On Pointe by Lorie Ann Grover Page B

story or lecture
    this morning.
    I can’t.
    The front door clicks closed
    behind me.
    I hurry through the steady drizzle.
    The clouds are so heavy
    the morning is more like dusk.
    The sidewalk’s slippery with damp moss
    that seems to have grown overnight.
    At the intersection
    I wait under a huge spruce tree
    for the light to change.
    The car lights reflecting on the asphalt
    make the road look like a stage.
    A semi truck honks,
    and I hurry across
    to the conservatory.
    The dressing room is packed
    with girls from all over the area.
    Total strangers.
    I don’t see anyone yet
    that I recognize.
    Knees and elbows clash
    for space to change.
    I stash my stuff
    and hurry out
    so I don’t have to fight
    for air to breathe.
    I step up to the registration table.
    â€œName?” asks the small woman
    over her clipboard.
    â€œClare Moller.”
    Scratch, scratch.
    â€œSlip this over your head
    and tie the sides.
    You’re number one.”
    â€œOne?” I gulp.
    She grins.
    I take the crinkly bib
    and turn around.
    No one else
    has a number yet.
    They’re all stretching
    at the barre.
    I’m the fool
    who registered first.
    Now I’ll be the first.
    The first in every lineup.
    The first for every combination.
    The first to fail.
    I move through the crowd
    with my shoulders back
    and my head up.
    I can at least convince everyone
    I wanted to be number one.
    Squeezing the barre,
    I bend and stretch,
    covering my face
    as much as possible.
    Against my knees
    or under an arm.
    Any position to hide my eyes
    threatening to spill tears.
    There’s Margot.
    And Elton.
    And Rosella.
    Way in the back
    with high numbers.
    My heart bangs my ribs
    like the pianist warming up the keys.
    The same lady as usual at least.
    One more face I know.
    Or at least have seen a lot.
    The last girls and guys drift
    like numbered notes
    to the barres.
    I stand at the head
    of the first group
    and peek again
    over my shoulder.
    They are all shorter than me.
    Every single one
    but Elton.
    I tug my bib straight
    and face forward.
    The judges line
    the front of the room.
    They’re crouched behind a table
    cluttered with notepads,
    pencils, and water bottles.
    Who knows who these people are?
    Maybe teachers from PNB?
    Oh, there’s the one guy with the goatee
    who teaches the adult class.
    He must like judging
    better than teaching that group.
    But he looks grumpy,
    like all the rest of them. Great.
    Madame’s tapping cane
    brings my focus back.
    She leads us through
    our barre work
    like it’s an ordinary day.
    For once,
    looking at her
    helps me to relax.
    I turn all my thoughts
    inward
    and move like I’ve been trained.
    It helps to have
    a thick iron barre
    to hold on to.
    Tendue, point, and close.
    I feel every bone in my left foot
    brush the floor.
    Tendue, point, and close.
    A blister is growing
    on my big toe.
    Tendue, point, and close.
    The callus
    on the ball of my right foot
    is burning hot.
    Tendue, point, and close.
    Still,
    every bone moves exactly right.
    The herd of us
    moves down the hall,
    following the judges
    to the floor room.
    We are moving through this narrow space,
    but no one is touching.
    A girl carrying her toe shoes
    trips on her ribbons
    right in front of me.
    She stumbles
    and goes down on one knee.
    Crack.
    Everyone bends away from her.
    She gets up on her own
    and hobbles forward.
    Is she hurt?
    She favors the knee
    but makes it into the floor room.
    Anything can take a person down
    right before
    success.
    With extra care,
    I put on my pointe shoes
    and tuck the ribbons deep.
    Madame walks Group One
    through the tricky combination.
    I mark it with my hands like usual,
    but the floor feels shifty.
    I’m out in the open with this small group,
    rather than being supported
    with my classmates close by.
    Madame concludes.
    Breathe in through my nose
    and out through my mouth.
    Again.
    The old man pianist plays an intro.
    His music immediately snaps me into place.
    I’m