On Pointe by Lorie Ann Grover Read Free Book Online Page B

kidding.” I laugh. “That’s a sin!”
    â€œIt’s delicious!” She takes a big sip.
    â€œWell, I better go.
    I’m meeting my mom at the used bookstore.”
    â€œI grew up in a bookstore,” I say.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œMy parents own the In Print bookstore
    in Tacoma.”
    â€œCool.” She stands and pushes her chair in.
    I wrap my hands around my teacup.
    â€œDia?”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œWhat did your mom say
    after you worked so hard,
    and it cost all that money—oh, never mind.
    It’s none of my business. Sorry.”
    â€œNo, it’s okay.” She flips her hair again.
    â€œWe had a super long cry,
    then talked about stuff
    I’ve supposedly learned.
    That kind of thing.
    She really understood.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œIt helped a little.
    I mean,
    everything
    doesn’t feel completely wasted.”
    She stares out the window.
    â€œMost of the time.
    Well, I gotta go, Clare.
    Good luck on Saturday.”
    â€œThanks.”
    She pushes out the door.
    I swallow the rest of my cool tea
    and follow her.
    I bet her mom
    never used to say
    dancing
    was their dream.
    â€œBye,” I call
    to Dia and her mom
    on the opposite street corner.
    They wave back.
    I turn away
    and hurry to Grandpa’s.
    He shouldn’t be home yet
    from his Bible study.
    But just in case,
    I don’t want to worry him,
    since I didn’t call
    and leave a message about staying later.
    Oh. Dia’s phone number.
    I should get it
    and call her sometime.
    I sprint back to the corner,
    but they’re gone.
    I shiver in the warm sun.
    Oh, well.
    Maybe it would have been weird
    to ask for her number.
    But it does seem like
    if we aren’t in class
    we can talk.
    Outside the conservatory
    we are on the same side.
    We could be friends
    or something.
    I beat Grandpa home.
    My stomach is too jumpy for a snack,
    so I yank my covers up on the bed
    and stretch out
    with some magazines.
    I flip through the pages of ballet pictures.
    Everyone looks the same.
    The corps dancers
    are a unit.
    They are like one dancer,
    each holding the exact same pose.
    Same hair,
    costumes,
    height.
    Same, same, same.
    I flip the page.
    A close-up of a soloist.
    I cover her nose and mouth with my thumb
    and look at her eyes.
    There’s too much makeup
    to see how she really feels.
    Beautiful?
    Happy?
    Does she love to dance?
    She must.
    The pain
    has to be worth it.
    I toss the magazine
    and pick up the teen one
    I checked out at Grandpa’s little library.
    â€œCleavage: How to Get It”
    â€œDramatic Eye Shadow”
    â€œDoes He Think You’re Seventeen?”
    I flip through to the end.
    Total obsession with breast size.
    Page after page of fashion.
    How weird that most girls
    want to look older
    every way possible.
    Wow. How different can you get?
    They want big breasts.
    They want cleavage
    and want to show it.
    Why does it matter so much?
    Because that’s what guys notice?
    Please.
    What a load of garbage.
    I have the opposite pressure.
    I need to stay flat.
    Nothing can interrupt your line in ballet.
    Like a C-cup size.
    Poor Dia.
    She definitely looked different
    from everyone else.
    But is that so bad?
    Why do we all have to look
    like we’re eleven?
    Most of the time,
    we look like little boys
    partnered with men.
    Why does it have to be like that?
    Is the line so important?
    Why can’t we be the way we are,
    not how a magazine or dance company says?
    Am I believing a load of garbage too?
    My poster is curling up again.
    I reach and press
    the corner of Baryshnikov to the wall.
    It sticks for a few seconds,
    then pops up again.
    â€œStay.” I push harder.
    This time it does.
    But for how long?
    The sticky stuff isn’t worth much.
    Maybe some tape
    right across the edge would work.
    I’ll get some later.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œIn the kitchen, Grandpa.”
    I take the bags of groceries from him.
    â€œI was