All Dressed Up (23 page)

This was the
best part of that whole year, smoking with Emma and sitting talking
on the steps about Emma’s huge summer crush. He happened to be a
tennis player with a foreign accent, but he could have been anyone,
really – any hot, exotic guy met in a new city where everything
seemed so full of promise. It was all in the timing and the
hormones. Emma had met him through some Wimbledon connection of
Mom’s and he disappeared at the end of the summer, never to be
heard from again. She was pregnant for nearly five months before
anyone knew.

In September,
ballet school kicked back into gear and an announcement was made
about who would perform the key roles in that year’s Christmas
ballet. They were doing Swan Lake and Sarah was given the plum role
of Odette/Odile. For the first time, however, she lost her sense
that the role was hers by right. She knew it had been a close
contest between herself and another girl, Davina.

Her breasts
kept growing. They came bulging, soft and inexorable, over the top
of her B cup bras. A couple of the bitchier girls at ballet school
– and Davina – started calling her, “The Four-Breasted She-Ra,” as
if she was some kind of monstrous fertility goddess or a
shape-shifter in a paranormal erotic romance. They giggled about
it, then told her, “It’s a joke, Sarah, it’s just a play on your
name, you shouldn’t be so sensitive. And seriously, can’t you see
that your bra doesn’t fit?”

At her first
fitting for the Christmas ballet, the wardrobe mistress expressed
some concern about the matter. “I’ll dance it off,” Sarah promised,
ashamed.

But the fat
wouldn’t dance off. It targeted her breasts with hormonal precision
and spread upward to her shoulders, infecting her very bones. Her
shoulder width transgressed the line between the just-acceptable
statuesque and, God, what was the word that came after statuesque?
Elephantine?

Her breasts
squashed against the fabric of her practice outfits, making her
cleavage so tight you could stand a row of coins along it. Dewy
creases formed where her arms joined her torso and she found
pinches of flesh above her hips and across her front. It didn’t
take much for a ballet dancer to qualify as fat. She thought that
the ballet mistress had begun to monitor her portion sizes at lunch
and that she was getting frowns and whispers from the staff at
rehearsals.

The dance
staff staged a ‘pre-dress’ rehearsal of Swan Lake just five days
before the actual show. Sarah danced Acts II and III and Davina
danced Act I. It was an exercise in credit and debit, although she
didn’t fully realize it at the time. ‘Statuesque’ Sarah’s technical
excellence and maturity of performance versus the more mechanical,
less dedicated girl’s porcelain form and purity of line.

Afterward, in
the change-room…

A bit of
casual swearing, and then, “Oh, did you hear, Sarah?” Davina had an
upper class accent, a vocabulary like a sewer pipe and a very sweet
voice. She had the most perfect, ethereal dancer’s body and a fey
little face, all wide gray eyes and bow-shaped lips. “Did you know
you’re getting dumped and I’m dancing instead?”

“What do you
mean?” Sarah’s mouth had turned to wood. Still in her costume, she
stood there with her knuckles pressed together and her forearms
hiding the fact that the costume didn’t fit across her chest, the
big, clumsy American who didn’t understand the social nuances.

She knew how
well she’d danced today, but the costume cut right into her. Forget
four breasts, she had six now, because two new bulges squeezed in
the direction of her armpits, beyond the thin straps.

“You’re…
getting…dumped… from… dancing… Odette/Odile,” Davina articulated
for the benefit of the slow learner.

“No, I’m
not.”

“I heard them
talking in the staff room just now. They’ve made their final
decision. Trust me on it, She-Ra. It’s been in the offing for
weeks. Your parents already know. They probably just haven’t worked
out how to tell you yet.”

“It’s not
true.”

“Denial. So
fucking mature,” Davina said, and turned her back.

Everyone else
dressed to go home in the dark December evening in the miserable
rain, with coats and hats. Sarah put on her coat, too, so shocked
that she forgot to change out of her costume first. Winter boots
slid over pale pink tights. Raincoat brushed over tulle. She hid in
the lavatory cubicle and waited until everyone had gone, taking
tight, shallow breaths and hoping no-one realized she was still
here.

