am a student at the Anna Pavlova Academy, the most competitive ballet school in New York City.

  Of course, I know this isn’t officially my last class. I still have a few more weeks. But from now on, I’ll be split in two — my mind saying good-bye as my body goes through the motions. Something my mom said earlier — about there being a dance school in Fir Lake — creeps into my brain, and I squirm. It’s all wrong.

  “Katie Wilder!”

  It can’t be. Not twice in one class.

  I lift my head, my cheeks flaming, to see that all the other girls have cleared the floor, and I am lagging behind. Claude, understandably, is frowning at me.

  “Alors, Mademoiselle Wilder, are you dancing or are you dreaming?” he asks. “Because one cannot do both.”

  I hear the soft titters of the other girls. In June, when Claude told me that I was a stain upon the face of ballet (it’s okay; he said the same thing to Trini once), nobody laughed. My classmates are usually nice to me; being Michaela Wilder’s sister commands a certain amount of respect. But today it seems I’m fair game. Even Trini’s mouth is twitching; she must be entertained by my spaciness.

  Any other day, I would lift my chin and run into the jump, splitting my legs in midair and enjoying the rush of wind across my face. But something about today — the heat and Fir Lake and Lincoln Center and my mother and Claude — is boiling up in me, and I realize that, without a doubt, I am going to cry.

  “May I be excused?” I ask, already taking a few steps back. Claude loathes it when anyone leaves during class, but he can’t hold us in here against our will. I clutch my belly to indicate a stomach-related problem, and before anyone can say anything, I turn and run.

  The hallway is empty, with classical music drifting out from behind closed doors. In the dressing room, someone is humming as she changes.

  I stand alone with the giant, black-and-white photographs of famous dancers, who appear blurry through my tear-filled eyes: Mikhail Baryshnikov, Suzanne Farrell, Anna Pavlova herself. From another wall, color photos of our teachers in their heyday stare down at me: There’s a beardless Claude onstage in Paris, dressed up as the Nutcracker Prince, and Svetlana Vronsky, the headmistress and Michaela’s teacher, standing on her toes in a swan costume — the prima ballerina of the Bolshoi Ballet. When I was little, I used to make up stories about those photos; I’d imagine that Svetlana and Claude were secretly in love and hiding it from us. Then Michaela patiently explained to me that Claude was gay. That was so long ago, I almost can’t believe the photographs are still here.

  Wiping my nose on my arm in a most graceful fashion, I turn toward the bathroom, but then I notice that the door to the Advanced Class studio is ajar. I don’t mean to spy, but a half open door is an invitation, isn’t it?

  I tiptoe over and peer inside. Their pianist is banging out Bach, and Michaela is in the center, performing fouttés. Her back is as straight as if she’s swallowed a broomstick — Claude wouldn’t dare call her une bossue — and her arms form a precise circle. I bite my lip. She’s risen up entirely on her left toe, the hard box of her pink pointe shoe against the floor. And she’s whirling. Once, twice, three times. Her head whips around and her filmy pink skirt twirls. The foot she’s turning on moves so quickly, all I can see is a blur.

  It’s breathtaking. There is no other word for it. My sister’s dancing makes your breath catch in your throat.

  Michaela’s classmates, all in their burgundy leotards with their toe shoes laced up their ankles, stand grouped in one corner, their faces tight with envy and awe. Sofia Pappas looks like a truck is about to hit her. And their teacher, Svetlana, her scarlet-dyed hair loose about her shoulders, is glowing as she observes her star pupil.

  My sister is not only a champion sleeper. She is also a champion ballerina.

  I’m a fizzing mix of jealousy and pride as I watch Michaela finish the fouttés. That is my sister! part of me is shouting. My best friend. But another part of me is whispering, You will never look like that when you are d
ancing. No one in this school will. Michaela is far beyond us, in a universe all her own.

  The plan — concocted by Svetlana and our mom — has been in place since Michaela was my age: After she graduates high school, she’s going to Juilliard, and then straight into a real company, maybe even the American Ballet Theater, to dance with Ethan Stiefel. Or the New York City Ballet, to dance onstage at Lincoln Center. My head spins a little when I think about Michaela’s future, because it’s all lit up with spotlights.

  My future is more like a subway tunnel — dim and unknown.

