Off Pointe Read online

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  Pointe

  Leanne Lieberman

  Copyright © 2014 Leanne Lieberman

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Lieberman, Leanne, 1974–, author

  Off pointe / Leanne Lieberman.

  (Orca limelights)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0280-3 (pbk.).--ISBN 978-1-4598-0281-0 (pdf).--

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0282-7 (epub)

  I. Title. II. Series: Orca limelights

  PS8623.136034 2014 jC813’.6 C2014-901555-0

  C2014-901556-9

  First published in the United States, 2014

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014935396

  Summary: Meg lives for ballet and doesn’t like to try new things, so a summer at camp learning new dance styles proves challenging.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies:

  the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover design by Rachel Page

  Cover photography by Getty Images

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO BOX 5626, STN. B

  Victoria, BC Canada

  V8R 6S4

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO BOX 468

  Custer, WA USA

  98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  17 16 15 14 • 4 3 2 1

  In memory of Debra Karby

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Acknowledgments

  One

  As I wait in the wings to go onstage, my hands stroke the fine tulle of my pink tutu. The rest of the junior company is already under the bright lights, and in a moment I will step onto the stage for my solo. My muscles are warm, my hair secured in its bun, my pointe shoes laced tightly around my ankles. Shivers run up my arms as I watch the other dancers circle the stage in neat piqué turns in time to the music. At this moment all the aching muscles and late nights cramming homework are worth it. The music slows, and I count eight beats. Then I take a deep breath, compose my face and step en pointe to join the other dancers.

  For two glorious minutes I dance in the center of the stage. I perform entrechat-quatre—jumping and rapidly beating my feet together—into pirouettes. My jumps are high, my turns steady, all my lines neat. A trickle of sweat runs down my back as I prepare for the final pirouette, my right leg kicking out to propel my turn, my arms coming to second position. I finish with an arabesque, one leg gracefully extended behind me, and then a curtsy. There’s a pop of applause, and then I run offstage.

  Back in the wings, my breath speeds up and a smile starts to spread across my face. My first solo. There’s no time for celebration, nothing more than a nod from Mrs. G, who is concentrating on the other dancers still onstage, her hands supporting her lower back. There are only two more numbers before I join the rest of the company for the finale, the “Dance of the Cygnets” from Swan Lake. Quick, quick, down the stairs with the other dancers to the dressing room to change my pink tutu for a white one. There’s just enough time to towel off, adjust my toe shoes and fix the smear of eyeliner at the corner of my eye. Then we’re back in the wings, the music starting up, Mrs. G counting us in. And then we are onstage and I am dancing.

  Minutes later, when the curtain falls to a roar of applause, I want the evening to start all over again.

  Afterward, the dressing room is full of excited dancers, everyone hugging and congratulating each other. My best friend, Julia, throws her arms around me. “Worth it?” she says, but it’s not really a question. We both know ballet is worth everything. A moment later we are overwhelmed with parents and friends all pressing us with flowers.

  We are ballerinas, and tonight is our night.

  * * *

  I wake the next morning tired but happy and roll over in bed to check my phone. There are messages from Julia, from my other ballet friends and from my aunt Cathy. Then I notice an email from Mrs. G. I open the message, expecting it to be a note of congratulations, but it’s entitled “With Regrets.”

  Mrs. G writes:

  I regret to inform you that the Summer Ballet Program is canceled due to my unexpected back surgery. I will see you all in the fall.

  Fondly,

  Elaine Greer

  I lie in bed, stunned. I always attend the summer ballet program. And this year I was even going to stay in the residence for the first time while my parents are away in Italy. Tears start to form in my eyes as I call Julia. She’s read the email too and is also in tears. “What will you do?” she asks.

  “I don’t know,” I tell her. I’ve never done anything but ballet.

  My ballet obsession began when I was four and my parents took my sister Tess and me to see a performance of The Nutcracker. I remember the thrill that came over me when the curtain went up. I sat on the edge of my seat as the beautiful ballerinas turned and leaped across the stage. Tess liked when the soldiers fought the mice, but I loved when Clara danced with the prince. I begged my parents for ballet classes, for ballet costumes, ballet books and ballet music. I’ve been dancing ever since.

  * * *

  The next week creeps by. I’ve survived grade nine, and school is out. Everyone else has summer jobs lined up, but all I can think is, I’m supposed to be at ballet school. I try hanging out at the mall and walking in the park, things I think I want to do when I’m busy with ballet, but I have no one to hang out with. My ballet friends have scattered across the city, and Julia is working at her parents’ restaurant. I don’t have any school friends because I leave early and spend all my lunch hours working on the homework I don’t have time to do at night.

  Mom keeps asking me what I want to do while she and Dad go to Italy for two weeks, but all I can say is “Ballet.” I know she thinks I’m being difficult, but when I close my eyes I only see myself at the barre.

  * * *

  “Meg, special breakfast for you—whole-wheat blueberry pancakes!” Dad calls from the kitchen. I yawn and swing my legs out of bed. My dad’s pancakes are delicious. Besides, what else is there to do on a Saturday morning if you aren’t dancing?

