I was a child sitting in a grove of mustard weed. Yellow flowers taller than my head buzzed with hundreds of honeybees.
“Be still,” said my father, “they won’t bother you.” I looked at my sister, who calmly obeyed. I sat, too, not daring to itch my nose or move the hair from my eyes.
“They’re doing their job,” he instructed, “watch them.” Ingrid and I followed the bees with our eyes, from flower to flower, listening to their rapid-winged vibration as they accepted our intrusion into their world. “They’re collecting pollen for the queen,” he told us.
I watched a slight smile play on Ingrid’s lips. The kind you might plaster there for the sake of someone else, rather than an artifact of true emotion. I tried to feel if she was frightened but sensed no agitation from her. She was simply very good at being Victor’s daughter. A sea of bees is not a place to challenge authority, and if Ingrid wasn't scared, I would not be either. Ducks quacked in a lake at the crease of the valley. Hills of mustard stretched around us in a yellow diorama. Time didn't matter. Only the bees and my sister and my father’s voice, deep and low.
The six a.m. alarm pierced my room and I woke to bright spring sun on my seventeenth birthday. And no wonder the bee dream came again. It was always in March. I wondered if it was a tale my imagination told me, or something that actually happened. Perhaps the three of us sat in that field on my birthday many years ago. I asked Ingrid once but she had no memory of it. Still, the brilliant detail, the mezzo-pitched buzzing near my cheek bone, the sun-warmed scent of mustard flower and the ridiculousness of yellow causing a slight ache behind my eyes was all so perfectly rendered, I couldn't imagine it was anything but a keen memory. And if it was a memory, I had resolutely held to it, wishing to live it again and again. Did the bees have a message? Or was it simply my father’s calm demeanor in the midst of potential disaster? Something I could rely on in an unpredictable world, where I could no more control the events of life than I could my own heart and mind.
I threw off the covers and dragged myself out of bed. Ingrid was already up and beaming peppy energy in the hallway between our adjacent rooms.
“Happy Birthday,” she said. “How was the audition?”
“It was good,” I said. We shared the bathroom mirror, brushing our teeth over one sink.
I threw her a hand towel and continued to the kitchen, headed for the kettle.
I was always happy on my birthday and this morning I was also confident. Ingrid’s unusual sparkle was infectious, and I shrugged off the fog of my dream. Even the persistent Rebecca-shaped ache that had taken up residence in my heart seemed, for once, a distant concern.
“I already boiled the water,” Ingrid called, following on my heels.
“You were up before me?” This never happened.
“I’m wearing your skirt today,” She announced.
“Which one?”
“The long black one.”
“How do you know I wasn’t going to wear it?”
“I don’t. But you love me and you don’t mind.”
I threw her a mock-frown and made tea for us both.
“Aren’t you going to ask?” she said, teasing me.
“Ask what?” I handed her a steaming mug of black tea, the English way, a bit of milk, a smaller bit of sugar.
“Yesterday was an important day...”
“Why was yesterday important?” I planted myself on a counter stool and she sat beside me.
“I got a letter from La Jolla.” She shoved it in front of me on the counter. The admissions letter from the university congratulated her on her success and welcomed her into its esteemed halls.
“You got in!”
“I got in!”
“Of course, you did,” I laughed.
“I’ll be living down there in the dorm,” she said, “and you can come on the weekends to visit me.”
“Ingrid, you’ll have roommates and new friends. You don’t want your little sis hanging around while you’re off doing college things, do you?”
“Well, yeah, I kinda do.”
“I will come. As long as I don’t have rehearsal,” I said.
“It’s gonna be a blast!” Ingrid said. She trotted off down the hall to raid my closet.
“Don’t spill tea on my skirt!” I called after her.
Already Ingrid was often away with other seniors, visiting college campuses or attending parties thrown by beloved teachers to say goodbye to the class of ’83. Our universe had begun to shift. My final year without her would be bitter-sweet. On one hand, I would no longer be the little sister. And I would have our car to myself while she lived on campus. But it was difficult to imagine waking up at home with no one to compete with for the shower, or the tea kettle at six o’clock in the morning. No one to run off with my favorite skirt. It was difficult to imagine pulling solo into the parking lot past the High School Dolphin marquis. Or to walk alone through the hall by the giant whale, painted before Wyland was famous. I stared into my tea cup. It was brewed with a tea bag instead of loose leaves. I thought briefly of tearing it open and letting them settle to the bottom. Perhaps I could divine a bit about the year ahead. But I was confident I would get by. And perhaps it would be good for her to forge an identity apart from me, as I had done at the studio. She had seemed sad when I assured her she would meet new friends, but I knew there were adventures in her future and I was a tad jealous.
