1
Kitty
I bent at the barre, stretching out my glutes. Oh goodness, that felt amazing. Somehow this morning I’d woken up a little stiff. My body was like that of a forty-year-old, even though I’m only eighteen.
“Oh,” I murmured below my breath, bending my head towards the floor. Almost there … almost there … there! Did it! My hand touched the ground, my pinky trailing against the polished wood.
Stretching every day is important because I’m a ballerina. Well, more of an aspiring ballerina, to be honest. I’m part of the junior corps at the New York Academy of Ballet, which is the training grounds for the big leagues: the City Ballet. It’s hard work, but I get to practice with the actual troupe, and we’re understudies for the prima ballerinas. As a result, I go to practice morning, afternoon and night, although I haven’t danced in front of a paying audience yet.
But frankly, there isn’t that much time left. At eighteen, I’m already considered “old” for this job. Some of my fellow dancers are even younger than me, at sixteen or seventeen years old. I think one girl’s even fifteen, and probably faked her papers somehow. So yeah, I’ve got to really pull out the stops if I want to dance with the prestigious NYC Academy of Ballet, given the youth of my competition. Time’s running out, and my mom’s words rang in my head.
“You’ll be fine,” she soothed, a worn, wrinkled hand taking mine. “You’re really talented, Kitty.”
I bit my lip, looking at her as we sat on my twin bed. We were in my childhood room, the one with the pink and white décor, looking out onto our tiny patch of lawn.
“I don’t know, Mom,” I said doubtfully. “Some of these girls have been doing ballet since they were five, and you know I only started three years ago.”
Mary clucked.
“I know honey, but what was it that Miss Harrison said? You’re a natural? A real talent with an amazing feel for the music? Your teacher couldn’t have said nicer things about you.”
I nodded but inside there were still doubts.
“I know Mom, but we’re here in Janesville, population one thousand. There isn’t much competition. With Rhonda down the street and Teresa from school as my fellow students, you can’t help but stand out.”
My mom laughed merrily because Rhonda and Teresa are great girls. I grew up with them, after all. But Rhonda has two left feet, and I don’t know how she’s stuck with ballet this long. And Teresa? That girl is so tall she’d be better off as an Olympic basketball player.
But hey, this is Janesville, Kansas, and we’re lucky even to have a ballet studio. I’m not sure why Miss Harrison came and started one a couple years back, but I was so excited when it happened. The minute that “Open” sign appeared in the window, I’d begged my mom for lessons.
“Please,” I’d pleaded. “Mom, you know how much I love dance.”
Mary had nodded.
“I know sweetheart, I know. But we don’t have that much money left over from your Dad’s life insurance, and I don’t want to leave you with nothing. We have to budget, honey, and ballet lessons are bound to be expensive.”
I’d been thirteen then, a sulky, self-absorbed teen, stalking off to my bedroom in a huff before slamming the door. Surely Mary could see how important this was to me. And besides, we were fine. Dad’s insurance had left us with a good amount after he died, and Mom didn’t even have to work. So how bad could it be?
But soon a soft knock sounded on my door.
“Kitty, may I come in?” came Mary’s voice. “Kitty?”
I snorted again, still huffy and upset. But fine. We could talk.
“Come in!” I said sulkily.
The door opened to reveal my mom’s pudgy form, her hair in a graying bun. I feel for Mary, I do really. After my dad died, she fell into a tailspin of depression and sadness. Grandma Nancy had had to live with us for a while to take care of me and make sure food got on the table because Mary couldn’t even get out of bed.
But in the decade since, Mom has recovered. She’s disabled, so she doesn’t work a formal job. Instead, Mary stays home most days, doing some tailoring work for a nearby shop, but really, we’re living off of the proceeds of my dad’s life insurance policy.
“Honey, you’re old enough so that we can have an adult conversation,” began my mom gently, the bed creaking a little as she sat next to me. I moved Raggedy Ann out of the way, refusing to look at her.
“What?” I mumbled, staring out the window.
“Honey, we didn’t get that much from life insurance, you know that,” Mary said gently.
I interrupted.
“But you don’t work! I mean, not really. You just help out with a couple things from the shop. That’s not real working.”