Day 22
When dinner is ready I excuse myself and go lay in my bed. Its clear how shaken I am so no one actually questions me on it. I’m not hungry anyway. How can I be when I just received such a clear slap in the face from the one place that I’ve shot for since I was old enough to know what Juliard was? I lay on my bed and stare at the ceiling, then roll onto my side and stare at the wall.
I share a room with Jessie, the second oldest of the seven. She’s tacked posters of Twilight all across her side of the room so I end up staring at Edward and Bella and right next to that a poster of Jacob and Bella. Jessie is crazy about Jacob and wanted him to ‘win’ Bella. I think it’s kinda sick that either one would win Bella. Like she’s some prize at a carnival and their both in the raffle drawing for her.
I sigh and roll onto my back again but now I feel like the three of them are watching me wallow in my sorrow. I shut my eyes and try to think of anything else but the more you try to think about something else the more impossible it becomes to do just that. I turn towards the posters. “What do you want?” I finally spit in their direction.
They all just stare blankly at me. Their eyes are far too big to be natural; must be some sort of visual enhancement so you can see the color better. I glare at them for a little longer. Finally I can’t stand it anymore. I stand up and hop over to Jessie’s bed. I can’t quite stand on it so I end up ripping one of the posters as I pull them down but I don’t really care. I lay them face down on Jessie’s bed and hobble back to my own.
I lay back down and now stare at the wall now free from the stares of undeadish characters. I know I’ll have some explaining to do when Jessie finds her poster ripped but I really don’t care. I just couldn’t deal with them anymore.
Mom comes up about an hour after dinner has finished with a bowl of clam chowder. “I brought you some clam chowder.” She sits down on the bed beside me and sets the steaming bowl on the nightstand.
I shake my head, “I’m not hungry.”
“Beth,” she rubs my shoulder warmly, “I know you’re upset but you have to eat.”
I shake my head again, “I can’t eat.”
“Your leg is not going to heal if you don’t eat Bethany.”
I shrug fighting back tears, “I can’t eat Mom.”
“Listen to yourself! You are not going to heal and you will not be able to go to Juliard if you don’t start eating and a healthy amount too. Not just enough for a bird to get by.”
Tears squeeze out of my eyes. I feel so defeated. There’s nothing left for me to do. “I can’t eat, Mom.”
Mom shakes her head not knowing what to say or do next. I guess there is nothing left to say. “I’ll leave it here on the nightstand in case you get hungry,” she says quietly then gets up and walks to the door. “You know,” she says when she reaches the doorway. She turns around and faces me again, “you’re only going to hurt yourself by not eating. Juliard won’t even know what they’re missing if you don’t heal.” Then she turns and walks away.
I stare at the soup for a moment but then turn away. I can’t work out while my leg is broken so I am going to do my damndest to make sure that I don’t gain any weight while I can’t work it off. I push the bowl to the far edge of the nightstand. If I could carry it to the bathroom with crutches I would flush it down the toilet but I can’t so shoving it as far away as possible will just have to do.
I roll over and face the opposite wall and fall asleep before Jessie ever comes upstairs.
March 13th, -0- total days till graduation, -0- days left of school
Call me a glutton for punishment but I had to go to the recital. If I’d been performing my entire family would have come but instead I make the long drive to the concert hall by myself. Mom offered to come with me but I didn’t want company. I’m not sure how I’m going to react when they explain why my piece has been cut from the show. They’d already printed programs before my injury so they can’t just pretend like I was never supposed to perform.
This recital is all senior dancers. (By senior I don’t mean senior in high school, I mean pointe shoe dancers with enough years to earn themselves a dance.) When I arrive I decide to walk back stage and wish everyone luck. The dressing room is a flurry of bodies putting on costumes and make up and last minute practices for some of the smaller moves.
When the woman in charge of our dance studio sees me she waltzes over and embraces me. “Bethany, I was so sorry to hear about your leg.”
I just nod in response. I’m still not sure how to respond when people say that.
“Listen,” she clasps both of my shoulders, “I want to introduce all of the seniors and say how many years they’ve been with us and I know you can’t dance but if it’s okay with you I’d still like to introduce you to the audience.”
I nod numbly. I’m going to have to get up on stage with these stupid crutches?
“You’re attending Juliard in the fall right? I’ll write that on your card.”
I’m shaking, and I can’t seem to find words because my throat has closed shut. I nod once.
“Fabulous!” she says in a wonderful impression of the Orbit gum lady. Then she smiles far too broadly and moves on in the room to help someone with their makeup. A little farther into the dressing room I find Krista, my only real friend at the dance studio.
She catches me in the mirror and jumps out of her chair, “Bethany!” She sets down her eye liner pencil and then hurries over to me. She hugs me as best she can with my crutches. “We missed you in practice the other day,” she informs me.
“No, you missed me in practice the other day.”
She shrugs her shoulders. “Let’s be honest, other than the two of us, no one else in that class matters.” She giggles then.
I’m not really sure why Krista and I are friends. Other than dance we have absolutely nothing in common. She’s an only child who’s used to always getting everyone’s attention. She’s bubbly and loud and often obnoxious. The two of us met in tap lessons back in second grade. We immediately paired up because we were the same height and so always stood next to each other in the dances. Between runs we’d spend our time up against the bar giggling about absolutely nothing. Our friendship lasted the years simply because we didn’t know anyone else in our classes.
Last year Krista and I performed a duet together in the fall recital. She had wanted to do something angsty and more interpretive than what we would normally do but I’d finally talked her out of that. I can express emotion through my dance just fine but ballet wasn’t designed for Pink songs dealing with everyone being uniquely, wonderfully, themselves. Instead we’d compromised and gone with my first choice of song, a Mozart piece with long flowing melodies that was far easier to choreograph to show off my pristine technical skills.
“I just wanted to stop by and wish you luck,” I offer after a moment.
“Thanks, Bethany. I’m really sorry you can’t perform in the show,” she smiles sadly.
“Just kick ass for me okay?”
She nods solemnly, “sure, anything for you.” Someone calls her name from the other end of the room. She turns to see who it is and then turns back quickly to me, “I gotta go. Talk to you later?”
“Yeah, of course,” I say. “I’m probably not supposed to be back here anyway.”
Krista turns and skips to the opposite end of the dressing room.
I’m starting to get the shakes, probably from not having eaten a solid meal since getting the letter from Juliard. I hobble to the auditorium and collapse into one of the seats. I consider going to buy a Diet Coke from the concession stand out front but realize I have no way to transport it in here so I quickly decide against that.
I sit and wait in contemplative silence for the show to start. The pain meds that the doctor’s gave me were only for a week so today’s my first day without them. There’s a dull constant ache in my leg and the hunger pangs are really starting to kick in now. The pain meds had been helping me stay not hungry over the past few days because my stomach didn’t hurt so bad but I know now I’m going to have to really convince myself not to eat too much now.
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