A Lily in the Light(43)
“That’s impossible,” Esme said. She thought of something she’d read in one of the cards someone had sent. We don’t always know why God makes the decisions he does.
In the theater, the spell Serenade had cast was broken. Instruments were retuned. Strings stretched and ached as bows passed over them, sending broken sounds into the echoing space. The bathroom floor was cold. Esme pulled her legs in closer, wishing she could fold into something small enough to be carried away by the wind. It wouldn’t matter then what she felt or didn’t feel.
“But that’s the beauty of it, too, Esme. If he doesn’t tell us what it means, then we decide. So maybe that is what it means, if that’s what it means to you.”
Amelia shuffled. Fabric rustled. “And one day, if you’re ever the Waltz Girl, you can project whatever emotions you feel into that role, and the audience will carry them away. In that sense, Esme, it means something different every time because no two dancers ever dance a part exactly alike. And no two watchers will ever see it the same way. What I’m trying to say, Esme, is that there’s a place for everything you’re feeling.”
She thought of her mother alone in the dusty trailer, sitting outside their house instead of in it. Maybe that was her place for everything that was happening. And this was hers.
“Come on,” Amelia said. “When you’re ready, I want you to meet Paul.”
Esme traced the netting on her tights with her finger. Everything Amelia had said made sense. The window closed. The breeze stopped suddenly, shocked into stillness. She felt stupid for sitting on a dirty bathroom floor in a borrowed sweater.
Like the Waltz Girl, lifted and carried into the dazzling light, Esme followed.
Chapter Eleven
It was easy to live with Amelia, even though there were so many choices now. “Chicken and vegetables tonight?” Amelia might ask, peering into the fridge, where their options were lit with one light bulb. At home, it was always the same rotating menu of spaghetti, tacos, lentil soup, minestrone, turkey meatballs, hamburgers—crowd pleasers selected from dozens of failed recipes, wrinkled noses, and pushed-away plates. Here, Esme didn’t have to make her own meals on spaghetti night, and she always agreed with Amelia’s suggestions because she didn’t know the difference between arugula and romaine anyway.
Amelia showered in the morning, and Esme showered at night. There were no egg timers or panic when someone took too long or fists banging on the bathroom door or investigations about who used someone’s shampoo. Esme’s coconut Suave sat beside Amelia’s TRESemmé like two old friends keeping each other company on a front porch.
From seven to nine in the morning, Esme did schoolwork, then Pilates for an hour before Amelia drove them to the studio, where Esme warmed up at the barre before Amelia reviewed choreography or technique if there was something new. For lunch, she ordered a salad from Sal’s Pizza and slid into a plastic booth. Sometimes the pizza guys slipped garlic knots onto her tray and winked. The garlic smarted on her tongue for the rest of the afternoon while everyone else was at school, counting minutes from one period to the next, changing into gym uniforms, buying Famous Amos cookies at lunchtime while she danced all day. At school, she’d only been quiet, shy Esme, too skinny for boys to notice, too distracted to care. Here, she was everyone’s pet.
At meals, Amelia’s attention didn’t spin to the loudest person. It was always Esme time. Something shifted inside, like a plant that didn’t have to bend and twist in its pot for sunlight on the other side of the room. Everything she needed was here, without asking, and all she had to do was grow. At night, she watched videos of Anna Pavlova or Galina Ulanova, a reminder of the big picture, that all the right pieces were sliding into place. She fell asleep to Bach or Mendelssohn, to music she used now or would use one day, while her brain processed what she’d learned that day and sorted it into place.
“Let’s talk about auditions, Esme. They’re only two weeks away.”
They were sitting at Amelia’s kitchen table, next to empty breakfast plates. Esme’s mouth lingered on the sting of fresh orange juice. It was still early, but Amelia was already dressed for the day. Amelia laid out the schedule in front of her. Auditions were highlighted on the calendar in bold pink. Most of the auditions were in New York, but San Francisco was marked in blue. She was too young to audition anywhere other than San Francisco for SFBS. If she really wanted that one, she’d have to travel.
“Talk to your parents about San Francisco,” Amelia said. “Everything else we can manage. And the other thing is . . . it’s time to really think about whether or not you’re ready to go away. It’s OK to do the summer program and come home in the fall, but if you’re asked to stay for the school year, that’s the real goal, Esme. That’s the next professional step, but only if you’re ready. I think you are, but I can’t decide for you.”
Amelia drummed her finger against the schedule. “It would mean not seeing your family until holidays, if even, and living with people you don’t know. Your friends at school will also be your competition, and what you achieve determines whether you’re asked to stay on. We’ve never talked about your sister, Esme, and how that might change whether you want to do this, but you need to think about it. I don’t need an answer right now, but I’m trusting you to think this through and talk to your parents.”