Jersey Tomatoes are the Best (14 page)

“You don’t think I hit winners?” I ask, incredulous.

“You’re capable of blasting winners all day, but for some reason you play patty-cake from the baseline and occasionally come to net on short balls.”

“Sounds like you’ve been spending a lot more time watching me play than working on your own game,” I say. Acid in my voice. This is partly a dig. Partly a revelation. David glances at his watch.

“Nah,” he says, the smirk returning. “I figured you out in five minutes. Listen, it
is
lights-out at this point. So nightie-night, Henry.” He’s walking backward, away from me and toward the stairs, as he says this. Hands in those big pockets. “And, uh, by the way. You’re welcome. For saving your neck.”

David Ross turns, and disappears quickly down the steps. I fall back onto the couch, breathe deeply and shut my eyes tight. I don’t care how late it is, or how much trouble I get into. I’ll stay here as long as I have to, and if they give me a hard time I’ll just shrug. Go ahead. Expel me.

’Cause I’ll be damned if anyone is going to see me cry.

Chapter Fourteen

R
honda is absolutely convinced it’s an omen of future fame. The call tonight from Madame DuPres has sent her rocketing into Proud Parent Hyperspace, and she’s pulling out suitcases. Because this weekend I’m moving into the dorms. Madame found room for me, and “someone” (she wouldn’t say who) is paying for it.

“We value students like Eva,” she said to Rhonda.

Earlier today, I had thought I was getting kicked out. So I guess it just shows you what I know.

Let me back up: Friday afternoon, following
pointe
class. I was leaving the studio and walking to the dressing room, when Madame waylaid me by the door. She spoke to me over the cluster of tightly coiffed heads.

“Eva, after you change, could you please come by my office?” she said. No smile, no expression. Just the regal command, then the
click, click
of her heels as she disappeared down the hall.

Naturally, this sent a shock wave through the rest of the class.

“What’s going on, Eva? Why does she want to see you?” The questions buzzed around me as I honestly answered, “I have no idea.”

Why? Why Eva? Subtext: Why you and not me? Should I be jealous? Should I feel sorry for you? Are you moving up or heading out?

My mind scrolled through the just-completed class. I thought I did fine. Nothing spectacularly brilliant or devastatingly awful. It was an hour of
relevé
, rising on the tips of your
pointe
shoes from first, second, fourth and fifth positions. We did it French school style, then Russian. Over and over. A solid hour. I don’t know. Maybe I looked bored?

In the dressing room, Marguerite body-slammed me against the wall. Figuratively speaking, that is. She zeroed in on me with such intensity that I felt body-slammed.

“You don’t have
any
idea what she wants?” Marguerite demanded. I shrugged weakly. I felt weak; it was no act. My right toe screamed at me from inside the ballet slipper, my mouth felt papery with thirst and half my mind was still in the
relevé
zone. An hour of balancing the full weight of your body on your toes, which are encased in a box as hard as wood. All wrapped up in girly satin, but don’t kid yourself:
pointe
shoes are to the feet what thumbscrews are to the hands.

“Honestly, Marguerite, I have no clue what I’ve done,” I said, lowering my bottom onto the changing bench and unwinding the ribbons around my ankles. When I offered no
other information, she retreated to her locker. I concentrated on not falling over. I didn’t know whether it was nerves at the prospect of seeing Madame alone, or postclass fatigue, but the room around me swam and shifted from bright to shadowy, then bright again. The voices of the other girls sounded like buzzing bees.

When I knocked at Madame’s door, I was packed to go. For the weekend, or forever. It was Friday afternoon, Rhonda was due in thirty minutes to pick me up and I was feeling fatalistic. I removed every single thing I owned from my dressing-room locker. Normally, I’d clear out whatever needed to be laundered, leaving my shampoo, conditioner, deodorant and other toiletries neatly arrayed in order of size and sequence of use. Not then. If I was to be “uninvited” to the New York School of Dance, there was no way in hell I’d take a valedictory lap through the locker room to collect my stuff.

“Come in,” I heard, and I pushed the door open.

Madame DuPres’s narrow lair seemed a more likely place to find a high school guidance counselor than the artistic director of one of New York’s leading ballet schools. Yellowing framed photos and old ballet posters covered the walls. Two metal filing cabinets, stacked high with folders, occupied one end of the room; a battered wooden desk at the other end faced out the one long window. Madame was seated on an off-gold couch. It reminded me of the beat-up sofa in my grandmother’s playroom, which clanks open into a metal-framed bed.

She gestured to the unoccupied end. I dropped my stuffed backpack onto the floor and sank into the cushions.

Your thighs are so fat. Look at that flab, all spread out on the couch
.

“Can I get you something to drink, Eva?” I shook my head. The water I chugged in the locker room roiled like a tidal wave in my stomach. I willed myself to concentrate on what she was saying to me. To not think about how my thighs were stuck together. I hadn’t taken a shower. I had hurried and now felt sticky.

“I’m fine, thank you,” I replied.

“Is someone waiting to pick you up?” Madame asked.

“My mother will be here at three-thirty,” I said. She looked at the clock on the wall. How long does it take to kick someone out of a school and destroy a lifetime’s worth of dreams? I wagered that Madame could do it in five minutes flat.

“How did your first week go?” she asked.

They chafe, at the top. Your thighs. They rub together when you walk
.

“Good,” I said, calibrating the right amount of enthusiasm in my voice. “I mean, I’ve already learned so much.” She nodded. Waited.

“Such as?”