  In the Advanced studio, Michaela is breathing quickly; her collarbone, shiny with sweat, rises and falls as she walks over to the container of toe shoe rosin on the floor. I watch as she grinds the box of her shoe into the white grains — rosin helps you to not slip. The tips of my toes tingle. All I wanted this year was to dance on pointe. But when I tried, when I tremblingly laced up my first pair of toe shoes and performed in them for Claude, he pulled my mom aside afterward and told her I needed to wait another year. I feel a sharp tug in my chest at the memory.

  “Everyone, I hope you were watching how wonderfully Michaela performed,” Svetlana is saying in her flawless but thickly accented English. Her fingers toy with the ends of the leopard-print scarf around her neck. “That is how each of you should strive to dance.”

  God. Doesn’t she know better? It’s that kind of talk that makes girls despise each other.

  Then again, Michaela is leaving — which the girls don’t even know yet. I can picture the celebrating that will erupt when they find out that Svetlana’s pet won’t be overshadowing them anymore. Looking at Michaela now, I realize my sister is having the identical thought. She is facing the mirror, her feet in the rosin box, but really she is watching her classmates with a thoughtful, anxious expression on her face. I know Michaela worries what other people think of her; that’s why she doesn’t bask and preen when Svetlana sings her praises. She’s modest — which is another reason to hate her, I suppose.

  Michaela’s eyes shift, and I see her see me standing in the doorway. Her lips part, and she gives the tiniest shake of her head. I know I’d be in serious trouble if Svetlana caught me, so I slink away from the door and start back to my studio. I dab at my eyes, but my urge to sob has, thankfully, passed. I’m doubly relieved when I reenter my studio and find that class has ended — the girls are sitting on the floor, some cross-legged, some with their legs splayed out on either side to show how flexible they are. Claude is standing before them, saying something in a deep, formal tone. For one crazy second, I wonder if he’s telling them about my departure.

  “Entrez,” Claude tells me gruffly, waving me over. “We are speaking of The Nutcracker auditions to be held next month.”

  My heart leaps. The Nutcracker! I’d forgotten. Every year, a handful of Anna Pavlova students are handpicked to appear in the New York City Ballet’s deluxe, wintertime performance. Michaela has — surprise! — been in The Nutcracker many times, as one of Mother Ginger’s children, as one of the candy canes, and then as Marie — the star. I was in the show once, when I was five, as a party guest, and all I remember is how scratchy my velvet dress felt, and that the stage lights made my eyes burn.

  Now, at fourteen, is the very last time I can squeak through. Almost all the available roles are for young kids, though, on occasion, an older girl will be cast as a snowflake. I know my curves aren’t fooling anyone, which is what Claude told me last year when I tried out. “Chérie, you do not look like a child,” he said in his oh-so-subtle way. But I’ve been hopeful.

  Until now, when I plunk down on the floor and realize I can’t audition this year. Because I won’t be here.

  I’m worried I’m going to start crying again, so I purse my lips and put my forehead on my knees. How did this not occur to me last night? How did this not occur to Michaela? It should have been the first thing she said: “Katie, we’re moving, and you won’t be able to audition for The Nutcracker.” She knows — better than anyone — how badly I’ve wanted this, wanted this one delicious chance to prove to Claude and to our parents that I could be onstage with the big girls.

  I’d bet good money they don’t put on a Nutcracker in Fir Lake. And if they do, it’s with, like, elderly ladies from the local nursing home.

  When Claude finishes going through the list of roles, he tells us we are dismissed, and we all rise and begin to clap. Just like every dance class everywhere begins with pliés, every dance class ends with the students applauding first their teacher, and then their pianist. Claude presses his palms together and bows his head, and Alfredo shoots us a hammy wink. I am about to turn and walk out with Trini — who is shooting me the most impatient, tell-me-what’s-going-on glance — when Claude calls out:

  “Katie?”

  My heart gives a small kick as I face him.

  “I would like to speak with you,” Claude says, motioning out the door. “Allons-y. Into Svetlana’s office.”

  I tense up. Svetlana’s office? Is it that I dashed out of class in the middle of floor exercises? Arrived late? Wore a messy bun? I want to start apologizing, but I’m not sure for what. Once again, I consider telling Claude about the move to Fir Lake, but there’s no time; he’s already leading me to Svetlana’s office at the end of the hall. Looking even more intrigued, Trini waves to me and heads toward the changing room. As I watch her go, I see that Michaela’s class has let out as well, the burgundy-clad girls streaming out into the hall. But I don’t see my sister among them.

