Free On Pointe by Lorie Ann Grover

hall.
    â€œExcellent,” she says.
    â€œGood job,” says Grandpa.
    Applause for walking
    to the bathroom
    wasn’t what I was aiming for
    today.
    â€œAnd make sure she continues drinking.
    Bye-bye, now.”
    The attendant waves
    as Grandpa pulls the car away
    into the night.
    The dashboard clock says 8:26.
    The day is gone.
    The awful day
    is over.
    I swallow the last of the sports drink
    and hand Grandpa the bottle.
    â€œThere, now. You rest, Clare.
    I’ll call and give your parents an update.
    Before you know it
    they’ll be here.”
    I roll over.
    He tucks the sheet.
    â€œCall me if you need anything,”
    he says from the doorway.
    â€œOkay.”
    How about a new life?
    In my dream,
    I’m dancing alone
    on a stage
    when things start turning to paper.
    The backdrop,
    curtains, and floor
    ruffle in the wind,
    then tear apart and spin away
    into the air.
    â€œFrom the top,” Madame’s voice
    blares over an intercom.
    â€œFrom the top.”
    But there’s no place left
    to dance.
    A last gust tips me over
    and wafts me through the emptiness.
    The sun creeps under
    the edge of my blind
    and spears my eyelid.
    I squint.
    My ballet bag
    is sitting on my dresser.
    A toe shoe pokes out of the opening.
    I fling my pillow across the room.
    It hits the dresser mirror, which
    knocks my bag to the floor.
    Clud, thud.
    I sit up and stare at myself.
    I’m pale.
    Bobby pins dangle
    in my hair,
    out of place and useless.
    I yank them out,
    deserving the pain.
    â€œI don’t see that potential
    in your work,” she said.
    I’m not good enough
    to be a superstar.
    Not
    good
    enough.
    Not only too tall.
    I didn’t try hard enough.
    I tilt the mirror down
    so I don’t have
    to look
    at myself.
    â€œThere you are, love.”
    I sit at the kitchen table.
    Shivers spread across my back.
    Grandpa reaches over
    and rubs my arm.
    The heat from his firm hand feels good.
    â€œIt’s almost noon.
    How about some green tea?” he asks.
    â€œSure.”
    He gets up and pours the hot water
    into a mug with a bag.
    â€œI was expecting you
    to be up and around soon.” He smiles,
    passes me the tea
    and the honey bear.
    I warm my hands around the mug.
    The bear shimmies when I try to squeeze him.
    â€œLet me help you.” Grandpa gets the honey out.
    I stir it and take a sip.
    â€œWe have to double up on your drinking today.”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œOtherwise, you’ll be back in the hospital
    before you know it.”
    â€œI’ll try to drink a lot, Grandpa.”
    â€œI can always count on you to try, Clare.”
    I kick the dance bag
    out of sight under the dresser
    and pull on shorts and a T-shirt.
    Hey, it’s Sunday.
    Grandpa gave up church this morning.
    One more sacrifice for me.
    Maybe he can still go tonight.
    I yank the brush through my hair.
    So many tangles.
    This is a rat’s nest, Mom would say.
    I pull harder to get the bristles through.
    My hand slips and bangs on the edge of the dresser.
    Ow!
    I rub the red spot,
    then pull my hair into a ponytail
    without finishing.
    All the tangled knots are lumpy.
    Who cares?
    I nudge the porch swing with my toe.
    The cool afternoon air
    nudges me back.
    Maybe a summer storm is moving in?
    That can make the temperature drop fast.
    Mija leaps up
    and curls in my lap on the blanket
    Grandpa made me bring out.
    How long till the blisters on my feet heal?
    How long till, “You aren’t fit for ballet,”
    stops chanting in my head.
    I pet Mija’s fur
    backward.
    She purrs.
    How long till Mom and Dad get here?
    What will I say?
    At least I didn’t have to talk to them
    this morning.
    Grandpa told them it’d be better to chat
    when they got here.
    Definitely.
    I wish I could get out of it then too.
    I pick the newspaper up off the swing
    and pull it out of the plastic.
    I flip through the sections.
    I’m sure it’s in here.
    Do I want to look?
    My hands