The school day could not move fast enough. I stared at the clock in each class, hearing nothing in the words droning from my teachers. Crowds of teenagers moved like a current through hallways where I stood like a stone, anchored in place, out of my element. I wanted to be at the studio, already preparing for barre, stretching and warming muscles, awaiting familiar voices, throwing the mass of my grand jeté into the sprung pine floor, feeling it rebound as I took off on the other side.
Through the final period of the school day, I wondered if Dudley would have the Coppélia roles posted at the studio and, if he did, how I would deal with Hannah’s disappointment. I had never felt it as keenly as I had after the audition. I was sorry for her frustration but didn’t take it personally. How could she blame me for her troubles? She had managed to duck out at lunch, leaving me to my chocolate donut alone. I had saved one for her. I would bring it to her at ballet tonight.
After school I dropped Ingrid at home and went straight to the studio. Intentionally early, I pulled into the industrial complex, choosing the spot next to Rebecca’s beige Toyota. The fading bumper sticker on the back said Dancers Know All The Positions. It wasn’t many years ago I had to ask why it was funny. “So, um, we know a lot of positions,” I had said to Ingrid when Mother dropped me off at ballet class, “first, second, fourth, fifth... why would that be a bumper sticker?”
Already in high school then, Ingrid had rolled her eyes at my innocence. “It’s referring to sex positions,” she said, “a double entendre.”
“Double what?” I had asked.
“You’ll find out when you’re older,” she sighed in that exhausted one-year-older-sister way. Now, through the windowed wall I could see Rebecca in her office chair, aqua phone pressed to her ear, laughing. I wondered if J.T. was on the other end. I had no desire to compete with who or whatever held her attention. I went into the studio door instead, to see Dudley. He, too, sat at his desk, frowning a little. He looked up only briefly as I came into the office.
“Is it that late?” he asked, his pen flying across the schedule in front of him.
“No, I’m early,” I said.
“That’s my girl. Always leave yourself time to stretch before class.” He kept writing.
“I was wondering if the cast was posted yet, actually.”
“Ah, yes, well, it is ready. Not posted.” Now he stopped writing and looked up.
“Can I see it?”
“I thought maybe you and I could talk first.” The expression on his face was unfamiliar. Was it concern? Trepidation?
“Okay. What about?”
“Well, you see, Jade and I... well I actually... and Jaybird, too—we…” He rubbed his forehead.
“What’s wrong, Dudley?” His nervousness made me anxious. Always in the back of my mind was the fear that he knew about Rebecca and me. He took his spectacles off his eyes and squinted.
“My love,” he said, peering at his desk, “if we were doing, say Giselle, there would be no question you would be my lead.” Now he looked up.
I stared at him. What was he saying? I was the clear winner of Jade’s fouetté competition. He had to know that.
He continued, “Coppélia is a happy character. She is all smiles and campy melodrama.”
“Coppélia is the doll part, right?”
“Yes, you see, she spends the whole first act sitting like a statue on a balcony while the chap called Franz tries to convince her to come down to him. Not a terribly challenging role, really, at least in the first hour.”
“Don’t worry, Dudley, I didn’t want that part. I can’t imagine dancing like that. Mechanical. Like in Nutcracker?”
“The choreography does have some similarities to Marius Petipa’s, I suppose.” He wiped his glasses on his perpetually white tee shirt and put them back on. He didn’t want to be sidetracked.
“But the other lead, the girl who is jilted by the guy — for the doll?”
“Swanilda, yes. Swanilda must be innocent and frail,” he said, dramatic intonations anointing his words, “She must be slight and pure. You are Giselle, or Juliet, but you are not Coppélia... or even Swanilda.” He let his words hang in the air between us. “I’m glad you came early,” he said, his voice grandfatherly but full of undeniable authority, “I wanted you to hear it from me. Not a piece of paper on the wall.” I had no words for him and he expected none. “Sometimes,” he continued, “we choose dancers based on other things, besides technique, you see?”
“I see,” I said. but I didn’t. Who danced better than I did on Sunday?
“That’s my girl. You’ve had your share of the limelight, no?”
“Yes,” I said, my confidence drained away. “So, who, then?”
“You’ll find out with the rest of them. No spoiling the surprise.”
“Right,” I said, sucker-punched. “So, I’m in the corps de ballet?”
“Yes and, well, there is a beautiful short piece, the Dawn solo. Jade thought you would make it lovely, and I don’t doubt it.”