  My legs are shaking as Claude turns the knob on Svetlana’s door and we walk inside. My eyes sweep over the framed images on the pink wall — more photos of legendary dancers, all autographed; the 1980s cover of Dance Magazine that featured a close-up shot of a once-beautiful Svetlana; and snapshots of Svetlana’s two grown-up daughters, who don’t dance ballet.

  Svetlana herself is sitting at her desk, smoking a cigarette, with her mile-long legs propped up on stacks of papers. And there’s a girl sitting in a chair with her back to the door, her hair in a neat bun that hasn’t budged an inch during class.

  Michaela.

  My sister turns around, and we stare at each other — me in shock, Michaela looking grim. “Um, hi,” she finally says.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, for once not caring if I don’t sound respectful in front of my teachers. My legs quake harder now. Did Svetlana see me spying on the class? What? What?

  “Sit, darling.” With her lit cigarette, Svetlana gestures to the empty chair beside Michaela, and numbly, I sit. Claude, clearing his throat, takes the seat next to me.

  “Darlings.” Svetlana’s enormous gray eyes dart from me to Michaela and back again. I notice that she has a few pockets of wrinkles beneath her eyes, kind of like our mom. “Claude and I very much wanted to discuss with the two of you your dance future in this … Furry Lake.” Her cherry-lined lips twist in disgust at the name.

  I feel my mouth flap open, very unballerina-like. They know?

  “Fir Lake,” Michaela quickly corrects Svetlana, and then looks down at her pointe shoes. I can tell she is purposefully avoiding my confused gaze. At a loss, I swivel my head toward Claude, and he is nodding.

  “How — when — when did you find out?” I manage to croak, glancing from Claude to Svetlana and back again.

  “Your mother called me last week,” Svetlana tells me crisply, taking a long drag off her cigarette. “It was crucial that we discuss the consequences of this move on you girls’ dancing careers.”

  I can’t even process the fact that Svetlana has said that I have a dancing career. No. Instead, my face is hot and I’m clutching the chair’s armrests, and my mind is on a steady whirl, like a mouse wheel: Everyone, everyone knew before me.

  “Of course, I brought up with your mother the interesting possibility …” Svetlana pauses and taps her cigarette into the pearl-framed ashtray on her desk. “Of you remaining in the city for the duration of this year. With me, in my apartment. I have th
e space. My daughters” — she flings a hand toward the snapshots on her wall — “have left long ago.” Svetlana is looking at Michaela the whole time she speaks, but then her eyes flick toward me, so I assume when she says you, she means both of us.

  Live with Svetlana? I try to imagine it — an apartment smelling of Svetlana’s rosewater perfume; bird-sized breakfasts each morning (“to keep your figures trim!”); awkward rides to dance school in Svetlana’s red I’m-newly-divorced Porsche … At least that world I can picture, whereas when I think of life in Fir Lake, my mind seems to hit a wall. A wall painted with pine trees and wolves.

  Michaela crosses her legs and swings one toe-shoe-clad foot. “Thank you so much, Svetlana,” she says with her usual poise and politeness (I kind of want to gag). “But I talked about it with my mother, and I — we —” She coughs into her fist. “We don’t think that’s the best idea. My parents really want to keep the family together.”

  I’m surprised by this news. The mom I know, forever serious about Michaela’s dancing, would have been all for the move-in-with-Svetlana plan. And the dad I know would have glanced up from his laptop and nodded with a dazed look in his eyes. Then again, what do I know? Zilch, apparently, considering that Michaela and our parents were making life-changing decisions right under my nose.

  Svetlana’s cheekbones, already rouged, turn even redder. “I understand, darling,” she murmurs, even though her tone says she doesn’t. “Then it seems I will have to arrange a call with the headmistress of the Fir Lake dance school. A Ms….” Svetlana sifts through the mess of papers on her desk. “Ms. Mabel Thorpe.” Again, her lips twist. “To let her know of the training you girls had here, at the Anna Pavlova Academy.” Svetlana sniffs and twirls the ends of her leopard-print scarf. “I’d never want that training to go to waste.”