Audition Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  When you are a dancer

  SAR A ≠78

  Sun blasts through

  In the morning, I unpin the numbers

  Big news is

  My best friend, Bess, is at music camp.

  When you flirt with the mirror

  After the fireworks,

  July dribbles into August

  One last sleepover at Bess’s house,

  My eyes open before Bess’s

  On the way

  Turning off the exit,

  As if I could stop the forward momentum,

  Señor Medrano waves

  After a while I go downstairs,

  “Got to get going.”

  I make it upstairs

  The call from Mom

  One more week before school begins,

  I am wearing leg warmers

  Their eyes are not unwelcoming,

  New England girls

  I brush through the layers

  How long can you go without

  “Still with Stephen?”

  I am not sure

  Upton Academy sits

  The trip from school to ballet

  Julio is at the ballet school

  It is dark when we get back

  In class today, Yevgeny barks,

  Near the studio door

  Fondu développé

  Sophomore year in Darby Station,

  The October trees are near naked

  Dad calls from the orchard,

  Friday at the studio

  I’ve begun taking Partnering class,

  Saturday morning

  Bonnie comes early on Saturdays, too.

  I watch Bonnie stand, stretch

  Audition

  Fernando is twitchy,

  Most of the girls have been dancing here

  I should be in the studio

  “Is Julio coming to the studio tonight?”

  There is this tricky lift

  We read great books at Upton Academy,

  I should be grateful

  In the smallest studio

  No school on Monday

  Weekends are always too short

  At Señor Medrano’s door, I wave to Dad.

  Inside, Julio sits,

  The Upton kids sleep in on Monday,

  I am awake

  The floors of the ballet studio

  Everyone is relieved

  For once I don’t hesitate to undress

  At Denardio’s I sit beside him,

  There is an uncomfortable silence

  How do nights like this end?

  Outside Señor Medrano’s

  Another kind of dancing

  Ruby Rappaport’s car is in the shop

  After class, Jane is sitting on Rem’s lap

  We cluster around the bulletin board

  That’s enough to stop me eating.

  In Ruby’s car after school

  Bess is going to the Darby Days dance

  My head feels light as my leg

  Allegro,

  My part in the tour is easy.

  Thanksgiving is about food,

  It feels like I am always returning

  I have this fantasy

  Jane looks depressed,

  In the locker room I hear

  Simone knows all the crushes

  I am light with hope

  Rem and I lean against the barre

  We begin the bears’ feature.

  They hand out the paperwork

  The first school on the tour is a dump

  Afterwards, riding the bus to the motel,

  The chaperones are strict,

  On the last day of the trip,

  Back at the studio

  The tape measure

  Señor Medrano puts me in the front row

  At Upton it is all about

  Could it be that high PSATs make me lighter?

  After the barre, ballet class moves to center,

  Ballerinas are often compared to butterflies.

  Twenty minutes ’til the next class

  Remington leans against the barre,

  In Variations class,

  “Tonight, Madison, Bonnie, and I Are going to the movies.”

  Madison’s dad comes

  I ride on the back of Rem’s motorcycle.

  Rem’s giant palm

  “R U coming?”

  Even without smoking,

  Now I hear the music

  Rem’s apartment is three flights up,

  “What is it, Sara?”

  The buttons on my shirt

  The name of the little girl

  December leaves little time

  The Nutcracker has stolen Christmas.

  I know rows and rows of people

  I have never kept a New Year’s resolution.

  I lead my line of Snowflakes

  In the dressing room

  Will he give me another chance?

  Afterwards

  The second of January

  At the studio on Monday,

  Señor Medrano doesn’t mind

  Bess emails me a picture

  At Upton I am asked to talk

  Instead I write a story

  Despite how much I hate The Nutcracker,

  I write this question down

  Denardio’s is a crowd tonight.

  Remington’s apartment is cold

  Dancing Aurora’s Variation,

  On my dresser is a postcard

  “C’mon. Get up!”

