“Can we go home now?” I whine as I tug on my sister’s arm. Pulling with both of my hands—so I can use all my strength—I dig in my heels and try to keep her from going into the next room, “I want to see my friends while there’s still sun.”
“Stop it, Lily,” April snaps, roughly wrenching her arm away. “I’m in charge today, and we can’t leave until I'm done with my Art Appreciation assignment. I can’t do that if you keep bugging me. Maybe you can learn something if you give the museum a chance.”
She continues walking and stops in front of a gold-framed painting that’s hanging right inside the room’s entrance. Her head starts rocking like dad’s dashboard bobble head, alternating between her tablet and the art. Without looking up from the screen, she points to the middle of the room with her stylus, “If you don’t want to look around, go over there, sit on the couch, and be quiet.”
I smirk when I see that the blue couch April is pointing at looks just like Grandma’s. There are twisted cords around the edges of the saggy cushions. It fits right in. The museum needs something old to match these ancient pictures. Grumbling to myself, I start marching across the shiny-wood floors towards my new prison. I listen to my giant foot stomps make echoes in the still room all the way to my uncomfortable throne. Plopping down, I look around and see the other dowdy patrons either glaring at me or at my sister’s reddening face. April shoots me her look of death, which I counter with a sheepish grin. It serves her right for dragging me to the National Galleryof Art and ruining my Saturday.
Moping, I slip off my shoes and scooch into the corner of the couch. Pulling my knees up, I stretch my baggy Brazil soccer jersey over them and then tightly hug my skinny legs. Resting my chin in the little V formed from my kneecaps, I stare at the painting directly in front of me. Surprise, surprise—it’s another group of ballerinas. Guess this painter really liked The Nutcracker, because that seems to be the theme of the room.
This one looks different, however, than the others. Instead of dancers in colorful tutus spinning around together, like the ballerina in my music box, this has a girl sitting all alone on a wooden bench. She’s not even watching the other girls. A bright-orange, crumpled sweater covers her leotard, and she is staring at the floor, her shoulders slumped with her downturned face cradled in her hand—just like I do when I’m upset. Is she sad or worried about something? And those other two girls—the one wearing the pretty-pink shawl and her friend with the royal-blue bows—why don’t they go talk to her? Is it too far to walk? Are the dancers next door that exciting to watch? The artist has left me with so many questions.
Looking around, I see April standing at the far end of the gallery, biting her nails. The look of frustration on her face tells me that the paintings are also leaving her with more questions than answers. Realizing I am going to be here awhile, I decide to kill some time by building my own narrative for the lone ballerina and fill in the missing pieces. I am staring at the painting, trying to decide on the best way to begin her story, when the colors suddenly begin to swirl together and flow towards the middle as if being sucked down a drain. The beiges from the floor tiles mix with the blue from the dancer’s bows before getting blended with the grey from the walls and the orange and pink hues from the sweaters. Hypnotized by the whirling, I can’t stop watching. I feel a pulling sensation slowly grow stronger until…
…I find myself standing pressed against a cold wall in a musty, colorless room with beige tile floors. Where am I? What just happened? Where did the museum go? And the spring-free couch? Too bewildered and scared to move, I look around for April, but see only a wide, empty space with a wooden chair and bench along the far wall. She’s gone—along with all the paintings. The beige walls are now grey and decorated by only a single, silver metal handrail that splits it in two, all the way around. I catch a glimpse of girls wearing pure-white tutus in an adjoining room. They have replaced all the museum art oglers and are moving in time to the faint piano and violin music I now hear.
Why does this feel so strange but look so familiar? It almost looks like… No… That’s not possible. There’s no way... is there? How could I have possibly gotten into the painting? If I did, can I get out? April will get worried if she can’t find me. Of course, she’ll ultimately decide I’ve wandered off and get angry. Aw, I only want to make up the story, not actually be in the story.
