Juilliard or Else (3 page)

When I first told my mother of my dreams, she actually laughed at me. I was only ten. She said dancing would ruin my feet. At the time, I didn't know what that meant, but I begged my father to reason with her, pleading to change her mind. She never did. However, one day she came to my room and saw me in front of my mirrored closet door, practicing what I saw the ballerina dancers doing. It was then that she finally gave in.

She sat me down and explained that she was allowing me to be a ballet dancer since that was the path I so desperately wanted to follow. She did have a few prerequisites, though. On top of completing any necessary homework, I needed to keep my grades in good standing. When I answered her in the proper manner of "Yes, mother," she then explained that she'd signed me up with the best instructors, and that I was to treat them with nothing but kindness, just as I would a teacher in school. If she didn't get good reports back, I could no longer attend dance class. I did everything I could do in order to get straight A's. I never hung out at friends' houses, basically just staying home and practicing until my toes would bleed.

Clearing her throat, my mother looked into my caramel colored eyes. "Well, it's about time. You need to go practice your routine; that way it's perfect for your new instructor. Now go," she clipped, moving her hands in my direction, essentially swooshing me out to go practice. "And don't forget to pull your hair back off your shoulders."

"Yes, mother," I said, holding my hand out for the letter.

She thrust it at me and turned around to Isabelle, whose back was facing my mother.

"No!" she yelled at her, causing Isabelle to jump and drop the spoon she was using to stir whatever was in the pot. "You're missing the third and most important step; we've talked about this, Isabelle!" she spat, slamming her fist on the table.

Hurrying, I left the room before I could hear what my mother was so upset about. Isabelle probably forgot to stir the onions and mushrooms for the fifth time or something absurd like that.

I walked down the hallway to my dance studio, which my mother designed just for me. We had it added onto our French Gothic House on the corner of 5th Avenue and 79th Street…like this house needed to get any bigger. However, my father didn't have a say in the matter because my mother controlled his money, buying whatever she wanted.

I changed into my leotard and stockings, and then wrapped my feet up in my ballet shoes. I pulled my blonde hair back in a tight bun and turned on Pyotr Llyich Tchaikovsky's music to
The Nutcracker
in the first act, Scene 1 No. 2 the Marche.
The Nutcracker
was my favorite to dance to, especially during Christmas time.

I walked on the points of my toes, passing the wall length mirrors on my way over to the ballet barre to stretch out my legs. When my warm-up was complete, I started on my routine for
Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy
, which blended nicely with
Pas De Deux
for the ending.

My legs stretched to their max and my arms didn't bend unless they were supposed to. I had perfect posture and I made my way through the entire routine without missing a beat. With my back bowed and toes pointed perfectly, I moved gracefully like an elegant swan across the room. When I danced, I felt as if I was the only person who mattered. I was in control – not my mother, not school, not even my etiquette. I was free.

When the music ended, I felt proud that I had this routine down. When I looked at my reflection in the mirror, I saw my father standing in the doorway. He had his arms folded and was leaning against the doorframe. He looked so tired and I could clearly see the bags under his eyes. His tie hung loosely around his neck and his suit jacket was unbuttoned, completely rumpled up.

I sighed, out of breath, "Oh, Daddy."

He held his arms open for me and I made my way over to him, crushing our chests together. He was the complete opposite of my mother. I could call him daddy instead of father and he wouldn't mind. The only name I'd been allowed to call my mother was…well...mother. She always said mom never fit her, whatever that meant. I loved my dad more than anything, so I guess you could say I was a daddy's girl.

"Abigail, you dance so gracefully," he said, kissing the top of my head. "I'm so proud of all your hard work."

I pulled away from him to look at his face. "Did mother tell you that I received my acceptance letter today for Juilliard?"

"Yes, she did – that's why I came to find you," he said, smiling as he placed a kiss on my forehead. "When do you start?" he asked, stepping into the room to shut off the surround sound music.

Watching him move around my studio, I studied him. My dad was very handsome, tall and fit; however, he was balding at the top, so he shaved his head to a buzz cut. The look suited him. I got most of my looks from him.

"I have to move into my new place in one month's time." I nodded, remembering what the letter explained.

My dad rolled his eyes at my words, knowing they didn't come from the real me as he walked back over to look deep into my caramel eyes. "I'm so proud of you," he said, giving me another hug. "I know your mother and I don't tell you enough, but we are." With that, he left the room. My dad told me how proud he was of me all the time; it was his significant other who didn't. I turned the music back on and started my routine over again.

Later that night, my mother and father argued about my new school. My mother wasn't happy about me living in the dorm rooms because of the lack of space and security. She disagreed with my father about contacting the school and having the other two girls move in with me in a secure apartment building; they would cover all the costs. Seriously, the babying would never end.

My mind always went blank when my parents would argue. It's like nothing mattered except for their words, back and forth; my mother would fight until she got her way. There was no "or" in the matter; her feelings were the only ones that mattered.

Listening to them altercate with each other, I picked, poked and prodded at my food and ate very little. I kept my head down and sighed.

"Sit
up
, Abigail," my mother said, glaring at me from across the table.

Pushing my shoulders back, I sat up and met her eyes.

