Jersey Tomatoes are the Best (10 page)

“Uh, some of us would like to get out of the sun?” The impatient mother behind us again. It’s our turn at the table.

The Chadwick people exude high-voltage helpfulness as they hand us our room keys and point us toward our dorm. Girls, we learn, are on the third floor; boys are on the second. There’s a gathering at three o’clock, in the dining hall, for all
campers and parents, then campus tours for new players. Dinner, to which families are invited, starts promptly at six. After dinner …

Well, then it begins, doesn’t it? Mom and Dad drive away. Three days between here and New Jersey.

The Lloyds and Cruzes, weighed down by luggage, head toward the dorm rooms. Mom and Mrs. Cruz chat away like old friends, and I know it won’t be long before Mom gets her hands on the baby Mrs. Cruz holds. The dads seem very preoccupied with carrying suitcases.

Just before we round the corner, Yolanda nudges me and gestures with her head toward the line.

“One, two, three … fifth guy back,” she murmurs. “Recognize him from Facebook?”

Right about where I think the fifth camper might be, I see a blond-streaked head. He’s a lot taller than I imagined he’d be.

“Jonathan Dundas!” This comes out a bit louder than intended. Heads on the line turn, luckily not Jonathan Dundas’s. But another guy’s. He’s standing just beyond the awning, alone, not really part of the line. More like he’s checking it out. He has long brown hair, sort of Roger Federer–ish. It swings when he whips his head around. I don’t recognize him from Facebook.

He obviously heard me, and he stares.
Great, Hen. Haven’t even dragged your duffel up to the room, and already made an idiot out of yourself. Ten points
.

As we walk on, Yolanda whispers in my ear.

“What did you think of his profile?” She looks at me carefully.

I smile and raise my eyebrows suggestively.

“What did
you
think?” I return the question.

She crosses her eyes, clutches her throat and makes mock gagging sounds. I burst out laughing.

“I mean, could you believe him?” she says, relief in her voice.

She chatters unrestrainedly now. As she walks ahead of me, the muscles in her calves bulge.

Bet she’s one of those heavy hitters. She’s carrying too much weight to be quick. Then again, you never know. Don’t underestimate the big girls
.

Chapter Ten

I
t begins with
plié
. It always begins with
plié
.

A simple bend of the knees from first position, where the heels touch and the feet swivel out in a parallel line. Do this while resting your hands on the
barre
, a long wooden railing that extends around the perimeter of the room. First, the
demi-plié
, a partial knee bend, heels remain on the floor. Again. Again. And again. Slowly the calves warm, the thighs stretch, the buttocks and stomach tuck in. Always the line straight and the center firm.

Next, the
grand plié
. Bend so the thighs are parallel to the floor. The heels can rise now, and one hand rests on the
barre
while the free arm sweeps a graceful, circular motion. As if you’re embracing a big beach ball. The head tracks the arm: dreamlike, hypnotic. Give no hint of the rigid concentration and strength it takes to repeat these movements again and again, as the muscles move from warm to burn and sweat glistens on your neck.

And always, always in front of you: the unforgiving mirror.

I’m the biggest in the class. Tallest. Fattest. A giantess in a room full of pixies. You suck, and they stuck you in a class with girls two years younger
.

Your head is held on a string that pulls you up to the ceiling. Even as you
plié
down, that string pulls, keeps you from folding in on yourself. Straight, long and tall on the way down, and slowly straight, long and tall on the way up. The legs grow warm but the strength comes from the abs. The focal point for every move.

Madame approaches. I see a suggestion of her quick step in the mirror. As her assistant calls out, “And
plié
! And up. And
plié!
And up,” Madame visits each girl at the
barre
, murmuring comments, making corrections. I turn my eyes toward the mirror in fierce concentration. Now, Eva. One perfect
plié
.

She stands slightly behind me. Then I feel her hand between my knees, gently coaxing them open.

“More turnout, but from the hip. Open at the hip. If you cheat with your knees you’ll injure yourself.”

I imagine my thigh bone twisting in its socket ever so slightly. Ligaments scream, but I ignore them. I check the mirror. Better. Definitely more open. I begin the descent, this time for
grand plié
, and focus on the straight line of my back.

Madame has one hand on my butt and another on my stomach. She pushes my butt forward.

“Tuck the buttocks
in
, Eva!” she says firmly. Again, I check the mirror. I correct, instantly, but Madame has already moved on. My straight, clean line is lost on her.

Ballet booty. That’s what you’ve got. Big fat butt sticking out of
your leotard. That butt alone weighs more than one of these other girls. You’re the fat elephant in the kids’ class, Eva
.

It goes on. For ninety minutes. From
pliés
we move to
tendus
, from
tendus
to
frappés
, then on to
ronds de jambe
, first
en dedans
, then
en l’air
. I have never spent so much concentrated time at the
barre
in my life. The words of the woman in the black warm-up suit return to me: “We do many, many
tendus
here.”

Somewhere between the umpteenth
tendu
and
ronds de jambe en l’air
, I lose track of time. I lose track of everything, actually, except the particular movement I’m called upon to perform. I’m in this place that Henry calls the zone, where all the background noise fades and the only thing that exists is what you’re doing right at that moment, whether it be a forehand or a
plié
. The instructor’s voice, my burning calf muscles, even Madame’s striding presence among us, disappear, and I’m in a small space where the perfection of the simplest step commands me. It’s a quiet, pure place, and as I work I feel the pace of my heart lessen and the nervous tension in my shoulders loosen.