The inkling I have of my location is confirmed when I look down and see I’m wearing the bright-orange sweater. It’s covering the tightly fitted cream bodice of a knee-length, layered tutu. My once bare legs are now clothed in smooth white tights, and my favorite blue Sketchers have become white satin ballet slippers.
This close, I can make out how worn and threadbare the sweater is. Threads are hanging where two buttons used to be, the sleeves are frayed, and there are multiple holes on both sides. When I touch the soft, tattered orange yarn, I sense the love and history woven into each fiber. I get flashes of watching an older ballerina sitting in front of a dressing room mirror removing her make-up. She is wearing this sweater. The reflection shows a young girl standing behind her—blonde braids in her hair—undoing the ballerina’s bun and then brushing her hair. It seems I am not only borrowing the girl’s clothes, but also her memories. Is there anything else?
I hear a soft pattering coming towards me and then the girl with the pink shawl emerges from the shadows.
“Claudette, what are you still doing here?” she asks nervously when her large brown eyes spy me. “Your audition is about to start. If you want a shot at playing your mom’s old role of Farfalla in the spring production of Le Papillon, you mustn’t miss it. You know Madame Julia gives no second chances.”
Audition? Oh no, I don’t think I get to go home yet. My stomach starts flip-flopping in worry and fear. Claudette, is it?—I hope you loaned me your dancing skills, because I have none. My blank face and lack of movement prompts Celina—at this point, I’m not surprised I know her name—to grab my arm and start pulling me towards a concealed door in the far wall. I hear piano and violin music coming from the other side. Spontaneously, my feet start to move and trace out steps in the air that coincide with the tune.
Celina pats my arm, “Relax. Save your energy for your dance.” As soon as she says this, she clasps her hands behind her back and begins to pace. When she sees my raised eyebrows, Celina lets out a soft, silvery giggle, “I can be nervous for you. We all know how important this is.”
Reaching up, she takes the blush-pink ribbon out of her chestnut-brown hair and ties it securely around the blonde bun in mine. “Since you can’t take your mom’s sweater in there for luck, you can wear my ribbon. I’ll keep your sweater safe until you’re done.”
I’m so nervous it will take more than a ribbon to get me through this. My heart is pounding out of my chest, and I’m sure my face is contorted in fear. How can Celina not see that? An outfit does not make a ballerina. This audition sounds so important to Claudette, and I’m about to go in there and make a fool of her—and myself.
When the music stops, she counts to ten and then opens the door. The bright overhead light streaming out of the doorway initially blinds me, but my eyes quickly adjust. With my first hesitant step forward, I feel my nerves disappear, something deep down takes over. And my body begins moving autonomously. Head up, shoulders down, eyes straightforward, I begin to step daintily toe-to-heel, making sure to keep my toes turned out.As I move towards the center of the room, I chance a glance at Madame Julia.
An older lady—streaks of grey running through her black hair—Madame Julia is sitting primly on the edge of her chair clutching a long, black cane. Behind her is a solemn duo, a piano and violin player, awaiting their cue. When I am directly in front of Madame Julia, I curtsy and then the musicians begin to play a beautiful melody. I may be imagining it—I am too preoccupied with other things to look—but I think her cane begins tapping rhythmically to the violin and piano music as well.
As the first note floats through the air and reaches my ears, my body begins to move like a puppet on a string. I relax and let it dance, like a ballerina off a page of my favorite childhood fairytale book, as it was trained to do. Effortlessly, I move with unbelievable ease and poise, daintily stepping across the floor. Gracefully reaching my arms over my head, I start to balance and twirl on satin covered toes. I then leap across the floor from one foot to the other as if I’m floating on air. Never before have I felt so free.
My body is moving fluently with the music, translating each chord into beautiful, flowing movements. Delicate jumps around the floor, followed by straight springs in the air and my feet fluttering together. I feel the tempo and passion of the song course through me. Slowly extending my leg behind me, I deliberately pause before bending my knee and spinning as quickly as I can like a top at Christmas. When I finish, I curtsy low towards Madame Julia, and then silently slip back out the door.
