I love everything about Hattie’s house. I love the electric-blue chairs around her dining table, which are all bent in unusual shapes. The wooden coffee table in her living room has a massive, cracked geode slice embedded in its center. Her sofas have scarlet leather cushions. A collage made of sheet music hangs from the wall. Dramatic black-and-white portraits of Hattie’s mother in various ballet productions line the hallway, along with a procession of Hattie’s school photos. She and her mother look so much alike, the dance portraits almost seem like glimpses of her own future. A psychic foretelling.
As Hattie spun in tight circles, Eva, Taylor, and I were all seated on the studio floor, lacing the ribbons of our pointe shoes around our ankles. Cinching them tight. Tucking the knots inside the satin folds.
In our regular Intermediate Technique II classes, we did piqué turns all the time. But we hadn’t started practicing them in Intro to Pointe. We were beginners. We only did pointe work once a week; in contrast, our technique classes occurred four days a week. And the majority of our Intro to Pointe classes took place facing the barre, going through slow and simple motions—pliés, tendus, gradual relevés.
But there was Hattie. Spinning on her toes like a real ballerina.
She dropped down from the last one in the sequence with a sigh. “It’s something like that,” she said. “Then Cinderella lifts up to an arabesque. She follows through, plants her foot down in front of her, and does a forward bend.” She demonstrated this, stepping to an arabesque on pointe, wobbling only a little before she stuck the landing.
Eva sighed. Crossed her arms over her chest. I reached over, giving her knee a gentle pat. I knew Hattie didn’t mean to show off, but sometimes her flawlessness felt like a personal attack. It was hard for the rest of us not to feel frustrated by her incredible footwork. Her effortless strength and flexibility.
Hattie glanced at us. She stepped out of the finishing pose and ducked her head, looking suddenly shy. “Do any of you want to try? It’s not as hard as it looks.”
Taylor huffed and said, “I think we’re good.”
“Same,” Eva said. “I need to stretch.”
They both turned to each other, picking up a new conversation, blocking Hattie out. They didn’t even compliment her, or mention how impressive she was. Which didn’t seem right to me.
Hattie turned to me with a hopeful smile. “Maisie?” she said. “Come on. You’re stronger on pointe than I am. You’re seriously going to be the next Noelani Pantastico. If I can do it, you totally can.”
I looked up at Hattie. She often compared me to Noelani. She always said that I looked just like her. That I moved and performed like her, too. And I wanted that to be true. I wanted to seem like someone destined to perform as the Peacock in The Nutcracker. Or Juliet in Romeo and Juliet. I wanted it so badly.
And so, I stood up. And I went to Hattie.
9
Time to Heal
February 15
We return to the exam room. Sweat has gathered on my brow from the exercises, and I wipe it away with the back of my sleeve. Mr. Lawson nods and jots a quick note to himself on his clipboard. “Good,” he murmurs. “Very good. You’re doing great today, Maisie.”
I sigh with relief. Lean back against the exam table. Mr. Lawson pushes a cart beside me. There is a wide, flat machine balanced on top of it. The machine has various dials and buttons on it, and a small digital screen. We use it for the electrical stimulation therapy.
I stare up at the ceiling as he gets to work, powering the machine on and rolling it even closer. A question rises to the tip of my tongue. A question that has been on my mind, ever since the beginning of our appointment.
When I began physical therapy a few months ago, Mr. Lawson said that it would be unlikely for me to return to ballet lessons this school year. He seemed to think that I would have to wait until next year.
But considering our progress, has Mr. Lawson’s opinion changed? Would it be possible for me to return to ballet in the spring? Or the summer?
Mr. Lawson presses four cold, sticky pads to the bare skin around my right knee. Each pad is connected to a wire, and to the machine.
Mr. Lawson must sense my thoughts hovering in the air between us, because he says, “You’re rather quiet, all of a sudden.”
I try not to wince as he presses the last pad just below my knee. “Actually, Mr. Lawson, there’s something I’d like to ask you.”
“Ask away.”
“Since—since I’m making such good progress, with the recovery and everything . . . do you think . . . when you said, ‘Before you know it, we’ll have you back in ballet school,’ what did that mean? Exactly?”
“Ah.” He frowns slightly. “I didn’t mean to get your hopes up, Maisie. I know how badly you want to get back to the studio. But I stand by my initial estimates. I don’t think you should return to your ballet lessons until the next school year begins.”
I nod and swallow my disappointment. “Okay,” I say. “That makes sense.”
He turns to the machine. Gives one of the dials a slow turn. I feel the prickling course of electric currents, the cool pads warming against my skin.
“Can I ask another question?”
“Of course.”
“Do you think I might be okay to go back this summer? Before the next school year begins?” His brow wrinkles, and I charge ahead to explain myself: “I’m only asking because the audition season has started. All the best ballet schools in the country are recruiting students for their summer programs. They’ll be holding tryouts through the end of spring.”
My heart starts to race, just at the thought of it. We’ve already convinced Dr. Hart and Mr. Lawson that I will be okay to go hiking next week. What if we can convince him to let me do an audition or two? That’s all I would want. It’s all I would need.
“Hmm.” Mr. Lawson tilts his head. “I’m not going to give you a direct answer right now. But I don’t think this goal would be too unreasonable, as long as your recovery continues on the way it has been.”
At these words, my heart leaps.
“However, I want you to be gentle with yourself. Trauma takes time to heal.”
I’m quick to say, “I know! Believe me, I know. I’m being careful.” I close my eyes for a moment, focusing on the electric pulses. “Little higher.”
He increases the voltage. My muscles twinge in response. The pads grow even warmer. I open my eyes, blinking up at the ceiling.
“Right there,” I tell him. “Perfect.”
He nods once. Steps back from the machine. “I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”
He leaves the room, and I let my eyelids flutter shut again. I relax against the exam table’s stiff cushions. My mind wanders as the electrical pulses buzz and swirl along my skin, gently twitching the muscles around my knee.
I daydream about audition numbers pinned to my leotard. I imagine the soft gray glow of the studio. The twirling melody of a piano.
10
Oblivious I
February 15
Twenty minutes later, the machine beeps and shuts off. My right knee feels warm and tingly. I point and flex my foot, stretching and tensing through my entire leg as much as I can. It’s a relief to feel my muscles work, to feel the firmness in my calves, the arch of my foot.