A Lily in the Light(28)
“And two, three, turn, three, four,” Amelia called over the music, clapping when their feet should touch the floor. They were waltzing from one diagonal corner to the other. She couldn’t see them but knew exactly what those ten girls in black leotards and pink tights looked like, all evenly spaced and waiting for their turn. Soon they’d stretch, the studio door would open, and they’d find forgotten water bottles, taking long sips with pink faces as Amelia swept the studio, changed tapes if there wasn’t a pianist, and relit the grapefruit candle to cover the sweaty smell while older girls in pink tights and black leotards took their place at the barre. They were an infinity band of arms and legs rotating in and out of the studio. Esme leaned against the door. It was cool against her cheek. Just knowing what the next two hours would be made her dizzy with relief.
She wandered into the changing room, stepped out of her sweatpants, and left them on the floor in a heap. She pulled her legs through her tights and felt like Giselle, unburied from a bed of soil in the forest, thankful no one else was here. There weren’t any marks on her shoulders now, just soreness where Nick’s fingers had been. It still made her squeamish, but she pushed the thought away because he had only been trying to help. She yanked a hairbrush through her hair, raking knots. It was easier to make a bun when her hair hadn’t been washed. The painful pull of hair against her scalp felt good. In the mirror, she was skinny and a little duckfooted but Esme again.
Footsteps overhead meant the studio was open. Girls spilled out of class. Shoes were changed, coats and sweatpants thrown over leotards. She stretched in the changing room where it was empty, not ready to see anyone just yet. Seeing people made her skin feel cold and still, like waking up at night and seeing a spider on the pillow. She’d go up eventually, but for now, the blood rushed to her head as she touched her toes and hugged her elbows, swinging gently in an upside-down world.
The footsteps overhead quieted. It was time. She climbed the stairs, unsure of what she’d say to Amelia. I’m sorry I’ve been away, but my sister. No, Amelia already knew. I promise I’ll work hard to catch up. She would. Maybe she didn’t have to say anything. The lobby was empty; the studio was not. Amelia’s back was to the door, facing the stereo and changing tapes. Esme took her place at the barre, wishing she could wipe her reflection out of the mirror so she wouldn’t be seen. The other girls were stretching, lost in their own world of hamstrings and obliques. She’d been gone, and now she wasn’t. She wouldn’t say anything at all. The first few notes of Tchaikovsky’s Serenade in C started, her favorite. The barre was inward time. That was what she wanted.
Amelia passed by in a breeze of black fabric, smelling like fireplace smoke. She took her place at the front of the barre, modeling for them before drifting away to make corrections. It was the same barre it always was: pliés, slow and fast tendu, slow and fast dégagé, ronds de jambe, fondu and développé, frappé, grand battements. Esme lowered into demi-plié. Did Serenade always have such long, lonely strings? Those first few notes had always been the blue stage lights and diamonds part in her memory. Her muscles warmed. She lowered into grand plié. There was too much tension in her shoulders. She lowered them and lifted her chin. Her knees felt swollen and heavy, pushing her up when she wanted to go down. Amelia’s knee brace bulged over her tights, and Esme was sorry for all the mean things she’d thought about her earlier. She hadn’t meant them. Tears prickled behind her eyes, and she wished the music would change to the Waltz Girl part, quicker, lighter, not so sad. If it would just change, she’d feel better, but Tchaikovsky was taking his time, and Amelia was behind her now, her hands on Esme’s waist as light as butterflies, assisting Esme into a deeper plié, the kind she could have done on her own two weeks ago when her body was cooperating.
“Welcome back,” Amelia whispered, just loud enough for Esme to hear. Amelia’s hands moved to Esme’s hands, correcting her index finger, then the height of her elbow. She lifted Esme’s chin just a little higher, adjusted the tilt of her head. She was glad Amelia was watching her through the mirror instead of looking directly at her. It was safer when it was only mirror Esme. Real Esme was afraid to blink, afraid the tears she was holding back would spill over. It felt good to be corrected, inspected, to have someone look carefully at all the littlest things she was doing and make them perfect again. You’re still here, Amelia said but didn’t say.
Real Esme wanted to undo all the little corrections so Amelia would stay with her and fix them again, but mirror Esme held them perfectly. Amelia moved on to someone else. All the little places she’d touched felt cold now, silvery. If you can dance through this, you can dance through anything.
Chapter Seven
Nick’s spoon dinged against the cereal bowl, a mix of Frosted Mini-Wheats and Cinnamon Toast Crunch so full it spilled onto the table in milky puddles. His black eye had gone from black blue to purple green to a fading yellow strip, and any trace of the broken boy Esme had nursed a few weeks ago had faded along with it. Being around Nick was like waiting for a stink bomb.
When he wasn’t in his room with the door closed or out with Andre at night, he was gone for long, silent hours without a call or a note explaining where he was or when he’d be back. He was already thinner, and the shadows under his cheekbones stood out. He stank like cigarettes, but no one said anything. Lily missing was an excuse for Nick, an opportunity to disappear too. She rolled the word permission around in her head. Before, he would have had to ask permission, but now no one cared. It was unfair that Nick could tumbleweed from one hour to the next while she and Madeline were at least trying to follow the same rules as before.