Back in the dim hall, my arms are immediately grabbed by Celina. She stands on her toes so her small pixie-like face is level with mine, “How’d it go? How do you think you did? Did she say anything to you? Did she do that scary tap-tap-tap thing with her cane—I hate that. Tell me everything.”
My body is tingling with electricity, and my mind is a blur of bliss. The music is still playing in my head and coursing through my veins. I don’t know how I did that, and am completely shocked, amazed, and exhilarated. I want to bottle this feeling, so I can take it home and never lose it, “It was wonderful,” I quietly squeak, scared I’ll break my trance. “I’m still floating. I think I will be all night.”
She throws her arms around my neck and gives me a light butterfly kiss on the cheek, “See, you had nothing to be nervous about. I knew you would be wonderful. Let’s go tell Elaine.” Handing my sweater back, she grabs my hand and tugs me towards the dancers and chair I saw earlier. I eagerly follow, hoping they can help me go home.
Standing in front of the adjoining room is a lone ballerina holding a royal-blue satin sash in one hand and a matching ribbon in the other, “Claudette, how’d it go? Do you think you got it?” Elaine asks excitedly as we get closer.
Shrugging, I try to stay calm and keep my voice steady, “I think I did alright. I remembered all the steps, which is good, and landed all my jumps.”
“Oh, she’s just being modest. Of course she’s going to get it. She’s the best dancer here.” Celina crows as she takes the blue ribbon from Elaine’s outstretched hand. Very gently, she wraps it around her friend’s elegant, porcelain-skinned neck and begins tying a bow. It’s a well-practiced routine and very obviously the friends have done this before.
While they are preoccupied, I take a moment to quietly peek into the adjacent room. I spy a group of young girls that can’t be older than six or seven. They are wearing snowy-white tutus that are fluffed out around their short, little legs. Each tutu is flounced in lace, and has a colorful ribbon tied at the waist. The beginner ballerinas are arranged like little ducklings along the metal bar, gripping it for balance, and staring at their feet. Lining up their tiny toes, they try to set various dance positions. There is a look of pure determination on each child’s face that brings a smile to mine.
“Aren’t they adorable at that age?” Elaine asks. I turn to find both girls watching the little ballerinas as well, admiring looks on their faces, “So innocent. Hard to believe a few years ago that was us.”
Before I can stop myself, I quip, “Maybe you. I don’t remember doing that at all. I’m pretty sure my talent is completely natural.” Afraid my love of sarcasm just got Claudette in trouble, I hold my breath and wait for the fallout. Then I hear Celina’s silvery giggle joined by the beguiling and gentle laugh of Elaine.
“Well, your dancing high seems to have worn off,” Celina says. “There’s the Claudette we all love.”
Relieved, I laugh nervously, knowing I will need to tell them the truth if I’m ever going to go home. They only see their friend Claudette. Will they know how or be willing to help me-Lily? What will they do when they hear my story? When do I tell them?
Celina is now sitting in the chair behind Elaine and has gently spread the folds of her tutu out around the seat. She is working on carefully smoothing out the wrinkles of the royal-blue sash.
“I’m not going to continue helping you with your bows on audition days, if you don’t start taking better care of your ribbons,” Celina chides as she wraps the sash around her friend’s small waist and begins working on creating another perfect bow. The glint in her eyes and Elaine’s nonchalant attitude tell me this is just another playful step in their routine. “So, Claudette, what are you daydreaming about over there? How you’ll celebrate when you get the role?”
Feeling myself begin to sweat through the bodice of my tutu, I muster all my courage and answer, “Um, I am trying to think of a way to ask you to help me find my way home.” They exchange glances as I push forward, rambling off my story. “My name is actually Lily, and I was at the museum this morning with my sister-April-that's my sister and was looking at this painting.” I gesture to everything around me including them and the orange sweater, “The painting was of this dance studio. Then there was swirling and pulling and somehow, I was tugged into the painting. I was thrust into Claudette’s clothes, memories, and life. It’s all been great, you’ve been great, but I need to go home. April’s going to be upset when she can’t find me. Does any of this make sense? Can you help me?” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize how insane this all sounds—how I sound.