“I will,” I managed.
I dragged my wounded pride through the barn doors, through the dressing room, into Studio A. Staring into the still, empty space, I concentrated on echoes of Sunday’s audition. Who were the two new girls? Open audition or not, they didn’t act like ballerinas. They didn’t look like us either. Tiffany had held her own in the solo audition. Bridget, with her perpetual frown, was no Swanilda. Hadn’t Wesley acted strangely with those girls? How did he know them? And Hannah’s defeated tirade in the dressing room...Well, she would be vindicated. I thought, for a moment, that one of the roles might be hers. But she was not slight or innocent either. I continued through Studio B to Rebecca’s interior door, hoping to catch her between phone calls. In truth, all I wanted was for her to wrap her arms around me. To let me cry on her shoulder. I could be innocent and frail, couldn’t I?
I stepped down into the room that had vibrated with color and spirit on Sunday. Today, it was just Rebecca’s office. The same costumes, cigarette smoke, wilted rose. The crystal above Rebecca’s head hung undisturbed on its nylon thread. Intent on the surface of her desk, she didn’t hear me come in.
“Hey,” I said quietly.
“Hey, angel,” she said, “how are you?” Her breathy voice, and that fearless endearment. The room spun for a moment.
“We had the audition for Coppélia on Sunday…” The wound was fresh enough to eclipse even her gaze, which now took me in as if to memorize me. I felt like a still life, there in the middle of the room. She got up from the desk.
“I know! I’m sorry I couldn’t be here,” she crossed the small room and stood in front of me, laced her fingers together at the back of my waist.
“I went to the garment district in LA with a friend on Saturday to look for costume material for the production.” She kissed my forehead. “And we stayed out so late.” She laughed. “We got sooo drunk in town!” She looked at the ceiling, her goofy, big smile radiating mischief.
“Who did you go with?” I asked.
“You remember I told you about my friend, J.T.?”
“No, I don’t think so,” I said. “Who is he?”
“He’s a really great guy, Liese. We’ve been hanging out a lot lately.” Our faces were so close I could feel her smoky breath against my nose. “I think I could even fall in love with him,” she said. Words had very little friction when passing off her tongue, so of course the impact when they hit was enough to knock me down. She pressed her lips lightly into mine, connecting our foreheads to make a tent. “You’ll like him,” she said.
I stared at the floor, breathing carefully through my mouth so she wouldn’t hear the very un-Swanilda-like sob building in my throat. Behind the wet blur in my eyes I could see the winter beach, rain, and white-tipped waves rolling against the flat black stone where I had, I thought, given her everything.
“It’s my birthday,” I said, sniffing and pulling myself into composure.
“Seventeen,” she said.
“You’ll be twenty-seven in August.”
“Always in August.” Her fingers traced each bone up my spine, sending a shiver to my shoulders.
“I’ll be legal next year,” I said. She placed a hand on my head and smoothed my hair down my back like a cat.
“Next year,” she repeated, and kissed me again.
Protests raced through my head but I trapped them there, refusing to let them escape into words. No one born can be so forgetful. How could she just toss me off like I was nothing?
“I’m not Coppélia,” I said, instead.
She stepped back from me. “It’s true,” she laughed, “you are not Coppélia. And Dudley told me. I’m really sorry. Happy Fuckin’ Birthday, right?”
There was no stopping it now. The dam broke. Tears fell.
“Oh Liese,” she said, “you can’t win ’em all.”
“You really think that’s what this is about?”
She took my hand and led me to the office chair by the window, plopped down, and pulled me into her lap like a child.
“Liese, you and I will always be friends. But we can’t be more than friends.” I put my head into her neck, catching another ungraceful sob in my throat. “You can cry, darlin’, don’t hold it back for me.”
So I didn’t. “How could you do this to me, Bec? You said you loved me.”
“I do love you, Liese. Don’t you think it ripped my heart out to make love to you and then have to shove it all down like it never happened?”
“No, I don’t think it did rip your heart out. I don’t think you gave a crap, actually. Not if you can just replace me with J.T. It’s all just a game to you. And I don’t know if I can just be your friend. Not anymore.”
“Listen, J.T. is someone I can have. Someone I can run off to Los Angeles with and no one will ask any questions. I need that,” she said. “I haven’t replaced you with J.T. You will always be important to me. You don’t understand now, but you will. I promise.”
And there it was. Even Rebecca had resorted to child-speak. I stood up to go. As I walked away, she grabbed my hand to pull me back.
“Let me go,” I said.
And she did.