“Well, I guess turnout. I think you were absolutely right when you noticed I was using my knees too much.” She nodded again.

“The hips. It really comes from the hips,” she said. “What else?”

The carrots were around 35. The yogurt was 140. That’s 175 calories for lunch. Seventy for the apple you eat on the drive home
.

“I’ve learned a lot from doing basic things slowly. It helped me improve my technique.”

“Absolutely. A solid foundation, the perfection of the basics, is essential to any success in ballet,” Madame said. “Now let me ask you: are you having fun?”

“Fun?” The word hung in the air. It had been a long time since I’d used “ballet” and “fun” in the same sentence.

“I don’t know. Do you think Michelangelo, lying on his back on the scaffolding of the Sistine Chapel, paint dripping in his eyes and his arms aching, was having fun?” The words escaped my lips before I had a chance to think.

Now you’ve done it, smart-ass. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out
.

To my utter surprise, Madame DuPres laughed. Her face contorted into something I’d never seen on her before: a bona fide smile.

“Brava!” she exclaimed. “I suppose you think I had a lot of nerve asking such a question.”

Oh, I thought no such thing, Madame. Believe me
.

I said nothing. Just smiled back at her. When Madame DuPres finished laughing, the trace of a smile remained. Somehow, miraculously, I’d broken through. I wasn’t sure where I’d landed, but it was different from where we’d started.

“Eva, you must know that I’ve been watching you.”

Hmm. Actually, I didn’t know that. But now I’ll be sure to be extra nervous and paranoid. That is, if I’m not getting thrown out today
.

“You have potential. True, you come to us with many
deficits, but those are more the fault of your teachers, not your abilities. So we can overcome those. Especially because you work hard. You work very, very hard, don’t you?” I nodded. It dawned on me that this might not be the big kiss-off speech after all.

“But Eva, I sense a fragility about you that troubles me.”

Fragility? Bad word. Does she think I’m weak?

“I’m not sure what you mean,” I replied cautiously.

“Are you tired?” she asked.

“What, right now? Sure. We just finished
pointe
class,” I said. She waved her hand dismissively.

“I mean generally. I mean when you arrive in the morning. Eva, you seem exhausted to me, even when you are dancing well. You push yourself hard, you execute beautifully, but I sense you might collapse at any moment. Do you eat breakfast?”

Half a grapefruit, fifty calories. Black coffee. Egg white, no yellow. None of that gross fatty yellow
.

“I always eat breakfast.”

“What about sleep? You don’t stay up late watching television, do you?”

“I never watch TV.”

Television? Is she kidding? You know you are not allowed to sit for longer than fifteen minutes without compensating. Fifteen minutes of sitting equals thirty minutes of exercise
.

Madame sighed. She looked at me quizzically.

“Why aren’t you staying in the dorms this summer? This
commute from New Jersey must be hard on you as well as your parents.” I shrugged.

“Madame, staying in the dorms costs two thousand dollars. We can’t afford it.”

She pondered my comment for a few moments, then went to her phone. She dialed.

“It’s Gloria. Quick question. Are we at capacity in the dorms?” Pause. “What does ‘over capacity’ mean? Are students sleeping in the hallways?” Pause. “When might we know about that?” Pause. “Tell him to call me this evening. I don’t care how late.” She hung up.

“Well, we are apparently ‘over capacity’ in the dorms now, whatever that means. They’re trying to free up some space in our annex, but it’s not clear how much space or when …” She trailed off.

I wondered what part of we-can’t-afford-it she didn’t
get
.

“They’ll call me tonight, at any rate,” she concluded briskly, rubbing her hands together. I sensed the audience was over. I began to gather my belongings.

“Just one more thing, Eva. Did you attend the nutrition class this week?”

The nutrition class. I had no clue what she was talking about. I shook my head.

“The Wednesday-afternoon seminar is always on nutrition, and I highly recommend it.”

Once again, I tried to explain my reality to her.

“You know, those seminars,” I said haltingly. “They start at
three-thirty? My mom tries to hit the road before that to avoid rush hour.”

Madame shook her head, frowning.

“Now that is precisely what concerns me. Valuable information you are missing because of the commute.” She rose. “Perhaps we can do something about it. Good evening, Eva. I’m glad we spoke.” Madame held the door open for me. As I walked out, I noticed, way at the end of the hall, Marguerite. Leaning against the wall, her ballet bag at her feet. Poised to extract from me every word that passed between Madame
et moi
. My heart sank as I anticipated the interrogation.

Then the elevator doors on our floor rang open, and quickly, frenetically, Rhonda emerged. I couldn’t remember the last time it felt so good to see my mother.

“We’ve got to hurry, hon! I’m illegally parked,” she said.

I couldn’t help lovin’ the expression on Marguerite’s face as Rhonda and I hurried past.

“Have a great weekend!” I called to her with a smile. As the elevator doors slid closed, Marguerite’s mouth dropped open slightly, the very picture of disappointment.

I leaned against the walls of the elevator, feeling the bottom drop from the soles of my feet as we descended. Madame was right: I’m always tired. I was too tired to even talk to my mother, to tell her about the Audience. It did occur to me, however, that something very, very important had happened.

“We value students like Eva.”

Subtext: I’ve noticed her. Picked her out from among my
legions of robotically perfect ballerinas and decided she’s worth watching. Worth moving into the dorms.

Marguerite was right to hover; she sensed something. Something big.

Yeah, right, Eva. Who are you kidding? She wants you to see the nutritionist. She thinks you’re fat
.

Chapter Fifteen