"Leave her alone, Carol," my dad said in a displeased tone. "Our daughter was just accepted to the finest Ballet school; we should be celebrating tonight." He put his fork down and waved Isabelle over. "Isabelle, please bring a bottle of champagne – one of Mrs. McCall's favorites."

With a nod, Isabelle left the room like the devil was at her heels.

"We don't need champagne, David," my mother snipped, eyeing my father as she finished her bite of food with elegance.

"Can I please be excused?" I shut my eyes, knowing that as soon as I said that, my mother was going to scold me on saying "can" instead of "may
"
I.

"Abigail, you disappoint me yet again today." She put her fork down with force; it made a glass breaking sound, even though nothing broke. Picking up the napkin in her lap, she dabbed the corners of her mouth.

Another one bites the dust
, I thought.

"Carol, stop," my dad abruptly cut in.

"She needs to learn. It's
may
I be excused, Abigail. You are nineteen years old; it's time for you to act like it."

I couldn't take anymore tonight. I had to leave the table before she would scold me more for my immaturity. "May I please be excused?" I asked my mother, careful not to give her anymore attitude.

"No, you may not. You haven't..."

Before she could finish, my dad reached over and patted the top of my hand. "Of course, sweetheart," he said, giving me a reassuring smile.

I rose from my chair and made my way up the stairs to my room. Once inside, I stripped my clothes off, slid into my pajamas and padded into my bathroom to brush my teeth. Stopping myself before I grabbed my toothbrush, I stared in the mirror for far too long. I'd made up my mind, and with that, my body followed my bare feet over to the white porcelain bowl, so clean and sparkling. Yes, it was clean. Isabelle had scrubbed it that way. I wish she could scrub away how dirty I felt.

Lifting the seat, I stuck two fingers down my throat and easily heaved up my dinner with skilled practice. It was easier than learning to point your toes; you just stick your finger down your throat and let the gag reflex take over.

I remembered when I was five, throwing up and crying for my mother to come rub my back. I had the flu and was constantly feeling the bile rising in my throat. I prayed the burn wouldn't come, but it always did and my mother never came. I still wasn't used to that burn. Would I ever get used to the burning in my throat the purging caused?

I started sobbing, hating what I was doing to myself. I looked at the remains of my dinner. I laid my head against the side of the cool porcelain, trying to calm myself and catch my breath. My dad would be so ashamed of me if he knew. His perfect little girl couldn't quite measure up. I was sixteen when I first purged. It's been three years since then, and without doing it, I wouldn't be the right weight. I had to get up and move before someone came in and found me this helpless. With a warm rag, I cleaned my face, brushed my teeth and went to bed.

The next couple of weeks flew by. I was working on a new routine, and my mother called Juilliard to explain my living arrangements to the headmaster of the program…like they could care and they didn't. My mother then did research on whom my roommates were going to be and contacted their parents.

Both sets of parents agreed that for the safety of us girls, we needed to be in a more secure place. We no longer had to stay in the dorms, which made me mad. I was excited to start school and live in the dorms like a normal, regular college student.

Mother went apartment shopping the very next day, but without me, of course. I didn't get any say in where I lived. I overheard her talking with my father about the apartment she did find on 22 West, 66th Street. It was across the street from Central Park, which put me just down the way from the Lincoln Center, where Juilliard was; I could easily walk there.

But mother not only looked at the apartment, she
bought
it, and without my father's approval. The apartment itself was over three million dollars. My stomach literally fell out my butt when I overheard that. I gasped in the hallway of my father's study, hearing footsteps walking closer to me, and then the door click shut. My father was very displeased about that, but didn't voice his opinion. He always told me that he would rather keep my mother smiling than fight with her.

My bulimia went from once every couple of nights to twice a day. I could no longer stop myself. The burning in my throat helped with the pain I couldn't release – the pain caused by my own mother…by how controlling she was...by her lack of caring. It was apparent all she cared about was the fact that I might end up embarrassing her. I was getting more and more upset with her. I couldn't wait to leave here and get out on my own. With the stress she would put me under, I didn't need to use my fingers to help the bile come; it just came on command. Whenever she would yell or be displeased, you could find me in the bathroom, kneeling in front of the toilet.

I stood up from the toilet on shaky legs and leaned on the door frame to check the time, noticing it was three minutes before my private instructor, Ramón, showed up to teach me new choreography. When I finished brushing my teeth and wiping my face off, the doorbell rang right on time.

I meet Ramón down in the studio. I was already changed into my black leotard with light pink tights and had my hair pulled back tightly. When I entered the studio, he applauded me. I stopped to curtsey at him.

"My flower, I heard about Juilliard," he cooed as he grabbed for my hands, pulling me into the room. "Felicitations," he said, telling me congratulations in French and kissing both my cheeks in a traditionally French way. Thanks to my mother, French was my second language, and Italian my third. Did I even like Italian? I'm not sure; it honestly never mattered.

He held open my arms and looked at me. "My flower, you look a bit pale, are you alright?" He brushed my cheek with his fingers, and then gave my hand a little squeeze.

Of course, I lied to him. "Yes, Master Ramón, just tired," I muttered. If Ramón ever found out about my bulimia, he wouldn't let me dance. Even though he didn't agree with my mother half of the time, he would go straight to her about it.