84 Ribbons (7 page)

Lynne stood statue still, not laughing or cracking a smile as Marta continued.

“Keep your chin up! Up, up!”

Marta saw Lynne’s face turn chalky white as she tossed a small motion of her head toward the door and moved her eyes that way as well. Marta turned.

Madame stood in the doorway. Her eyebrows met above her nose as her face twisted into an angry glare.

Marta’s feet felt glued in place. A blast of fear exploded through her body.

Madame shook her head slowly, lifted her chin, and thumped away.

Tick, tick, tick.
Only the sound of the second hand on the clock interrupted the silence in the room. Marta couldn’t move or breathe.

Lynne stepped to the hall doorway and peered out. “She’s gone.”

Tears filled Marta’s eyes as she attempted to breathe normally. “I may be gone as well.”

5

M
arta sat in her room and rocked, watching the day fade to dusk, then dark. Her body ached more from crying than dancing. Madame’s angry face arose whenever she closed her eyes.

A gentle tap on the door startled her. “Who’s there?”

“It’s Mrs. B. I brought a pot of peppermint tea and dry toast. Shall I leave it here in the hall?”

“Just a minute.” Marta ran her fingers through her hair and snugged the ties of her borrowed housecoat before opening the door.

Mrs. B. smiled. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well. Can I get you anything else?”

Marta shook her head. “I have a confession. I’m not really sick. I couldn’t face dinner tonight. I got in trouble today, and I don’t know what to do to fix things.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Mrs. B. said.

“Maybe. But I don’t know what good talking will do.” Tears welled up. She wiped them away. “Can you stay for a minute?”

“Of course.” Mrs. B. entered and placed the tray on the dresser by the window. She moved to sit in the rocking chair and folded her hands. “How can I help?”

Marta paced her room then sat on the edge of the bed. “I made a terrible mistake. I mimicked Madame and she saw me. Now I’m afraid she’ll send me home.”

“Hm-m. That sounds serious. You don’t seem like a person who’d intentionally hurt someone’s feelings.”

“I’m not. I mean, I was tired and frustrated. I missed several rehearsals, and it’s hard to catch up. Madame glares at me and isn’t helping me and... I don’t know.”

“So it’s her fault that you got in trouble?”

Marta startled and stopped pacing. Is that how she sounded? That she was blaming Madame for her rudeness? “No. It’s my fault. I--I’m frustrated and embarrassed and scared that she’ll send me home.”

Marta resumed her barefoot pacing. The only sound in the room was the creaking of the rockers as Mrs. B. kept the chair moving back and forth.

“I wish I could go back and undo what I did,” Marta said.

“At times we all do, dear, but we can’t. So, what are you planning to do now?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Mrs. B. stood and patted Marta’s shoulder as she reached for the door handle. “In  my experience, an apology is always a good place to start. Whatever you decide to do, you need to figure it out as soon as possible.”

Marta stared at the closing door. Mrs. B. was right. But what do you say to someone like Madame who dislikes you, someone who controls your future?

The clock hands moved in slow motion. All night Marta alternately paced, rocked, and stared out the window. She replayed the situation with Madame again and again. Why had she mimicked her? Because Madame scowled at her and didn’t appear to approve of her? Or was she frustrated with herself for making so many mistakes? For not being as good as the other dancers? She was trying to learn the choreography as fast as possible, but her best didn’t seem good enough—for Madame or for herself. How badly did she want to be part of the company? Badly. Somehow she needed to make a significant change, and fast.

As the pre-dawn sky lightened, she knew what she wanted and needed to do. Apologize. She splashed her face with cold water and combed her hair. Except for losing her Dad, facing Madame could well be one of the hardest things she’d do in her life.

Breakfast sounds, voices, and clattering breakfast dishes traveled up through the floor vent. She knew she couldn’t eat or sit at the table and act as if nothing had happened, so she slipped out the back door and pedaled into town.

The cool morning air and the quiet streets encouraged her to keep pedaling. She moved through town, past the train depot, toward the refineries. Up to now her mom helped her work through decisions. This time she was on her own.

Mom always said to keep things simple. Marta decided her next step. She’d go in, apologize, and hope to be forgiven. She’d not bring up her frustrations or make excuses; she’d be contrite and just say “sorry.”

