Blind Kiss(5)

“What? She’s hard on me, too,” I said.

He shook his head. “That was horribly insensitive, and frankly, in poor taste. That poor little girl, JonBenét—”

“You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.” Growing up an hour away from Boulder in the nineties, I’d had my fill of JonBenét talk.

“Who’s JonBenét?” Kiki asked.

“Don’t worry about it, Keeks.” I patted her on the head and got up to go after my mom.

I found her sitting on the edge of her bed, crying. She was so fragile. So vulnerable. I looked around the room awkwardly while she sobbed into her hands. Her bed, with the floral comforter and frilly bed skirt, had been perfectly made like it had never been slept in. Her room was straight out of the show Dynasty. She even had one of those breakfast trays with little flowerpots on it, which sat perfectly in the center of the bed. It had never been used. She tried so hard to hold everything up and maintain appearances. I should have admired her determination more, but there was something desperate about it. Something that rubbed me the wrong way—especially since she had the bad habit of making biting comments about every single one of my choices. I never felt good enough for her, and I felt like I was constantly spoiling the image she was trying so hard to cultivate.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I just think the pageant thing is a little over-the-top. Aren’t you afraid Kiki will burn out before she’s even a teenager?”

She looked up and scowled. “I never burned out on it when I was in pageants. When are you going to burn out on ballet?”

“I’m not unless I catch on fire.” I smiled.

“You’re so much like your father. Everything is a joke to you. Maybe things will be different when you graduate and realize you can’t keep chasing impossible dreams. Your dad will have to get you a job at the pharmaceutical company in the warehouse or something.”

It wasn’t the first time she had hurt me. It wasn’t even the first time that day. Why did she have to constantly make me feel like I was delusional for feeling passionate about ballet? “You don’t think I’m a good dancer, do you?”

She opened her mouth but hesitated. Time stood still as I waited, prepared for another not-so-subtle insult. “I think you’re a good dancer, Penny. I’ve always thought that.”

“Then why are you making me feel like my only option is to work in some warehouse?”

“Because dancing is not a job,” she said firmly.

“What are you grooming Kiki for? Twirling a glitter-filled baton across a stage while singing the National fucking Anthem? I’m athletic and I’m one of the best dancers in my program. Don’t tell me that doesn’t count for something.”

“You think the pageants are for nothing? How about public speaking and confidence?”

I laughed bitterly. “You’re right. Forget I said anything. I have to go, I’m gonna be late.” She’d win the argument no matter what. There was no point in drawing it out further.

“You’re still my daughter, and you’re still living under my roof. You need to show me some damn respect and clean up your language.”

That was as bad as her language got. The lone exception was when she’d had too much champagne at our neighbor’s Christmas party one year and said shit and piss in the same sentence. My dad had nearly choked to death on a cocktail weenie.

As I headed for the door in my warm-up sweats, slippers, and coat, my father stopped me.

“Sit down for a second,” he said. He took the duffel bag from my shoulder, set it on the floor, and gestured toward the chair beside the front door.

When I sat down, he knelt in front of me and removed one foot from its slipper. He began bending my toes forward and backward. He did this often to loosen up my feet. Without looking up, he said, “Are you going to be on pointe today?”

“Probably.”

“How much time do you have right now?”

“About three minutes,” I told him.

He pulled a tube of arnica cream from the side of my bag and began massaging it into my foot. I noticed in that moment that he was getting old. His hair was turning gray and he was getting an old-man belly, just above his belt.

“Sweet Pea, they look bad. You lost another toenail,” he said. “You also need to be wearing your boots out there, not slippers. It’s cold. It’s supposed to snow today.”

“I can’t wear the boots. They hurt too much. I’ll skip the studio this afternoon. Maybe go to the library and study.”

“Good.”

For some reason his kindness toward me made me emotional. He was the only one who believed in me. I found myself getting choked up and looked away as he continued to rub cream into my feet.

“How’s that feel? Better?” he asked.

I nodded and stood, put my slippers back on, and hugged him. “Thanks, Dad.” He always hugged me well.

“I’m proud of you, little girl.”

I couldn’t speak. He knew my mom was hard on me. It was nice to have one parent who knew how to be soft.


ONCE AT SCHOOL, I practiced a romantic modern dance routine with my usual partner, Joey. It was a beautiful piece, choreographed by Professor Douglas, a young, fun, easygoing guy who came onto the scene at CSU the year before. Douglas was his first name, but everyone started calling him P-Doug by the second semester of my junior year, and he just went with it. He jokingly said he’d base our final grades solely on our hip-hop routines. He had been a professional dancer until he tore his meniscus and had to have three surgeries before he could dance again. He’d never be a pro, so now he was our instructor.