You in Five Acts(51)

“What do you think?” I asked, digging into the dessert with my fork, instantly turning the artful layers of sponge cake and mascarpone into an amorphous mush. As I raised it to my mouth, I could see my parents exchange a look, like, here we go again, which is exactly what I was thinking. Because, seriously, what did they expect me to say? That I suddenly wanted to become a dance professor instead of actually dancing? That I’d fallen and hit my head during a leap and woken up with a passion for microbiology? Or maybe I should have just made like a Miss America contestant and asked for world peace.

“You know we’re excited about your performance . . .” Dad started unconvincingly, looking at Mom in a way that made me realize they’d probably planned this out; they each had lines and he was telling her to wait for her cue.

“Great!” I said brightly, taking another bite. In fact, I pulled the plate all the way over from the center of the table. If I was going to have to sit through a birthday lecture, then they weren’t getting one goddamn bite of my birthday tiramisu.

“. . . but we want you to be prepared for every outcome,” he went on.

“It’s very likely,” Mom jumped in, “that even if you win an apprenticeship, it will be hard to move up the ranks in a company. It’s extremely competitive. I’ve been looking at the statistics.”

“I know the numbers,” I said. I fought the urge to roll my eyes and instead stared down at the wobbly mess on my plate, imagining Miss Adair watching the scene unfold with an I-told-you-so smirk. You need to trim down before May. I lay down my fork and swallowed, suddenly feeling uncomfortably full.

“We just want to make sure you consider all of your options,” Dad said. “You’re eighteen now, which means that you get to make your own decisions about your future . . .”

“And we just want to make sure they’re the right ones,” Mom said.

I wanted to tell them that I was making decisions already. That I didn’t need their permission anymore, and that I didn’t want their advice. The thought gave me a buoy of self-confidence.

“You guys know that someday, when I’m giving my press conference like Misty, and we’re all sitting on some pristine white couch with our shoes off in a spread in People magazine, you’re going to have to pretend you believed in me the whole time, right?” I smiled to pretend it was a joke.

“Baby, we do believe in you,” Mom said, looking a little hurt. “We don’t believe in them.”

“We just want you to be happy,” Dad jumped in, balling up his fists on the checkered tablecloth. “Not struggling every day to prove yourself and fit into a world that doesn’t want you!”

“It’s all right, Stuart,” Mom said, laying a hand on top of his arm. “We can save this for another time.” But I was already getting fired up. I’d inherited my father’s freight train temper; once you stoked the coals, we could run all night.

“But nothing would ever change if people never broke boundaries,” I said, struggling not to raise my voice. “You’re always saying that. So how can it be different when it comes to me?”

“Well . . . it isn’t,” Mom said, “but—”

“Yes it is!” Dad was clearly going off-script. “Because you’re our daughter and we raised you to make change in the world, yes, but how about working for social justice? How about education reform, how about the wage gap, how about the White House?” He tossed his napkin across his empty dessert plate.

“I will change the world,” I heard myself say, my voice emotionless and steady. “And I’ll do it in pointe shoes, and they won’t see me coming.” They exchanged another look, but this one was more resigned.

“Why don’t we change topics to something less contentious,” Mom said. “Did you see the Times Style section today? Apparently ‘mom jeans’ are hot now.”

“Keep the faith,” I muttered, as I felt my phone buzz in the pocket of my coat hanging over my chair. I looked over at Dad, raising my eyebrows like a temporary white flag in order to ask permission to check it. Normally, in our family, devices at the table were met with as much hostility as wanting to pursue your performing arts dream instead of go to a four-year college. But that night, he nodded.

“Go ahead, it’s probably one of your friends, wishing you a happy birthday,” he said. But all of my friends had already texted me, with one unsurprising exception, who had probably dropped her phone into a gallon of Amaghetto that she was still sleeping off.

I slipped my phone out and saw an e-mail notification. It was a Save the Date from the Entskys, to a party in honor of Boroughed Trouble that would be held the weekend after Showcase at their house in Staten Island. Poor Ethan, I thought. I’d have to go, just to make up for all the other times I blew him off. Maybe I could even convince you to come with me, make a day of it. Sort of like a—well, not like a date, that would be so weird . . . but something. Something that gave me a tingle of anticipation that I tried to ignore.

Somewhere along the line, after weeks and weeks of lifts and turns, I’d lost my inhibitions about touching you. And I was thinking about you when I got home, something I never used to do. A pas de deux is a dialogue of love, I thought suddenly. Nureyev had said that, hadn’t he? Mr. Dyshlenko was only slightly less poetic. Just that week, he’d compared us to IKEA furniture: “If the pieces do not fit together, the whole thing is shit and needs to be returned!”