Then, at
grand battement
, it happens. Leg lifts: one leg planted while the other is raised into the air from the hip, then brought down again, knees straight. The goal is to loosen the hips, turn the legs out from the hips. Over and over we lift
devant
(in front),
à la seconde
(from second position) and
derrière
(behind). Each time my foot goes a little higher, the joints relax a little more, and on the third
grand battement à la seconde
I feel completely loose, I see my foot soar above my head, the
leg scissors down, straight, and I realize: it is the best, most perfect
grand battement
I have ever done. I feel this … rush … of elation.

This is when it happens for me. Never during a performance, or onstage, or in the mirror. But at these unexpected moments, when I’m too tired to look in the mirror, and just slip into
feeling:
one perfect execution. Something lovely, beautiful, created by me. Only for an instant, then it’s gone.

But this is why I dance.

When the instructor calls for
révérence
, the stretch that marks the end of the exercise and is the traditional gesture of respect for the art, I feel a pang. I hate to stop. Hate to abandon this space.

As I reluctantly leave the
barre
and head with the rest of the class to the changing room, I see Madame. She is watching me. Probably has been, for I don’t know how long. Our eyes lock, and reflexively I smile at her. God knows why. And in return she does … nothing. Her expressionless face is flat. Neither approval nor disgust registered there.

I’m a stranger blocking her view of the wall. I am molding clay. Anonymous, beige, to be twisted and retwisted into sylphlike shapes of ballet perfection.

I can’t decide whether to lunge at her and seize her by the throat, or collapse on the floor in hysterical sobs. So since I can’t decide, I quietly follow the line of girls out of the studio.

*   *   *

We have two hours before
pointe
class at one o’clock. Perfect. There’s a lounge on the second floor with big couches and a
drinks machine where I can get a bottle of water. Just the place to put my feet up and eat my bag lunch, but as I head for the elevators, one of the pixies invites me to join her and several others at the canteen.

“Thanks, but I brought,” I say, displaying my bag as evidence.

“Oh, they’ll let you take food in,” she assures me.

Next thing I know I’m riding the elevator with three of them. The girl who invited me does the introductions.

“I’m Marguerite,” she says. “This is Anna. Caitlin.” Each nods and smiles. Each has her hair smoothly pulled back in a tight bun. No one wears jewelry, not even earrings. We’ve all changed into leggings and loose T-shirts. Soft wool clogs that could double as bedroom slippers. “Eva,” I say, smiling back.

“Is this your first summer?” asks Marguerite.

“Yes,” I reply, surprised. “Have you done this before?” All three nod.

“Third time,” Marguerite says matter-of-factly. “Third,” she adds, pointing to Anna. “Fourth,” she says, pointing to Caitlin. I don’t even bother to hide my astonishment.

“I didn’t know people repeated,” I say. Anna shrugs.

“Still trying to get an invitation to the full-year program,” she explains. “They’ll let you keep trying until you’re, what? Seventeen?” she asks Caitlin, who nods. “So I’ve got one year left.”

“You’re sixteen?” I ask. No way is this flat-chested pipsqueak older than me.

“Yup. The old lady of the group. Everyone else is fifteen. You?” The elevator doors slide open.

“Same.”

The canteen looks like a cross between a high school cafeteria and a hospital lunch café. Smells about that appetizing, too. We find an empty table with four metal and plastic chairs, and sit. All the pixies carry their lunches.

“Where are you from, Eva?” Marguerite rips the top off a yogurt and stirs vigorously.

“Ridgefield, New Jersey. It takes a little less than an hour to drive here.”

“You drive into the city each day? That must suck,” says Caitlin. She’s unsheathed the largest spinach wrap I’ve ever seen. It’s practically a torpedo. It leaks veggies, cheese and something resembling turkey.

“I’m used to it. Do you all live in New York?” I pull out my bag of carrots. Twelve organic Bunny-Luv brand baby carrots in a Ziploc bag.

“For the summer. We’re all in the dorms,” Caitlin says. She takes a wolfish bite of the wrap.

“I heard they got more requests for boarding students this year than ever before,” Anna says quietly. “They turned the rooms in Marks Hall into triples.” She’s unwrapped a little square sandwich on brown bread. PB and J on whole wheat.

“Those were tight as doubles. I don’t want to think about three beds in there,” says Marguerite. “Caitlin, what
is
that?”

We have to wait for Caitlin to chew and swallow before
she can answer. She’s dropping shredded lettuce into her lap, and dressing drips from one end of the wrap.

“It’s called a Turkey Buster,” she finally says. “I got it from the deli across the street.” She takes another huge mouthful. We watch in fascination as she works her cheeks around the meat and vegetables. You can actually see a lump travel down her throat when she swallows. She holds the oozing mass out to Marguerite.

“Wanna bite?”

Marguerite doesn’t hesitate. She leans forward and with both hands cradles the torpedo. She inspects every corner, carefully deciding where to attack this behemoth. She goes for the drippy dressing end and unleashes a torrent of something resembling ranch.

“Ah! Help!” she cries, mouth full, laughing. Anna reaches across the table, holding out a safety net of napkins. Marguerite passes the wrap off to her, and now Anna looks it over. After carefully considering her choice, she bites from the fat end.

“Umm,” she says, nodding approvingly. She looks at me. I feel this tight constriction in my throat. No one warned me that membership in this club would involve exchanging saliva and eating deli meats.

Don’t even think about it, you pig! Do you know how many
pliés
are in one bite?

“No thanks, I’m good,” I say, holding up my carrots and willing myself to smile.
Breathe, Eva
, I think. Anna passes the wrap back to Caitlin.

“So where are you all from that you have to board?” I say,
nonchalantly. I am determined to
not
watch Caitlin demolish the rest of her lunch. I pluck carrot one from its bag. I nip one end, then the other. Chew. Swallow. Nip one end, then the other. Chew. Swallow. Repeat until the carrot is so small there
is
no end. Just this little bit I pop into my mouth. Perfect.