ISA
I smooth out layers of tulle and reach for my tiara, checking it’s secure. The tempo of the music shifts. I extend my arms, flutter my hands like snowflakes. The first three dancers prance out. Three more come on from the other side. They leap and spin and—just as quickly—exit. I tilt my head, flicker my fingers faster, then dash on stage.
Bright lights glance off my painted cheeks, my sculpted brows. My muted lips lift into a well-rehearsed smile. My arms circle up and around my tiara. I soar into the pas de chat. I pop onto my toes, pirouette, then duck down and scurry off, lifting my pointed feet high in front of me. I’ve got to the count of twenty before I’m on again. I flex my foot. My left calf has been tight since I pulled it a few weeks ago. But there was no possibility of missing a Nutcracker performance.
“Ready?” Jane, the dancer who leads us on, shakes the hem of her sparkly skirt. Stage lighting makes it glimmer even brighter.
Chrissy stands ready behind the second curtain. She’ll come on right after me. I flash her a smile to show her I’m fine. She doesn’t see it, because she’s frowning down at my foot.
The music fades. Notes from the harp float up from the pit as we float back out. We dip and flit and whirl, weaving circles and figure eights around one another. Sauté, assemblé, plié. I spring forward, my leg striking out in arabesque. I push off my heel, preparing for the jeté.
My ankle folds. There’s a faint pop, like the crack of a toothpick.
I want to cry out. Instead, I keep smiling.
I draw myself into an exaggerated plié. I bourrée off stage, my weight on my right foot.
Bert, the props manager, catches me before I fall.
•••
“Are you sure I can’t help you?” It’s the fourth time Dad’s asked since we left the emergency room.
I shake my head. My fingers are wrapped so tightly around the crutches, there’s no blood left in them.
Dad holds the door open while keeping a hand near my elbow. I pretend not to see it. He shuts the door, then kneels down and reaches for my shoe.
“I can do it.” It comes out as a snap. I didn’t mean that.
Dad sinks back onto his heels. He adjusts his glasses. “Sure. Of course you can.” He’s whispering because Merrit is asleep. Thank goodness. I was afraid he’d still be awake. Dad rises and takes off his own shoes. “I guess I’ll go check on your mom.”
I lean against the wall, balancing on the crutch and the plastic boot as I try to kick off my one sneaker. Pain spears my ankle. Beads of sweat pop out along my back and neck.
Dad comes out and sees what I’m trying to do. “Hold on.” He carries out a desk chair and places it beside me. I slide onto it and yank off my shoe just as Mom rushes out of the bedroom. She flings herself onto me, hugging me so tight I almost can’t breathe. I can’t remember the last time she’s held me.
“Does it hurt?” she rasps, still not letting me go.
I swallow the lump in my throat. “I’m fine, Mom. It’s not that painful,” I lie.
“She’s OK, Elisa,” Dad says. I feel the thumps of his hand on her back through my chest. Mom has gotten so skinny. She pulls away and wipes at her eyes as Dad goes to the kitchen and fills a plastic bag with ice. The New York Times is still unfolded on the counter. He started leaving the crossword for me this past week, when he began his new job. Dad hasn’t complained about the boss who’s younger than him, or his salary being so much less, or about the medical insurance that has a lower cap on mental health coverage. Mom has though.
Dad picks up the crossword and offers it again. When I was younger, Mom and I would do them together. It was one of the only times she didn’t yell at me for getting something wrong.
I shake my head but Mom reaches for the newspaper.
“Maybe tomorrow you’ll do it with me?” she asks.
I give her a hesitant nod, blinking when my eyes fill with tears. This whole night has been too much.
Mom stands over me, like she’s waiting to see how I get up and move around. “I’m so glad nothing is broken or torn. What a relief that must have been when the doctors told you.”
I try for a smile.
“But I have to say, I knew something like this was going to happen,” she continues. “Overuse injuries are common in dancers. At least you don’t need surgery. We have enough medical bills piling up. And your father’s insurance doesn’t cover physical therapy so that will be all out of pocket, which we really can’t afford right now.”
I bite my tongue hard, so the tears slip back. Why does she have to make me feel so guilty about it? Does she think I wanted to get injured? Even a sprain means weeks, possibly months, of no dancing. I’ll miss the rest of the Nutcracker season. And going to Physics and World Literature with students who will be running off to Pointe and Variations will make me miss dancing even more. Not to mention I’ll have nothing—nothing—to throw myself into to escape from everything and everyone in this apartment.