When the
change-room grew silent she let herself out and went to the ballet
mistress to ask for the truth. The ballet mistress had danced
professionally with European companies until she was forty-one. At
this point she was about forty-six years old and still looked like
a ballerina. She couldn’t surrender the tightly pulled hair or the
collar-bone-baring necklines.

“I… Someone…
I… Someone told me…” It hurt just so unbelievably much, worse than
physical pain. She worked the hardest. She wanted it the most.
There were a hundred books and movies and repeated platitudes which
promised she would be rewarded for that.

“Sit down,
Sarah.”

No, because
then I won’t be able to run if I start crying. “Is it true Davina’s
getting Odette/Odile? Do my parents already know?”

It was true.
The final decision had been made this afternoon, during Act
III.

“Your parents
didn’t want you told that we were considering it. I know it’s a
blow, Sarah, but ballet is harsh that way.” So kindly spoken. “Your
figure has developed in the wrong direction.” She paused.

Sarah heard
the suggestion of fault. She’d heard it many times since, noticed
it even now, always, whether it concerned her or someone else.
There’s always the subconscious perception in beautiful people that
when someone is ugly or built wrong, it’s at some level their own
fault.

“…and we can’t
let you dance a big role in this production when your body isn’t
ever going to be right for a professional career and it means
depriving another promising young hopeful.”

Her cue. To be
generous. Of course I wouldn’t want to dance if… But she couldn’t
speak yet.

I’ve worked
the hardest. I want it the most.

“We perhaps
should have made the decision sooner, but it’s been very hard.
You’re such a beautiful and gifted dancer…” Another pause. This
time so she could show her gratitude for “gifted.” Sarah still
couldn’t speak.

“We did want
to talk to you about it first, but since you’ve obviously overheard
–”

“Someone else
overheard. She told me.” She didn’t say it was Davina herself.

“The thing is,
Sarah, performance isn’t everything. There’s teaching.”

It doesn’t
matter that you’re not pretty. You have a good personality and a
lovely musical voice. It’s not whether you win or lose, it’s how
you play the game.

“I don’t want
to teach. I want to dance.” Be an instrument, recite poems off by
heart with her body, belong forever in the magical kingdom of dusty
practice rooms and a gorgeously lit stage.

“It’s becoming
an unrealistic direction for you. It’s not just the weight, you
see, Sarah, it’s the bone structure.”

“I’ll talk to
my parents. About surgery.”

“It’s very
hard, I know. I do understand.” Said the whippet.

Sarah didn’t
know if she was expected to stay and share her feelings any
further, if there was any form of support being offered. A taxi
home? So she could sit in the back of it and weep?

The ballet
mistress’s mouth moved as she spoke. Sarah couldn’t take it in. Her
own mouth moved and she said something in reply, something polite
that let everyone off the hook and suggested the comfort of a
motherly hug waiting at home.

The ballet
mistress opened the door for her and promised that of course they
would talk further about Sarah’s options when she’d had a chance to
think. For now, she would of course understudy the Swan Lake role.
Her parents should of course phone with any questions or concerns.
The ballet mistress was sorry that the news was pre-empted, and if
Sarah wanted to give her the name of the girl or girls
involved...

Sarah
didn’t.

She gathered
everything from her locker and took the Tube home. It was raining
heavier than ever and already dark. When she crossed the road at
the front of the Tube station, a car swished past and sprayed her
legs. Four inches of the tights and six inches of the tulle were
saturated with gray gutter water.

How funny,
like the yellow stain and sodden hem of Emma’s dress.

She arrived
home and pushed through the front door, wet tulle dripping into her
boots, carrying her terrible news like a heavy, half-torn shopping
bag. She couldn’t hold it a second longer, the tear was splitting
wider, she would have to dump it in the first available place, just
dump it and let it rip and spill.

Mom and Emma
and Dad were in the kitchen. Sarah actually heaved the half-torn
shopping bag of news up in her arms… in her lungs… ready to dump it
on the counter top… dump it on her family…

Davina is
getting Odette/Odile because my figure’s gone wrong, and you knew
it might be happening but you didn’t warn me, and I’ve worked the
hardest and I want it the most and I’m not getting it, ever.

