Brandy Colbert - Pointe

I WISH I COULD SAY THE DAY DONOVAN CAME HOME WAS EXtraordinary from the start, that I woke up knowing something special would happen that Thursday evening in October.

But the truth is, its like any other day of the week.

I go to school, then I get on the train and go to ballet.

People fawn over the beauty of dance. The long legs and elegant shoes and expertly twisted buns. And its not that theyre wrong. Those are all part of the reason I was drawn to ballet at the age of three. But Id be willing to bet those same people have never set foot in the dressing room of a dance studio. Because you cant quite look at it the same once youve been to the other side.

Straight chaos.

And Im late, because the Metra never wants to run on schedule when I actually have to be somewhere that matters. I squeeze into an empty corner by the lockers and toss my coat to the floor as I step out of my flats. Everyone is chattering away in various stages of undress, but Im the only one still wearing all my street clothes. Phil once mentioned hed like to be a fly on the dressing room wall, and I laughed in his face when I realized he was serious. Its all A-cups and square hips in here and he said it didnt matter, that boobs are boobs, but I think hed be underwhelmed. Also, it reeks of body odor and feet.

I glance to my right, where Ruthie Pathman perches on the edge of the bench, already slipping on her toe shoes. Her back is set in a perfectly straight line and theres not a curl out of place in her tight, tight bun.

Staring at me wont help you get dressed any faster, Cartwright. She says this without looking in my direction.

Not all of us have the luxury of driving ourselves into the city, I say as I tug on my tights. The train was late.

But I pull them up too fast, and a run appears mid-thigh, fast and final. I probably have a new pair somewhere in my dance bag, but I dont have time to deal with that right now. The other girls are already beginning to file out of the room and Im not even in my leotard.

Ruthie shoves her bag into her locker. Youll have to think of a better excuse than that. Nobody likes the blame game.

She winks at me after reciting one of our ballet instructors favorite lines, then snaps her combination lock shut. In a certain light, Ruthie looks like one of those angels pictured in the Biblepale skin and wheat-colored curls and big, soulful blue eyes. But the only angelic thing about her is her dancing. Shes tiny but shes been in more physical fights than anyone I know, guys included. And thats saying a lotI go to school with a disproportionate number of assholes.

She walks through the doorway, then pokes her head back into the dressing room. Three minutes. Her lips curve into a canary-eating smile before she closes the door firmly behind her.

I can get away with lacing my shoes in the studio, but I still have to put up my hair, and Marisa flips when she sees so much as a stray hairpin. Its all regimented: solid black leotard, blush-pink tights, no loose hair. I am so screwed. I gather up the pile of clothing pooled around my feet and throw it all in my locker. And Im just going to have to chance being screamed at about my hair, because Ill be locked out if I dont run.

The ribbons on my pointe shoes tangle around my ankles and heels with every step, conspiring to trip me as I dash down the corridor. Thanks to the snug elastic against my ankles, I manage to stay upright and fly into the studio only seconds after the official start of class, before Marisa will lock the door for the next hour and a half. She never lets anyone watch the senior company practice.

Marisa is also very serious about punctuality, so much that if you are even two minutes late, she will open the door only to stare you down and ask you to leave. We all learned long ago to set our watches to the studios clocks. Im never late and I am her favorite, so I expect a warning at the most. But shes not standing near the door at all. Instead, shes in the far front corner of the room, going over sheet music with an accompanist Ive never seen before. Shes so preoccupied that my lateness doesnt even register. I smirk at Ruthie as I use the extra time to tie up the ribbons on my shoes and fashion the thick black hair that crests my shoulder blades into an acceptable bun.

This place feels more like home than home sometimes. There are three studios in the building and they all look the same: sprung floors to absorb shock and protect our feet and joints; long wooden barres running along two sides of the room, their surfaces worn from the grip of so many hands; one whole wall made of mirrored panels that can make you feel like the Swan Queen on your best day and a bloated, dizzy mess on your worst. This is the only studio without windows and its my favorite because it means there are no outside distractions.

There are twelve people in the senior company, and most of us have danced together since we were kids. Nine girls, three boys; attitude and ego for days. Caryn has amazing turnout, and some days Id kill for Elissas arms and the height of Tobys leaps as he propels himself into the air. But I have good feetthese arches were made for pointe shoesand good musicality, and it may sound conceited, but I know Im one of the best dancers in this class.

Ruthie stands at the barre, stretching her hamstrings. Saved by the substitute accompanist. Impressive.

Wheres Betty? I ask as I take my spot next to her. Kaitlin is on the other side of me, sitting a few feet away from the barre in her right split. I can see the muscles in her legs tense under her tights as she stretches to the tips of her toes.

Ruthie shrugs. No idea, but whered they find this guy? He looks kind of . . . grungy.

Youre a snob.

But then I turn my head to get a better look at him andoh.

Ruthie looks at me curiously. You know him or something?

I do. He goes to school with me in Ashland Hills, our little suburb outside of Chicago. Hes a year older. A senior. And he is Phils dealer.

I think he goes to my school, I say, and face the barre so I dont have to wonder what hes doing in my ballet class.

Marisa finally crosses the room to close the door, then stands in front, waiting for our attention. She doesnt have to wait long; shes the kind of person who commands attention, whether shes trying to or not. Were all intimidated, but not because shes scary, not like the tales of evil ballet mistresses patrolling the room to poke us when we mess up. More because shes a former professional dancer and this is her studio and weve all seen what she can do on a stage. I found her old bio once, and according to my math shes in her mid-forties now. She doesnt look much older than her twenty-year-old head shot, though.

Before we start today, Id like to introduce you to our new accompanist, she says.

New? Marisa is careful with her words. She would never introduce a substitute as someone new. When I glance at him, his eyes are already on me. I turn back to Marisa. She tells us Bettys husband is sick. Alzheimers. Everyone is quiet because we know Betty has been with her husband since high school. They never had children and she always said the only two things that mattered in life were her husband and the piano, in that order. Its not fair that she wont always have both.

Josh Barleys shoulders slump with the news. Betty loves him most of all and he knows it. Hes kind of hard to resist with his red hair and freckles. Theres something wholesome about him, like he should always be eating apple pie or hanging out at a church picnic.

In the meantime, everyone please welcome Hosea Roth, the newest addition to our studio family, Marisa says with a smile. Hosea comes with a strong musical background and were lucky to have him.