Letting out a slow breath, Celina is the first to talk, “Claudette, sweetie, are you feeling alright? Are you sleeping okay? I know this has been a big day, and you’ve been putting a lot of pressure on yourself getting ready for it. Your tryout is over, so if you need to go lay down, we’ll tell Madame Julia you are ill.” Under her breath, I heard her ask Elaine, “Has Claudette ever mentioned crazy dreams to you?”
My heart sinks. She can’t help. She has no clue what I am talking about and thinks I’m having a breakdown. Yet even after all that crazy, she’s still looking out for the friend she knows. Props to her.
Elaine turns to me, a hopeful look in her azure-blue eyes, “You’re okay, right? Just tired and stressed? It sounds like you are having some pretty vivid dreams. Is there anything we can do?”
For Claudette’s sake—after all, I will eventually find a way home and leave—I need to calm their worries and be her for now. At least she has an excuse if she doesn’t get the part. She truly wasn’t in her right mind.
“I… I’m okay. Like you said, I’ve been super-stressed about the audition all week. My mind has been in overdrive, and it must have crept into my sleep. I think I maybe do need to sit down for a bit and try to relax.”
Elaine broke out into a tentative smile, “Good idea. Go sit and calm down, Claudette. I’m sure we’ll hear something soon.”
Walking to the far end of the bench, I take a seat and try to make myself as comfortable as possible on this hard, wood slab. Leaning over my lap, I rest my elbow on my knee and cradle my cheek in my hand. Claudette is a member of such a great trio of friends, and I may want to come back and visit sometime. Right now, though, I need to go home. I have learned and experienced so many things, but I don’t think I have discovered anything that will help me. Have I missed something?
Before I get too deep into my thoughts, the room begins to shake. Everything starts moving in front of my eyes like flakes in a snow globe. However, no one seems affected by the shake-up but me. Celina is working on tying the ribbon around Elaine’s waist, while the little dancers continue to practice. Why does no one else feel this? Before I become violently ill, I close my eyes and try to take deep breaths.
“Lily… Lily. Wake-up. It’s time to go.” I hear my sister’s voice seeping into my fog. I slowly open my eyes and see her standing over me. “Finally, I almost started shaking you again. How can you sleep like that? Put your shoes on so we can go.”
Rubbing my eyes, I realize I’m sitting on the edge of the couch with my elbow on my knee and my cheek in my hand.
So, was the dance studio—Elaine, Celina, Claudette—all a dream? Each item and person is so vivid and clear in my mind: the caress of the soft worn orange sweater, the pure determination on the dancing angels face, the piano and violin player’s clear melodic music.The feeling of that snug leotard is still against my chest and the smooth tights on my legs. It’s all so real. There is no way I experienced this while I was sleeping. Is there?
“Hurry up. I thought you wanted to get out of here,” April says impatiently.
Picking up my right shoe, I notice something tucked inside—a blush-pink satin ribbon, exactly like the one Celina tied in my hair. I shove it in my pocket before anyone sees it and asks questions I can’t answer. I look up at the painting of the three friends—Elaine, Celina, and Claudette. The art has told me the three ballerina’s story and secrets. Wishing them luck, I jam my feet into my shoes and race to catch up with April.
“Can we come back next week?” I ask.
She slows down and looks at me, “What brought on this change of heart? Was the couch that comfortable? Do you want to come back for another nap?”
The honest answer would have been ‘I want to see if Claudette—if I—got the part and see what stories the other paintings will tell me.’ However, I know this is one secret I want to keep to myself for now. Patting the ribbon in my pocket, I reply as sweetly as I can, “I just thought I would give it another chance. Like you said, I may learn something.”
Author: Katie Yusuf
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