Marta stopped pedaling, got her bearings, and headed to the ballet company building. After she parked the bike, she drew in several deep breaths and shook out her hands and arms.

Exhaustion weighed her down as she climbed the stairs to Madame’s office. Light escaped from under the closed office door. Marta shook out her hands again, took a deep breath, and knocked.

“Who is it?” Madame’s voice sounded tense and formal.

Marta cleared her throat. “It’s Marta Selbryth.”

No reply.

She waited. Silence. Should she knock again? As she raised her hand to knock, she heard the thump of Madame’s cane against the wooden floor. The door opened wide in one quick motion.

Madame Cosper stood before her with one hand on her cane and one on the door handle. “Yes?”

Marta dipped her head, curtsied, then pulled herself tall to face Madame. She took a quiet, deep breath. “I’ve come to apologize.”

Madame stared at her. She started to speak, stopped, and moved back to sit at her desk before motioning Marta to enter. Everything about Madame was composed: her makeup, her hair, her clothes. Marta felt like a disheveled child with trembling knees as she stepped into the office.

Damien sat at a desk near the door. He eyed her with studied calmness. Now she needed to face both of them. Her heart raced as she adjusted her shoulders and curtsied toward Damien.

Madame played with her rings as she eyed Marta, who stood with her hands clasped behind her back. “Well?”

“I apologize for my actions yesterday. I acted rude and disrespectful. I hope you will forgive me. I--”

Madame raised her hand to stop Marta. She looked from Marta to Damien. “We’ve discussed your actions. Horrible rudeness. We cannot tolerate such behavior from professional dancers.”

“I know. And I am sincerely sorry for what I did,” Marta said.

Madame pointed her finger at Marta. “We’ve expended time and money selecting you to join the company. You arrived days late, unprepared, and not dressed as a dancer. Perhaps this is a joke to you.”

“No, it’s not a joke. I understand. But Madame, I came on time from what the letter said. I expected the greeter would help me, but I’m alone, and I’m trying to get caught up. I’m a good dancer, but this is hard and...”

“Life is hard; ballet is harder. You need to take responsibility for your actions. All your actions.”

Marta lowered her face. Her heartbeat thumped in her head and her palms sweat. How could she make Madame and Damien understand? Her dream hung from a gossamer thread.

“Damien and I have
never
experienced behavior like this,” Madame Cosper said. “Personally, I feel you should leave. I don’t think you’re strong enough for the company.”

A shock wave jolted Marta. So, just like that. Her career was over.  What would she tell her mom and Miss Holland?

Damien stood and walked to the side of Madame’s desk. “I, however, think we need you. You have good musicality and potential to develop into a strong dancer. If you work hard, we can uncover it. Right, Anna?”

Madame looked down and ran her hands over her desktop.

“Anna?”

Madame looked up. Her lips tightened. “It’s too late in the season to audition another dancer. But, if you pull another stunt, you’ll be dismissed. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Madame.” A sigh escaped Marta’s lips as she cleared her throat. “Thank you.” She tightened her elbows against her sides to steady herself.

Damien opened the office door. “Now, Miss Selbryth, you need to leave and get ready for today. Rehearsal begins in twenty minutes.”

Madame stood and leaned forward. “We’ll be watching your every move. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Madame.”

Marta backed out of the office. As she descended the stairs, she wiped her eyes on her sleeve and tried to collect herself before she vibrated into dozens of pieces and crumbled to the floor.

The hallway to the dressing room lengthened before her. She hurried into a bathroom stall, locked the door, and sat on the closed toilet seat. With her head resting in her hands, she willed her body to stop shaking.

A faint knock sounded on the stall door.

“Occupied.”

“Marta, it’s me,” Lynne said. “Are you okay?”

“Peachy.”

“What happened?”

“They gave me a second chance.”

Marta stood at the
barre
waiting for the warm-up music to begin. Damien led the morning, paying Marta no obvious extra attention, but she sensed his scrutiny. Her movements felt wooden; the lift for every
relevé
came from muscles she doubted would support her. If she wasn’t dealing with her tiredness and almost losing her position, she’d be exhilarated by the fragile strength that blossomed inside her, allowing her to dance even though she should collapse from lack of sleep and food. Maybe this was how it felt to be an adult.

