Please, Please, Please (6 page)

“Mom!”

“Are you choking?”

“I’m fine.”

“What are you eating?”

“M&M’s,” I said nastily, with my mouth full.

“I have some cut-up apples for you.”

“I hate apples,” I said.

Zoe kicked me. She was grinning.

I thought at first she was as surprised as I was that I would speak in that tone of voice to my mother, but then she whispered, “I thought you love apples.”

I almost choked on my M&M’s again. “Unless they’re fresh picked,” I said.

“Hmm,” Zoe said, handing me the M&M’s. As I took a few from the package, she coughed, “Hay-stacking,” into her hands, just like Gideon Weld had this morning. It’s the way everybody did it last year so we wouldn’t get in trouble. The whole school sounded like we were coming down with bronchitis.

“Well, that’s OK,” Mom said.

“What is?” I asked. For a horrified second I thought she meant hay-stacking.

“A few M&M’s aren’t going to make you fat,” she said. “You don’t need an eating disorder.”

I rolled up the package. I didn’t want the M&M’s anymore, once she said I could have them. The whole point was to rebel, although, I don’t want to get fat and ugly and make her think I have no self-control. She’d be disappointed in me, I’d be too ugly to look at. But I don’t want an eating disorder, because that would disappoint her, too—or maybe I should get an eating disorder just to have my own something, once in my life.

I handed the M&M’s to Zoe, who was still grinning to herself, as if she’d practically caught me hay-stacking. I smiled at her, shaking my head. I had told Mom about those kids hay-stacking last year, of course—I tell her everything. My life doesn’t completely happen to me until I’ve described it all to my mother.

When I looked up, Mom smiled her perfect smile at me in the rearview mirror, like she was in on what was cracking up me and Zoe. It burned the insides of my cheeks, wondering if she can read my mind about wanting to kiss Tommy. If I do, if I someday kiss Tommy, maybe I won’t tell her. She’d probably know, anyway, somehow. She always does.

“Hey,” she said. “Maybe Daddy and I could take you apple picking Sunday, you and Paul, the whole family? Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“Fun,” I muttered. She thinks I’m eight years old.

“And maybe Zoe could come! What do you think, Zoe?”

Before Zoe got pulled in, I said, “That’s not the point, Mom. The point is not apples!”

“I know it’s hard, Seej. You make so many sacrifices for ballet, don’t you? And you were really looking forward to this trip.”

The M&M’s had left a sour taste in my mouth, but no way was I asking for her cut-up apples—especially if she wasn’t even taking me seriously about going apple picking. She wasn’t even considering it. So unfair. “I’m sick of sacrifices,” I grumbled. “I just want to be regular.”

“No, you don’t,” Mom said.

“How do you know what I want?” It was such a rude thing to say I was shocked at myself. I felt my eyes opening really wide.
She should punish me for that
, I thought.

She turned off the radio. My body tightened, waiting.

“I know you, CJ,” she said quietly. “I know you’ve always been happiest while you’re dancing. You have a natural gift most people would die for. I would die for it. And for your opportunities.”

I pictured her as a kid, kneeling beside a cow, bargaining with God to trade anything for a chance like mine.

“For your talent, and opportunities, especially combined with your perfect ballet body—”

“Mom!”

“It’s true. But it’s not enough. There’s a commitment involved, CJ, right? And if you’re not willing to make it, there are plenty of other talented girls who will.” We’d had a big discussion in August. Tchaikovsky was playing on the stereo at the time and we’d just come home from the exhausting full-day tryouts, when I got accepted into Level Three. I was wiped out and relieved and excited; it felt like, just a little more hard work, and maybe it really could be me in the spotlight someday. I had danced well that day. Yes, yes, I’m sure, I’d insisted, stretching on the living room floor. I want it. So I watched Mom sign the check for this season.
You are just like your mother
, Dad said proudly.
So determined
.

Mom’s voice was low and quiet, now. “It was your choice, CJ.”

“I know,” I said. I smoothed the hair back from my forehead and closed my eyes again.

Mom’s eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror. I looked down at the new leg warmers she’d gotten me. Pink, my favorite—a present for the new season. “I know it’s hard sometimes,” Mom said. “But you have to be dedicated if you want to excel.”