  At the table I notice a colorful brochure tucked under my juice glass. “What’s this?” I ask.

  Dad is standing at the stove. “Read it and you’ll see,” he says, flipping a pancake.

  I pull out the brochure reluctantly. On the cover it says, Dance the summer away at Camp Dance. Below is a picture of a group of girls leaping in the air. I flip through images of happy girls on boats, swimming in a lake, roasting marshmallows and posing in dance costumes.

  “Great,” I say flatly. “Who’s it for?”

  Dad flips another pancake and looks at me. “It’s for you. The first session starts next week.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” I flick through the brochure again. “There’s, like, not a single ballet picture in here.”

  “Exactly. Just because your ballet program is canceled doesn
’t mean you can’t dance this summer. You’ll get to try the cha-cha, tango and jazzy tap-tap.”

  “Jazzy tap-tap?”

  “Here. Look in the brochure.” Dad comes over and jabs a finger at the list of dance styles: contemporary, ballroom, hip-hop, jazz and tap. “See, jazzy tap-tap, it says so right there.” He flashes me a smile.

  “But Dad,” I wail, “I don’t do ‘jazzy tap-tap.’”

  “Aha.” Dad brandishes a spatula. “Perhaps you can try the hippity-hop instead.”

  “That’s not funny.” I scowl and start cutting my pancakes.

  Mom comes into the kitchen carrying an enormous laundry basket of clean clothes. “Would you prefer basketball camp?”

  I roll my eyes. “No!”

  “How about baseball camp, or soccer?”

  “I’ve never gone to camp, so why would I go now? Just because Tess likes it?” I can’t help wrinkling my nose. Tess loves sweaty team sports, anything that involves yelling, cheering and hooded sweatshirts with team logos.

  Mom puts down the basket of laundry. “Look, Meg, your dad and I have been planning our trip to Italy for the last five years. We’ve already bought the airline tickets and reserved the hotels. Since you can’t go to ballet school this summer, you have to do something else. It’s camp or Nana’s.”

  I pull my long black hair tighter into my hair elastic and suck in my breath. I love my Nana, I really do, but she lives in a one-bedroom apartment and watches tv in Farsi all day. She loves nothing more than to force-feed me rich Iranian food and complain I’m too skinny.

  “Can’t I just stay by myself?”

  “You’re fifteen! That’s way too young to be alone for two weeks. Look, I tried to find another ballet program, but anything suitable was already full. At least dance camp will allow you to stretch and get some exercise,” Mom says. “And Mrs. G recommended it.”

  I stare at her. “Mrs. G suggested I go to dance camp? Why?”

  Mom pulls out her phone and starts scrolling through her messages. “Here’s her email. ‘Meg might want to try Camp Dance in the Okanagan. It’s an intensive dance program that allows dancers to focus on a particular style each session. I think it would be a great way to help Meg broaden her dance horizons and develop her stage presence. Meg’s dancing is technically very strong, but to get to the next level she needs to learn to connect with her audience and be less bound by the rules. See you in the fall, Mrs. G.’” Mom quietly slips her phone back in her pocket.

  I want to run to my room and hide in my closet. Instead, I bite my lip. Broaden my dance horizons? Connect with an audience? What does that mean? I know dancers can always improve, but how does someone get better stage presence? I push my plate away and hide my head in my arms on the table.

  Mom sits down next to me. “Don’t see this as the end of your ballet career. It’s not. It’s just a different opportunity. Besides, you might have fun meeting new people.”

  I look up at her. I’ve gone to the same ballet school and had the same ballet friends forever. Meeting new people is not one of my strengths. I chew furiously on my lip, but I can’t hold back my tears. I bury my head in my arms again. I can’t spend two weeks holed up in Nana’s apartment, but camp? With kids I don’t know?

  Mom is already talking about things I’ll need, like towels and a soap dish. She gets up and wanders into the laundry room, musing about sunscreen.

  Dad comes over to the table and sits next to me. He tugs gently on my earlobe. “You’ll have a good time. You’ll get to try new dancing and lots of other activities.” He picks up the brochure. “Look, you can do sailing, Birdie.”

  I scrunch up my brow at my old nickname. Dad’s always called me Birdie because I was such a skinny baby. I’m still thin now, even though I eat whatever I want, but I’m strong from ballet too. I lift my head. “Why would I want to sail?”

  “Because it’s fun.”

  “To you, maybe.” I collapse back on the table.

  Dad taps his finger on the back of my head. “Listen, going to camp is the kind of thing my parents moved to Canada for. I was too old by the time we got here and my parents figured out that kids did these camping things. So please, go and enjoy.”

  I look at Dad. “Are you done with the guilt?”

  “Yes. Go and have fun.” Dad reaches out to kiss my forehead, but I bat him away.