  I do not care about Aurora anymore

  I try to write about the creation

  Still, it is hard to go to the studio

  Yevgeny’s eyes are black.

  I don’t like being sick away from home.

  Rem and I return on the same day

  Yevgeny shows no mercy

  It must be serious

  But the conversation’s focus

  I make up an excuse about a late rehearsal

  “Stop

  I won’t go

  After two days of trying

  I don’t know why the cheap novels bother me,

  Professor O’Malley’s office is neater

  His dance is finished

  Now Julio is packing

  In the bathroom at Señor Medrano’s

  Alone in the house with Señor Medrano.

  Shannon watches me limp

  My cell phone buzzes.

  Can I pretend to be sick?

  I make the mistake

  I find Ruby Rappaport downstairs

  Simone draws me into a corner

  Remington is at the far end of the barre.

  Upton is buzzing with semester grades

  “Let’s go,”

  The envelope can wait

  In center, the piano plays

  After technique class

  Remington turns up his stereo, grimaces,

  Back at the Medranos

  I wake up facedown

  My report card is half good:

  In English, we are on to Heartbreak House,

  What is reality

  “Sara!”

  A new semester

  I am still Mama Bear

  Katia and Anne are practicing

  My body is angry

  The stack of college brochures under my bed

  I practice piqué turns

  Jane smiles

  At the Medranos’ there is a long letter

  I love the Little Swans,

  At Upton, Anne and Katia

  A week creeps by

  By Thursday, I feel a sting of desperation.

  How long am I supposed to wait?

 
; Adagio means slow,

  At the Rite Aid a block from the studio

  I slide into my narrow bed

  I wake up lonely.

  “You okay, Sara?”

  Remington stands at his spot

  “Good job, Sara.”

  I want to celebrate with Remington.

  Dad calls to celebrate the late frost

  Señor Medrano gives me a serious look

  “I miss you so much,” he says,

  Señor Medrano doesn’t ask

  Ruby Rappaport has forgiven Adnan

  Yevgeny’s eyes do not breathe fire

  He is standing in second position,

  Still, the invitation comes

  He is anxious, pacing

  Has it changed,

  The next night, I sit beside Barry

  After the show, they invite me

  College Fair Day at Upton

  The college fair concludes

  “I got the tattoo!”

  They are sending

  Everyone is thinking of being

  April showers pound the road

  The rehearsal schedule turns grueling

  Mom texts while I’m in bed with Remington.

  I stand outside the door

  Easter is a feast

  I remember my shock

  I am in the front row

  Remington invites me

  At Upton I find myself

  My cell phone pulses

  Lisette brings

  When Señor Medrano finds me in the hall

  Every day is a flurry of extra practice—

  “Denardio’s tonight?”

  “This is different.”

  My face is numb, then ice, then fire

  Plié, tendu, rond de jambe, jeté

  I have not called Bess

  At the next stop on the tour

  From the wings, Madison and I watch

  The applause lingers

  In the back of the bus on the way home,

  In the months that she’s been driving me

  He is late to dance class on Monday,

  Julio is putting his guitar away

  I leave my blazer in my room on Tuesday,

  Rem and Jane are talking in the doorway

  In Variations class, Yevgeny partners me

  After, I write down for Professor O’Malley

  I’ve spent a year pretending,

  I try to console Julio,

  May becomes all preparation

  When you dance with a partner

  Ruby and Adnan

  I imagine my bedroom

  “Thinking of coming home,”

  Mom emails a long list

  The Medranos are confused

  School ends in early June at Upton

  The sky is hazy

  From the wings, I watch

  VIKING

  Published by Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada

  M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

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  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published in 2011 by Viking, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © Stasia Ward Kehoe, 2011

  All rights reserved

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Ward, S. (Stasia), date-

  Audition : a verse novel / by Stasia Ward Kehoe.

  p. cm.