Damien stopped the morning early. “Nice work, everyone. We have meetings with the trustees the rest of the morning. Return at two-thirty sharp. No rehearsals Friday, but Monday we’ll complete the
Sleeping Beauty
excerpts from acts one and two. Dismissed.”

Lynne and Marta turned uptown, away from the restaurants the dancers patronized. For the next hour they walked through town and talked. They ate lunch seated in a booth at the back of the B & B Café. Marta kept up a running conversation. “And, she said she doesn’t think I’m ready. I don’t know if I’ll make it or not.”

Lynne pushed her empty plate away before she spoke. “Stop all your sad little me, Marta. It’s over. You apologized. I know it’s too soon for you to laugh about it, but you
were
funny.”

“I doubt I’ll ever laugh about it.”

Lynne checked her watch and plucked her purse from the seat of the booth. “Time to get back. Damien says we need you. Hang on to that. Soon we’ll be too busy for Madame to remember what you did.”

Back in the dressing room, Bartley stood adjusting her leotard as Marta and Lynne entered. “Where did you two go? I waited outside for you.”

“Lynne and I needed to talk, so we went for a walk. I almost made a mess of my career yesterday when we were practicing together.”

Marta explained the incident and her discussion with Madame and Damien. “You’ve probably never done anything stupid.”

“Right.” Bartley shook her head and laughed. “Like the time I made the fly curtains crash during a performance. Four people got caught up in them. They fell like dominoes. I hid in the dressing room until everyone left the theater. The janitor finally kicked me out.”

“But mine wasn’t an accident. I insulted Madame.”

“A mistake’s a mistake,” Bartley said. “You’re not the only one who’s got issues with Madame. We’re all in this together.”

“Exactly,” Lynne said. “Let’s make a pact. Let’s become the three ballet musketeers: what’s your problem is my problem.”

Bartley smiled. “I’d like that.”

“Me too,” Marta said.

The girls joined their hands in a tower of crossed palms. A wave of contentment relaxed Marta’s tense shoulders and uncramped her frustration. Gaining two new friends sounded like a sure way to move forward.

At the end of the day, Bartley left for a relative’s birthday dinner while Lynne stayed with Marta to practice the newest section of the dance. Sweat  streaked the backs and sides of their leotards. They rested, leaning over their legs, hands pressed against their knees.

“I wish we could get in here on weekends,” Marta said. “I’m having trouble after the second entrance.”

Lynne stretched side to side. “You worry too much. Just count out the beats and we’ll work on it until it makes sense.”

Karl stuck his face into the practice room; his gnarled hand covered the light switch. “Time to close up. You two get going.”

“Okay, Karl,” Lynne said. “Give us five minutes, okay?”

“No sir-ree. Leave right now. ‘Cuz, if I give you five, you’ll want ten, and then you’ll want twenty. Pretty soon I’ll be here all night waiting for you two.”

“Yes sir.” Lynne saluted Karl. “We’re gone. Come on, Marta, let’s get a shower.”

Karl pointed his finger at Lynne’s face. “No-o-o, no! You two head out the door now or I’ll have to tell Miz Cowper.”

They grabbed their street clothes and headed out the door with Karl close behind. As he closed the dancer’s entry door, the lock clicked and the night light came on.

“Thanks, Karl!” Lynne said. “We’re locked out to get dressed on the street.” She stepped into her skirt and slid her ballet shoes into her dance bag. “I’d like to be there when he calls her ‘Miz Cow-per.’ She’ll have a cow over that. Come on. Stash your bike in my trunk. I’ll drive you home.”

Over the long weekend, Marta tried to erase her encounter with Madame and Damien. Friday she slept in, then baked bread, cookies, and rolls. Over dinner cleanup she shared the outcome of talking to Madame with Mrs. B.

“That’s good, dear. How do you feel?”

“Relieved. It will take her time to forgive me, but I have all year to prove myself.”

Saturday, Marta filled a Mason jar with garden flowers for her room and washed out her lone set of clothes. On a walk to town, she bought underwear, a blouse and skirt, two bath towels, Lifebuoy soap, and eighteen inches of black ribbon for her ponytail. Sunday she wrote a note to Gran, took a long nap, and went to see the matinée of
Tammy and the Bachelor
with Lynne and Bartley. Nothing released her from thinking about her encounter with Madame for long. Somehow she needed to be more like Lynne, get beyond thinking about it and begin proving she could change.