…when she
noticed that Mom wasn’t breathing right and Emma had been crying
and Dad was just standing there, not even tactlessly singing.

“Did you know
about this, Sarah?” Mom asked. She gave a beseeching look that
missed the wet, gray-splattered tulle frothing out below the
raincoat.

Emma cut in,
“She didn’t, okay? I’m telling you first.” She was shaking.

“First.
First?” Mom said. “Nearly four months after you knew? I’m sorry,
Emma, I don’t mean to sound angry, I know you didn’t – ”

“I thought I
might lose it, like you always do, so it wouldn’t be an issue.”

Mom gave an
indrawn sob. Dad made a stricken sound and put his arm around her,
then let it drop.

“This is so
horrible,” Emma muttered to herself. “I cannot believe how horrible
this is. Dad?” She was appealing to him to deftly make it less
horrible, which he so often managed to do.

But he wasn’t
equal to something of this magnitude. Although he tried. “First,
we’ll get take-out tonight,” he decreed, and Sarah noticed that Mom
had been at some point in the middle of making dinner but it had
been abandoned to burn at a critical, hopeless stage. The kitchen
stank of carbonized carrot and meat.

Mom had been
doing a lot better in recent months. They’d all – Mom included –
been holding their breath a little once the autumn days grew so
short and dreary, but she was handling it this winter, she had
energy and plans and inner fire once more. Too much inner fire, Dad
sometimes seemed to feel. Whether she was up or down, he watched
her very carefully, always. “I have two precious, fabulous
daughters,” she had said several times, as if this was much more of
a consolation to her than it had been last year.

“What’s
happened?” Sarah asked. The shopping bag of her own news was just
so heavy, she was being dense about Emma’s. Nobody took the
shopping bag from her, or even noticed that it was there. Every
muscle in her body ached with effort. The cold wet ballet tights
dragged on her legs.

“Emma’s
pregnant,” Dad said.

Sarah’s head
whipped toward her sister. “Shut up,” Emma said, although Sarah
hadn’t spoken. “Don’t say anything stupid. Anything at all. I
cannot bear this.”

It was the
first time in her life that Emma had had to confess to doing the
wrong thing, royally stuffing something up. For more than a year in
London, she and her friends had been so adept at pulling out of
their daring tailspins of rebellion unscathed, but Emma couldn’t
pull out of this one. She seemed shamed by the unfamiliar need to
face consequences. So not cool.

That evening,
Sarah tried to wash the costume and tights by hand in the bath, but
the gutter water stains wouldn’t fully come out.

Emma’s dress,
again. The stained feathers.

Dad found her
doing it and asked what had happened. “A car splashed me on the way
home,” Sarah told him, and he didn’t ask her why she hadn’t changed
at school.

All of this
happened on a Monday. On Tuesday and Wednesday she feigned illness
and stayed in bed. She couldn’t go back. Understudy? No, thank you.
Davina had better not get sick. On Thursday morning Mom finally sat
down and talked to her properly when she again stayed under her
covers and mumbled about flu symptoms. “They’ve given Odette to the
other girl? Sarah!”

“But you
already knew. The dance mistress said.”

“They were
supposed to tell us if they made that decision. It was only a
maybe. Just a threat, I thought. I’ve been trying to give you –
”

“ – smaller
portions,” Sarah realized out loud, thinking back.

“But they were
supposed to tell us first, so we could discuss it with you.”

She explained,
the way she had to the ballet mistress. Someone had overheard the
staff’s discussion. Someone had told her.

Mom asked,
“Are you all right, honey?”

“I’m fine,”
Sarah said, because it was easier than saying I’m not me any more.
Easier than listening to Mom trying too hard to say the right
thing.

She thought
that I’m fine was what Mom wanted her to say, anyhow. There’d been
a leading edge to the question. Say you’re fine, please, Sarah,
suck it up, because I cannot deal with another daughter who is not
fine, right now.

Later, when
Emma had used up her share of not fine, it would be Sarah’s turn.
Someone would have some answers for her, or at least tell her what
questions to ask. Someone would. Dad maybe. Probably not Mom. There
would be a cure. There’d be a direction.