A Lily in the Light(2)
“In Russia,” Amelia said, pushing the little dust pile forward with the broom, “every little girl wants to be a dancer. Every family hopes their daughter will, too, and many of them try, but most don’t make it. That makes it more special for the ones that do. Someone made rules, yes, but it wasn’t you or me. Working toward something that seems impossible makes it more of an accomplishment. Think of it this way: even if we could control weather and make it snow every single Christmas, eventually that wouldn’t feel special. If everyone made pointe, would it feel like such an accomplishment right now? Remember that.”
Everything Amelia said sounded important.
Esme packed the last of her things and stepped into an oversize pair of gray sweatpants, pushing back damp hair wisps before her mother could see what a mess her bun was. Amelia waved goodbye as she put a cassette into the tape deck and hit play. Esme wished she could watch Amelia alone in the studio: Amelia, who’d made NYCB at only sixteen, who’d leaped across the front page of the New York Times in grand jeté as the Firebird, her long hair sweeping behind her like inky wind. People had whispered the word prodigy. But now, Amelia danced in the studio alone. If the lighting was just right, the long, jagged scar down the center of her knee showed through her tights. Amelia never talked about the accident that had ended her career at twenty-one even though everyone knew. Sometimes Esme wondered if Amelia was hiding in Port Washington instead of living and teaching in New York City, if being close to Lincoln Center would be too painful a reminder of what she’d lost.
The first few tinkling notes of “Clair de Lune” eased the empty studio awake. The last thing Esme saw as she closed the door behind her was Amelia’s triangular back at the barre, fingers softly resting on the wood, her long braid hanging behind her like a rope.
In the lobby, Esme’s mother, Cerise, wound her measuring tape around her fingers. Her clipboard with measurements was tucked under her arm. Lily was sitting behind a folding chair, her head just beneath the backrest. A crayon sign was taped to the backrest that read Kissing Booth Five Cents. Lily giggled wildly, cheeks scrunched, lips puckered, waiting for Esme.
Esme hid her smile. Cerise rolled her eyes. “She’s been waiting.”
“Kissing booth? Five cents?” Esme said, taking heavy steps toward the chair. “Let me check my pockets. Mom?” Esme paused dramatically. Lily giggled even harder, shaking the folding chair until it rattled on the linoleum tiles. “Mom? Do you have five cents?” She crept closer to the chair, close enough to smell Lily’s strawberry shampoo, to see a tiny cookie crumb in the corner of Lily’s mouth.
“No? Then I’ll just have to steal them!” She covered Lily’s face with smoochy kisses and pulled her through the hole in the chair and onto her hip. Even with her coat unzipped, Lily was a ball of heat. Lily’s arms wrapped around Esme just far enough to loop her fingers at the end. It was easy to forget that Lily was only four years old.
“You owe me five cents.” Lily nestled her head on Esme’s shoulder, heavy from so much waiting. Esme understood that feeling. She was only eleven, but there was already so much she wanted.
“Yeah? What would you buy with five cents?”
“A train ticket,” Cerise said. “Let’s head over.” She zipped Lily’s coat and opened the door, passing the SORRY, NO MOMS sign outside. The door swung shut behind them.
Cerise was the only mom allowed in the studio lobby, but only because she made costumes for their company. Even so, after Cerise set up her sewing supplies, she wasn’t allowed to watch classes. The studio door was always closed. It was a little sad that the most her mother heard between measurements was Amelia clapping to keep time.
The sign was for the Moms. The Moms clustered around the studio like gnats with thick thighs and teased hair, stinking of hair spray. They hovered for Amelia, waiting to ask about their daughters’ future, a word their blotchy, lipsticked mouths dragged out like a wet secret, as if the future were a glass ball Amelia could stare into and read while the Moms decided if they liked what it said. If Amelia did get caught in a web of Moms, she’d always give the same clipped answer. I’m still teaching her, aren’t I? The Moms would scatter then because they’d heard about girls who’d been dismissed. Esme imagined there would be some very upset Moms at the studio next week.
Today, the cloud of Moms had cleared by the time Esme’s family left the studio. They wandered through rows of parked cars toward the train station. Seeing the cars pulling in and out of spots under a sky of moving clouds was like watching a dance of its own—a boring one, but it had its own rhythm. There was rhythm in everything really. It helped her understand what was coming next, a quiet part or a crashing part, like in a symphony. Playing with Lily in the lobby had been a quiet, resting part of a symphony. Carrying Lily’s little warm weight was a quiet part as well, so a loud crashing part with cymbals and drums and brass instruments was coming soon. Like Amelia’s rules about weather and ballet, this was a rule too.
“You know,” Cerise said as they waited for the train on the empty westbound platform, “you shouldn’t challenge Amelia so much. You should just listen and learn. I’m sure she doesn’t want to hear your opinion on everything all the time.”
So her mother had heard the thing about weather. Esme rolled her eyes at Lily, still on her hip, who stared back wide eyed, a sponge absorbing things she didn’t understand but filled with sympathy for her big sister. Esme squeezed her tighter and paced the yellow line on the platform. WATCH YOUR STEP, it said.