Between by Jessica Warman Read Free Book Online Page A

everything: ballet, tap, jazz, gymnastics—even acting lessons with our community theater for a while.
    “I’m afraid I’ll mess up,” I say to my mom; I’m clearly nervous. I’m maybe six years old. My mother is still painfully thin—I don’t remember a time when she wasn’t—but she looks happy. She always seemed to enjoy my recitals. Beside her, balanced on the lip of the sink, is a makeup bag. She kneels in front of me, her eyes narrowed as she carefully swirls blush onto my young cheeks.
    “You won’t mess up, honey. You know all the steps. I’ve seen you do it. You’ll be great.”
    “Can I wear mascara?”
    She smiles. “Sure you can.”
    “Will Daddy be mad?”
    “Because I’m letting you wear makeup? No, he won’t be mad. You look like a princess. You look beautiful.”
    “Daddy says I don’t need makeup to be pretty.”
    My mom bites her lip, hard. She fumbles through the makeup bag, pulling out a yellow tube of mascara. “Open your eyes wide,” she tells me. “Look up. I’m going to show you how to do this.”
    After she’s finished doing my makeup—blush, mascara, even lipstick and eye shadow—she puts her hands on my shoulders and stares at me. “You’re perfect,” she says.
    “Really?” I fidget in my slippers.
    “Yes, really.” She kisses me on the tip of my nose. “My perfect little girl.”
    I want so badly to be inside my younger self, to feel her touch. But all I can do is watch.
    “Mrs. Greene says it doesn’t matter what a person looks like on the outside. She says the only thing that matters is being beautiful on the inside.” Mrs. Greene was my dance teacher. I pause, thinking. “But I think it’s important to be pretty on the outside, too. Isn’t it, Mommy?”
    My mother hesitates. “It’s important to be pretty on the inside,” she says. “It matters a lot, Elizabeth. But you’re a girl. It’s different for girls.” And she gives me another kiss on the nose before she stands up and takes me by the hand, leading me out of the bathroom.
    As I follow, I see that my dad is waiting for us in the hallway, where there’s a crowd of other parents with their little ballerinas, getting ready for the recital to start. When he sees me, when he notices my heavily made-up face, his own face turns a deep red.
    “What are you doing?” he whispers to my mom. He’s obviously angry.
    “She’ll be on stage, Marshall. I want her to stand out.”
    “She already stands out. She’s half a foot taller than everyone else, and she’s rail thin.” My dad flashes me a forced smile. “Like a real ballerina.”
    “It’s just a little blush.” My mother frowns. “It’s nothing. Just to bring out the color in her cheeks.”
    “She looks like a goddamned geisha,” my father mutters.
    “What’s a geisha?” I ask, gazing up at them. “Are geishas pretty?”
    My parents stare at each other. My father positively glowers at my mother, who is expressionless now, her blank look defiant and final.
    “Geishas are pretty, yes,” she tells me, “but not as pretty as you.” And she kneels down again, leans close, and whispers in my ear. As I’m watching the three of us in the memory, I have to step closer and strain to hear what she says.
    “You’re the prettiest girl here,” she whispers. “You always will be.”
    My father walks away from us, into the auditorium.
    I’ve seen enough. I blink and blink, willing myself to be back in the present.
    “Where’d you go?” Alex asks. “What did you see?”
    “None of your damn business.”
    He smiles widely. “Well, it’s good that you’re back. You were about to miss the show.”
    I start to cry again as my friends quietly find seats inside the boat. I’m crying because I know that this is real, that I’m truly dead, but also because of the aching that remains inside from the memory I’ve just seen. I’d never realized before that my parents had problems. Everybody’s parents fight sometimes. But I get the