“Because dancing is not a job,” she said firmly.
“What are you grooming Kiki for? Twirling a glitter-filled baton across a stage while singing the National fucking Anthem? I’m athletic and I’m one of the best dancers in my program. Don’t tell me that doesn’t count for something.”
“You think the pageants are for nothing? How about public speaking and confidence?”
I laughed bitterly. “You’re right. Forget I said anything. I have to go, I’m gonna be late.” She’d win the argument no matter what. There was no point in drawing it out further.
“You’re still my daughter, and you’re still living under my roof. You need to show me some damn respect and clean up your language.”
That was as bad as her language got. The lone exception was when she’d had too much champagne at our neighbor’s Christmas party one year and saidshitandpissin the same sentence. My dad had nearly choked to death on a cocktail weenie.
As I headed for the door in my warm-up sweats, slippers, and coat, my father stopped me.
“Sit down for a second,” he said. He took the duffel bag from my shoulder, set it on the floor, and gestured toward the chair beside the front door.
When I sat down, he knelt in front of me and removed one foot from its slipper. He began bending my toes forward and backward. He did this often to loosen up my feet. Without looking up, he said, “Are you going to be on pointe today?”
“Probably.”
“How much time do you have right now?”
“About three minutes,” I told him.
He pulled a tube of arnica cream from the side of my bag and began massaging it into my foot. I noticed in that moment that he was getting old. His hair was turning gray and he was getting an old-man belly, just above his belt.
“Sweet Pea, they look bad. You lost another toenail,” he said. “You also need to be wearing your boots out there, not slippers. It’s cold. It’s supposed to snow today.”
“I can’t wear the boots. They hurt too much. I’ll skip the studio this afternoon. Maybe go to the library and study.”
“Good.”
For some reason his kindness toward me made me emotional. He was the only one who believed in me. I found myself getting choked up and looked away as he continued to rub cream into my feet.
“How’s that feel? Better?” he asked.
I nodded and stood, put my slippers back on, and hugged him. “Thanks, Dad.” He always hugged me well.
“I’m proud of you, little girl.”
I couldn’t speak. He knew my mom was hard on me. It was nice to have one parent who knew how to be soft.
ONCE AT SCHOOL,I practiced a romantic modern dance routine with my usual partner, Joey. It was a beautiful piece, choreographed by Professor Douglas, a young, fun, easygoing guy who came onto the scene at CSU the year before. Douglas was his first name, but everyone started calling him P-Doug by the second semester of my junior year, and he just went with it. He jokingly said he’d base our final grades solely on our hip-hop routines. He had been a professional dancer until he tore his meniscus and had to have three surgeries before he could dance again. He’d never be a pro, so now he was our instructor.
The song he chose for Joey’s performance and mine was a “Wicked Games” cover. It was evocative and perfectly suited for the choreography. We had gotten the routine down pretty well except for the lifts, which wasn’t Joey’s strong suit. He was a graceful dancer, long and lean, but he liked to do solo work more than partner work. He wasn’t into girls, which shouldn’t have mattered, but it did to him. He’d never have a career in dance as long as he appeared physically repulsed by women. Most of the gay partners I’d had understood that acting was a part of dancing, unlike Joey.
Doug was sitting in the audience while we rehearsed onstage. “Do the second lift again,” he said. “Your line looks off, Joe.”
Joey had a crush on him, but I think Doug was straight, which made Joey extra sensitive to his remarks.
“My line?” Joey pointed to his chest.
“Yes,” Doug confirmed.
“That’s a hard lift and Penny wasn’t holding it.”
“Excuse me?”
“You feel heavier to me,” he said. “You feel shaky.”