Dad puts a hand on Mom’s shoulder. “Let’s try not to wake Merrit,” he whispers. “Do you need help getting dressed for bed?” He waits for me to say no before pushing Mom toward their room.
Dad waits while I change. He helps me into bed, props four pillows under my leg, and tucks the bag of ice around my ankle. Merrit’s heavy breathing that borders on a snore filters through my open door.
“Thanks, Dad.”
He rests a kiss on the top of my head, pressing it into my hair with his hand. “I don’t want you to worry about the cost of any of this,” he tells me. “We’ll find the best physical therapist there is.” He sighs. “And your mom didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just . . .” He shrugs. “She says things without thinking.”
I nod, not sure I can do anything more.
“I know it’s late, but is there anyone you want to call?” he asks.
“No thanks,” I tell him. “Chrissy and I already talked.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not who I was thinking of.” He looks down at his feet. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about Alex. Have you been able to keep up your friendship even though you’re no longer at Deerwood together?”
I’d forgotten Dad thought Alex and I were classmates.
I don’t meet his gaze. His concern—something I’ve seen a thousand times directed at my mom—will break me. “It’s been hard,” I tell him. “I’ve been pretty busy.”
“Yes, I imagine so. But now . . .” He gestures to my ankle. “You’ll have more time. Maybe you should call him. It’s important to have someone to talk to. Someone to complain about your parents to.” He tries to make a goofy grin, but his lopsided smile just looks sad. “Get some sleep.” He reaches for the light switch.
Panic flutters inside me, pushing words into my mouth. For some reason, I want Dad to know who Alex really is.
“Hey, Dad?” My voice sounds tinny, like it’s coming from a phone speaker far away. His hand pauses on the switch, and he turns to face me. I swallow, forcing myself to press on. “Alex never went to Deerwood. He went to Alexander Hamilton High in Washington Heights. I met him on the subway. On his way to baseball practice. He’s an amazing player. And an amazing poet too.”
Dad leans against the wall. “Wow. He sounds like a really interesting guy. I can’t wait to get to know him better.” He doesn’t reprimand me for not correcting him before about Deerwood. And I don’t tell him that he won’t get to know Alex better because we’re no longer friends.
“Goodnight, sweetheart.” He turns out the lights, and I lie back in my bed. The city bleeds around the edges of the shades, throwing light on the small bumps in the ceiling that look like melted rock salt on sidewalks. Outside, an angry driver leans on his horn. My foot throbs against the pressure bandage. I roll to my side, stretching for my middle drawer. My hand fumbles, finding only space where there should be the familiar edges of my pointe shoe box. It isn’t there. The throbbing in my foot rises to my chest. I’m seconds from full-on hysteria when I spy the box on top of my dresser, tucked underneath the faded black hoodie. I was looking at the poems earlier in the week, after I saw Alex outside the Academy. I was so upset that night, I must have forgotten to put it away.
I reach out and run my finger over the shiny purple jewel on the box. I carefully lift the lid.
On top is a note folded in half. It’s not from Alex. Not all his poems remain in the tiny square I found them in, but this one has only one crease, right down the middle. And the paper isn’t lined. It’s from the printer. My heart pounds. How could I have been so stupid to leave the box in full view of anyone who came into the room?
I pinch the corner of the note and ease it out. I close the box. This paper doesn’t belong in there. The note springs open as soon as I release it. The shaky, slanted cursive looks nothing like Alex’s; but I recognize it all the same. Merrit scolds me in that joking way of his. He even sketched a picture of himself, eyebrows a V, mouth a zigzag, finger pointing. He’s glad I have someone special in my life. He hopes I know he would accept whoever loves me like those poems show. He hopes that now that I’ve read his note, I’ll tell him about this mystery person, maybe even introduce them. He promises he’ll take his medicine that day and he won’t do anything awkward like stick spaghetti in his ear to make the person laugh. He signs it, I love you. I’m sorry you have to put up with me.
I’m crying so hard I almost can’t read his P.S. He apologizes for opening the box but since I left it out, I should know it was fair game. I fold the note into a square. It ends up being even smaller than the ones from Alex. The edges aren’t sharp. The paper’s so damp I’m afraid it’ll tear.
I open the box. I was wrong. It does belong inside.