  Summary: When sixteen-year-old Sara, from a small Vermont town, wins a scholarship to study ballet in New Jersey, her ambivalence about her future increases even as her dancing improves.

  ISBN : 978-1-101-54789-2

  PZ7.5. W24Au 2011

  [Fic]—dc22

  2010044307

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  In loving memory of

  Kevin James Kehoe, Sr.,

  and Charlotte Elizabeth Eck

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The dance, drama, and school teachers who opened my mind to the stories I could tell on stage and on paper ...

  SCBWI Western Washington, a generous, hard-working group of writers, through which I connected with awesome beta-readers Molly and Dawn . . .

  My agent, Catherine Drayton, who found me the perfect editor . . .

  Kendra Levin, whose insight into the lives of young artists brought such depth to the editorial process, and with whom it is an absolute pleasure to work . . .

  All the wonderful folks at Viking/Penguin, whose talent and energy turned my manuscript into this beautiful book, especially Regina Hayes, Susan Cassel, Janet Pascal, and Kate Renner . . .

  My parents, Mike and Janet Ward, who were uncomplaining chauffeurs through years of dance classes, play practices and performances, and are now a fantastic cheering squad . . .

  Thomas, Mak, Sam and Jack, who told everyone that their mom was a writer long before I dared speak those words aloud myself...

  My husband, Kevin, who makes me smile every day and is eternally on my team . . .

  And my sister, Kristin, whose compassion, creativity and courage are a constant inspiration . . .

  Thank you!

  When you are a dancer

  You learn the beginning

  Is first position.

  Heels together,

  Feet pointed as far to the sides

  As your rotating hips will allow.

  And when you are small

  And at that beginning,

  Your body is as flexible

  As your mind.

  There you stand,

  Potbellied,

  Eager.

  They do not say to you then

  That, when you are sixteen,

  Doubt may cramp your muscled calves,

  Arch your arrow back,

  Leap into your mind.

  They do not say to you

  When you start in first position

  That you may never be

  Thin enough

  Strong enough

  Flexible enough

  That you may never be

  Enough.

  SAR A ≠78

  On the third of July,

  I stand with a hundred other girls,

  From stick-thin to gently rounded,

  From tiny, taut packages of muscle

  To gawky, long-limbed sylphs,

  All wearing pink tights,

  Black leotards.

  Hair

  Sprayed slick

  Against our scalps,

  Up and away.

  Not a single stray strand to dis
tract

  From the tilt of our heads

  Or the length of our necks.

  I notice a few girls dared

  Garnish their chignons

  With beads, flowers.

  Would it help them grab the attention

  Of Dame Veronique de la Chance?

  Of choreographer Yevgeny Yelnikov?

  Of one of the other important teachers

  Who have come to scout talent

  Here in Boston today?

  Or even catch the spectacled eye

  Of the secretary in heavy, blue skirt,

  Thick shoes,

  Taking notes on a battered clipboard

  Where our names

  Are connected

  To the numbers we wear pinned

  Onto front and back?

  I was given number 78.

  Should I have worn flowers in my hair?

  Sun blasts through

  The giant windows

  Of the ballet school in Boston,

  Announcing a kinder time

  Than the predawn car ride

  I took to get here.

  A nervous yawn builds in my throat.

  I swallow it down.

  Repeat with the others a series

  Of tendus, pliés,

  Ports de bras in center.

  Then hands on barres

  And me in the middle,

  Neither tall nor short,

  Gaunt nor round,

  Certain of little more

  Than that I have never danced

  In a city studio before.

  I learned each step I know

  From Ms. Alice, the neighborhood ballet teacher,

  Whose handyman husband made over

  Their Darby Station, Vermont, basement

  With wooden barres, wide mirrors,

  Hopeful posters of satin pointe shoes

  Photographed in stop-motion.

  I have no way to measure

  My training, my technique

  Against these other girls

  Until, toward the end,

  Yevgeny Yelnikov nods,