When I was little and fighting with her, she used to say,
Fine, it’s your choice—do whatever you please
. I hated that, I still hate that, because as soon as she says that, it makes me have to do whatever she wants. “I know,” I said again, pulling the leg warmers down over my feet.

“Do you want me to call Mrs. Johnson and arrange for in-school study, for the day of the trip?”

“No,” I said.

“I don’t mind, if it would be easier for you.”

“No.” I shook my head without lifting my eyes from my hard-pointed toes. “I’ll take care of it.”

“I’m so proud of you, CJ. Not every kid could handle all this. But that’s why you’re my superstar.”

I curled myself into a ball over my pointed toes.

eight

M
om made me take off my
friendship ring before I walked into class.
No jewelry allowed, you know better than that, CJ. Zoe will hold it for you
. Zoe slipped it onto her pinkie and sat down next to my mother. For an hour and a half, while I took class, I didn’t think. I forget everything during class. No noise, no thoughts, just the music, adjusting balance at the barre
a-yum-ba-bi-bum
says the teacher and my body is my whole self. Such a relief. But after, on the ride home, I felt so guilty for dragging Zoe with me all afternoon and then not even quitting, I didn’t know what to do. So I made her take off her sneakers and compare toes, to include her. Her toes are a straight line, it turned out; the ideal for going on
pointe
, much better than mine or Morgan’s or even Fiona’s, whose are pretty good. Zoe was happy about that, I think. I hope it made up to her a little for my not quitting.

Anyway, that was yesterday. Today in school all anybody was talking about was apple picking and soccer. Morgan and Olivia ate lunch together again, whispering. Morgan barely even thanked Zoe for bringing in cleats for her—just grabbed them and dumped them in her locker.

I had to run out of gym class while everybody else was changing out of gym uniforms and into cleats. “’Bye,” Zoe said, without looking up at me.

On the way out to Lenox, I told Mom that every one of my friends was at that moment starting soccer.

“Oh, that’s exciting,” she said. “How are things going with Morgan?”

“Fine.”

“So everything worked out.”

“I guess.”

“I’m so glad,” Mom said. “Were you able to arrange things for Monday?”

“Yeah,” I lied. It just slipped out.

“What did you arrange?”

I was furious, suddenly. She hadn’t even let me talk about soccer. “I’m sitting outside the office doing busywork all day, OK? While every person in my grade goes to have fun. OK?”

“OK,” Mom said softly. “It’s hard, I know.”

I mumbled, “It’s impossible.” I pictured myself sitting outside the principal’s office, all the little sixth graders walking by wondering if I had in-school suspension, whispering about me, pitying me. How awful. I hated my mother for making me arrange what I hadn’t actually arranged, yet.

“So,” she began again, “what do you think Yuri will say about your new toe shoes?”

“I don’t know.” I rested my feet on the front dash, not changing yet.

“I bet he’ll be impressed with your feet. I think all the work you did over the summer, strengthening your feet with the exercise bands, is really paying off.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled. “But I’d rather have cleats.”

She laughed, like it was funny.

In class, Yuri said, “Fine, beautiful.”

Fiona asked me if I sew in my own ribbons or my mom helps me. She’s so competitive. It’s what Morgan hated about her when she took ballet, too. “Myself,” I told her, limbering up with
grands battements
. “Fiona? Did you ever have to miss a school trip for ballet?”

“Yes.”

“Were you furious?”

Fiona shrugged her bony shoulders and held her chin up. “I didn’t really care. Only ballet is important to me.”

I took my position at the barre.

Tonight, Mom stood over me, watching me sew in my ribbons, showing me where I needed to fold down the back of the shoe a little smoother. Finally I had to let her do the other one. She was so excited, after, she wanted me to try them on for Paul and Daddy, who were at the other end of the dining room table working on Paul’s oral report on the five senses. They both looked up to see my toe shoes, but I was like, “Mom!”

“What?” She got out the camera from its cabinet in the front hall. “They’re so beautiful, how can you not?”

“I have to call Zoe.”

“Just try them on for one minute,” she begged. “I love looking at you in them.”

I yelled, “Leave me alone!” and stomped up to my room.

My feet were tired—Tuesdays I have regular class plus
pointe
—but after I slammed my door and flopped down on my bed for a few minutes I couldn’t help pulling on my new toe shoes and tying the satin ribbons around my ankles. They are so beautiful. I held onto the doorknob to watch myself roll up onto
pointe
in my mirror. Push. Get vertical.

