A Lily in the Light(44)
There were ten schools, but the only one she really wanted was the farthest away. Maybe that meant she was ready to leave them behind and start over. San Francisco. She wanted to know what real Rice-A-Roni tasted like, if it was really a San Francisco thing, and see the real house from Full House.
“And,” Amelia said, choosing her words carefully, “it’s very important that you’re doing this for dance and not to . . . well, not to hide from anything else that’s happening in your life right now.”
“Of course it’s about dance,” Esme shot back. It hurt that Amelia would question her. No, she didn’t want to see that sad, concerned look in Amelia’s eyes begging her to open up and talk about the other stuff. She didn’t want to talk about that here. She folded the schedule into her pocket. “I have homework.” She gathered her plate and put it in the dishwasher, aware of Amelia’s eyes on her back. Her homework was already done, but still. She had a schedule for a reason.
She curled into the wicker chair on the porch and tucked her legs beneath her. It was unusually warm for December; warm enough to forget that Christmas was so soon. There were twinkle lights on the trees and wreaths with red bows on front doors, but not at Amelia’s, and Esme was glad. Christmas was for other people this year. The snow had mostly melted, but a few thick patches clung to the grass in gray heaps. The sun warmed the porch and the blanket Esme had draped over herself. In the forsythia bush next to the porch, there was a cardinal’s nest. Sometimes the bright-red father would fly home to check on the dusty-red mother. They’d wait together for a bit before the father flew off again. Even though it was December, there were eggs in the nest, which Amelia said was very unusual, maybe even unnatural, but they were there. The babies probably wouldn’t make it through winter.
She liked doing homework on the porch because it kept the mother bird company. Esme wanted to know how many eggs were in the nest, but walking too close might scare the mother off. She hoped she’d see the sticky baby birds poke through their shells, watch as they learned to fly, diving into the grass for seeds or worms. It was fascinating to see another kind of family in a twig house. Esme thought of herself as a guardian, ready to shoo away stray cats or vampire bats that ate bird eggs. I’m watching, she told the mother bird silently. I won’t let anything hurt you, even if you’re in the wrong season.
“You should study animals.” The porch door closed behind Amelia.
Esme fumbled to open her math textbook, still annoyed by their conversation earlier.
“You’ll have to dance a lot of them if you go classical.” Amelia the swan, the Firebird.
“Did you?” Esme asked, curious.
“Of course! I watched swans in the park before I was the Swan Queen just to get a sense of where they live, what they think. The emotions in Swan Lake are human, but the birds are so magical we forget they’re animals. I wanted to understand where the inspiration came from before I developed the character.”
Esme would’ve watched other Swan Queens but wouldn’t have thought of animals.
“It sounds crazy, I’m sure, but there’s so much more than costumes and choreography to bring a character to life and make her your own.”
No wonder Anna Pavlova had had swans in her backyard. What kind of dancer would she be if she didn’t study animals?
“Watch that mother bird. Imagine what she’s thinking and feeling, what she fears for her eggs, what she’s looking at when she sits on them all day, what she ate for breakfast.”
The bird cocked its head toward Esme and then looked away.
“She’s beautiful.” Amelia nodded, appreciating the rusty-red feathers, the muted tones that blended into the speckled brown bark at the center of the bush.
“The audience needs to live her journey. That’s what we interpret. That’s something you have to learn to observe and re-create beyond technique and form. So”—Amelia sighed, unfolding her arms from across her chest—“that’s your assignment before auditions.” She pointed at the bird. “Study her, and add her personality, fears, and desires to the piece you’re learning. Understand?”
Esme nodded, feeling more responsible for the cardinal in the bush than she already did. Amelia disappeared inside, and Esme wondered how many twigs the mother bird had used to build a home safe enough for the lumpy eggs beneath her.
Her father picked her up on Saturday morning after class, one week after she’d moved to Amelia’s. He didn’t come to the door or ring the bell, curious to see where his daughter was living. Instead, the car idled at the curb, spitting gray smoke onto mailboxes and wreaths on front doors, his taxi stark yellow against the evergreens on the other side of the street. She stepped from stone to stone down the walkway, wondering if she should sit in the back like a passenger, if he’d notice or care that she hadn’t taken the front, but she didn’t want to hurt him. Even the shadowy outline of his face through the glass was enough to make Esme’s throat tighten for the way things used to be. She slid into the front seat and closed the door behind her.
He hugged her with one arm, the other still on the wheel. The Long Island Expressway rolled past, but Andre didn’t ask about her new life. Amelia’s world slipped away with it. All that was left was dried sweat on the back of her neck, damp hair in a sticky bun, the faint smell of cinnamon.