  Two

  I have a secret fear I’ve never told anyone, not even Julia. I keep hoping it will go away, but that hasn’t happened yet. Instead, Mrs. G’s email is blowing it up in my face. The truth is, I might not make it as a ballerina. Everyone pretends that I will, that all the years of expensive lessons and costumes and sore muscles will eventually be worth it, but I’m not sure. And Mrs. G’s email shows that she has doubts too. How do you develop stage presence? I’ve never been good at connecting with people. I think about asking Julia, but it’s embarrassing, the kind of thing you might talk about with a psychologist or school counselor. I wish I could forget it, but I can’t.

  As I spend the rest of the weekend packing shorts and T-shirts into one of Tess’s hockey bags that still stinks of sweat, I imagine my parents whispering about Mrs. G’s email in the kitchen. I focus on the camp list, on finding a flashlight and mosquito repellent and sunscreen and a dorky sun hat. I try not to look at Mom whenever she comes into my room with a raincoat or calamine lotion, so she won’t see how ashamed I feel that my secret has been exposed.

  To keep myself calm, I focus on the camp brochure like it’s the latest fashion magazine. I decide there are some camp activities I might want to try. I’m not into waterskiing, canoeing or ball sports, but yoga, drama and art classes sound okay. Then I read a section on camp rules. I’m not allowed to smoke or drink or bring candy, none of which I care about, but I almost bolt out of bed when I read Camp Dance is tech-free. No cell phones allowed.

  How will I ever survive without texting Julia? And it will take me weeks to catch up on Fashionista and Style Rookie, my favorite fashion blogs. I won’t be able to look at the websites of Stella McCartney or Chanel, my favorite designers, for two whole weeks. For a couple of moments I wonder how bad fourteen days at Nana’s could be. Very bad, I decide and flop back on my bed. I send Julia a gloomy text with the latest update.

  By Sunday night my duffel bag lurks in my room like a strange body. I haven’t packed any tights or tutus or even toe shoes. I wasn’t sure what to pack, so I chose the most basic items: three black leotards and some plain workout shorts. I can’t imagine wearing the vintage Chanel skirt I just found in a thrift store downtown or my knockoff Prada bag at camp, so they linger in my closet, along with the amazing cream-colored Jean Paul Gaultier dress Mom found for me for 80 percent off.

  The only other dance item I’ve packed is my copy of Ballet Shoes. I know it’s a kids’ book, and I’m way too old for it, but it feels like a teddy bear. I even slept with it for a whole year when I was seven. When I first met Julia, I found out she did the same thing. That’s how we became friends.

  Julia is a good dancer and, more important, a good person. Some of the girls at ballet are too competitive, and if you get the parts they want, they won’t talk to you. Melanie Webster hasn’t spoken to me since I got the solo for the recital. Julia was just happy for me to get the part. She came by this morning to say goodbye and brought me a stash of new fashion magazines, including Lucky, Vogue, Teen Vogue and Elle, to use in my scrapbook. Mostly I make my collages online on Polyvore now, but since that won’t be happening this summer, I’ve decided my old scrapbook is better than nothing.

  * * *

  On Monday morning, my parents drop me off for the camp bus. When I see the chaos in the parking lot, I almost can’t get out of the car. I’m expecting girls to be calmly lined up, but instead there is a riot of motion: cars honking, kids calling to each other, duffel bags strewn everywhere. Some of the kids are hugging each other like they haven’t seen each other in a million years, and other kids are hugging their friends and par
ents goodbye like they’re not going to see them for another million years. Everyone seems to know at least one person, except me. And these girls are different than the ballet girls I know. Not all of them are thin, and some have nose rings and hair dyed in vibrant colors. One of the counselors trying to shoo girls onto the bus has a tattoo of a hawk on her muscular calf. I try to imagine Mrs. G with a tattoo, but I just can’t see it.

  When the bus starts honking, I finally get out of the car and hand Mom my phone. I make sure to give my parents one final suffering look and an extra-loud sigh before I get on the bus, but they’re too excited about their trip to notice.

  I take the first seat at the front and reach into my pocket for my phone to text Julia, but my pocket is empty. Behind me, kids are laughing and shouting. The tinted windows reflect my face back at me. I can see the worry in my brown eyes, the tightness in my thin lips. Great, I think. I look really friendly and fun.

  At the last minute, just before the bus pulls out, a boy gets on and sits next to me. My cheeks heat up right away, which is embarrassing, but I’m pretty sure no one else notices.

  I don’t know any boys. I don’t have time to hang out at school the way other kids do, because of ballet. There are boys who dance, but they take different classes, and most of them aren’t interested in girls. Sometimes I think about what it would be like to have a boyfriend, someone to hang out with on Saturday nights, someone who would text sweet things to me. I always remind myself that ballet is more important than boys.

  Ballet is more important than anything.

  I sneak a glance at the boy next to me. He looks about sixteen, with shaggy black hair and a worn T-shirt. I think he’s probably what Julia and I call “a halfie.” I’m half Iranian, Julia is half Korean, and this guy is half something Asian, maybe Chinese. He’s also kind of cute.

  Before I can turn back to the window, the boy sticks out his hand. “Since we’re going to sit together, we should probably introduce ourselves.” He smiles. “I’m Nio. You’re new, aren’t you?”