Call Zoe.

I held my doorknob to balance. “How did soccer go?” I asked Zoe, doing some little
pas de bourree
in front of the mirror, admiring my feet.

“Good, I guess,” she answered. “So, how are the toe shoes?”

“He said they’re fine. I’m wearing them right now,” I said. “They kill.” My feet have gotten stronger, I could see by the way they pulled the shoe into a perfect arch like I couldn’t, last year.
Clock-clock
. “I wish I had your toes, though.”

“I’m so proud,” Zoe said. “I thought they were just stumpy.”

I laughed. “Yeah, well, they’re perfect. I have to get special shoes with a tapered box and a deep vamp.”

“Oh,” she said. “I don’t know what that means, but I’m sure that’s good.”

I reached down to twist the right one into a better position on my foot. “You just have a wider base to balance on, if all your toes are the same length,” I explained.

“Well, I’m so proud,” she said again, and then, “Hold on. No!” she shrieked to someone in the background. “No! I’m on the phone!” She laughed and said, “Quit it!”

“What’s happening?” I asked. My family was still at the dining room table, silently researching the senses. Zoe’s house is a constant party. Mine, if somebody opens the fridge it causes a commotion.

“My sisters,” she said.

I smiled; it sounded like she was having such fun. “What?”

“You know the pencil test? Well, you’re so flat-chested, but they want to compare chest size, and—No! You guys! Fine, I’ll be off in a minute! Anyway . . .”

“Anyway,” I said. “How did soccer go?”

“In a minute!” she yelled to her sisters. “It was great. Everybody was there, it was so much fun.”

“Really?” I asked.

“I’m sorry, CJ,” she said. “I don’t mean to make you feel bad, but, seriously. Can’t you just tell your mother you need a break? Just say you need to have some time off to be a kid and hang out with your friends.”

“I do,” I whispered. “It’s really true.”

“Yeah.” Zoe sounded all enthusiastic. “Tell her all your friends are doing soccer. Right? I mean, not just me—Morgan, and Olivia, and you should’ve seen Roxanne, oh, my God. She crashed into Bernadette, and the two of them fell on the goal, broke the goalpost.”

“You’re kidding!” I smiled, imagining it. “I can’t believe I missed that.”

“You would’ve died,” agreed Zoe. “That’s the kind of thing, though, when you said how many times do you get to be a seventh grader? Things like falling on the goalpost won’t crack you up when you’re old. Right?”

I nodded. “Probably not.”

“Your mom is so nice, she’ll understand. Maybe if you just tell her.”

I grabbed History off my shelf and scrunched down in the corner of my room, between my dresser and the wall, like when I was little. “She won’t understand. She’ll say I have to think about my career.”

“Your career?” Zoe asked. “You’re twelve!”

“Exactly,” I said.

“Well, but who does she want you to be friends with?” Zoe asked. “Filona?”

“Fiona.” I unlaced my toe shoes.

“Whatever. She’s a boring bimbo, you said.”

I had to smile. “Morgan said that.”

“You agreed,” Zoe argued. “Anyway, whatever. I’m sure she’s nice.”

“She’s not.” I pulled my toe shoes off and didn’t look at the ribbons I hadn’t sewn in myself. Fiona thinks she’s so great.

“I just . . .” Zoe started. I waited. I heard her sigh, then say quietly, “You would’ve had a really good time today. You really would’ve had fun.”

“I know,” I agreed. “They really broke the goalpost?”

“Shattered it.”

I laughed. “I wish I could just quit,” I whispered, slipping my toe shoes inside each other. “I never laugh in ballet class.”

“Probably no ballerinas are as clumsy as Roxanne, is why.”

“Partly,” I said. “You know, if I’d been talking to Morgan, she would’ve said if you want to quit, quit.”

“Aren’t you glad you’re talking to me?” Zoe asked.

“Yes,” I said, truthfully. I rested my chin on my knees. “So tell me what to do. Seriously. I mean, how do I say to my mother, great—you spend all your money and time on seven years of lessons for me, you leave Paul with a baby-sitter he hates three afternoons a week and never have Christmas or Thanksgiving because of my schedule, but, you know what? Too bad if you already paid thousands for this season—I changed my mind! I’m blowing it off to play soccer with my friends?”