Well, they have one daughter who’s making them proud. Christina dances with the School of American Ballet, and they love to remind me I haven’t made it yet. Although I know Broadway isn’t their dream for me—nothing compares to ballet—they’ve sucked it up and find it somewhat acceptable. It’s better than nothing, they often say.
“When did the physiotherapist say you can dance again?”
What about asking if I’m okay? Or what happened? I should be used to the lack of interest in my life and well-being. Performing is what’s important. And if I’m not doing it, I should do everything I can to get there.
“I haven’t seen a physiotherapist yet, so I’m not sure when I can dance.”
“What!” she screeches through the phone, and I hold it away from my ear. “Why not? It’s the first thing you should have done. The longer you leave it, the worse it will get.”
“It’s not so bad,” I say to calm her down. “It’s just a sprain.”
“Oh…well…” I hear her sigh of relief. “If that’s the case, strap it and take pain killers. Audition on one leg if you must. God knows how many times I’ve danced with broken toes, and I never let it stop me.” It’s not the first time I’ve heard that story.
I look at my swollen and bruised ankle propped on a pillow. “You’re right. That’s what I’ll do,” I lie. I’m not risking more damage.
“I’m assuming this means you’re not working at the strip club?” I can picture her screwing her nose at the words ‘strip club.’ If my parents are embarrassed because I haven’t made a big name for myself on stage, they’re mortified that I’m dancing at The Temple. Even though I don’t take my clothes off, they find it degrading.
“I asked for time off.”
“Just time off? Maybe this is an excellent opportunity to quit. Then you can focus one-hundred percent onrealdancing and get your career on track.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose.Breathe in, breathe out.I know she thinks she’s being encouraging, yet her words make me feel like crap. She’ll never accept the way I make money.
“I have bills, Mom. Like rent and food. I need the job at The Temple.”
I don’t tell her about my temporary job with Miss Lucia, because she’ll only tell me that’s where I should stay. I do love it there, and Miss Lucia would give me a permanent job if I wanted one. In my mother’s eyes, it’s a more ‘respectable’ job than the club. And damn it, I don’t want to give her the satisfaction.
“Oh, please. We have a perfectly good apartment in the Upper West Side where you can live. We’ll provide it fully stocked with food and whatever else you need each week. You won’t have to worry about anything except auditions.”
I take a deep breath. “Mom, thank you, but I don’t need the apartment. I can take care of myself.” After all the dance, singing, and acting lessons they paid for when I was growing up, at twenty-four I want to support myself. I’m doing a damn good job too. The Temple is far from the classiest club, but the tips are great.
I can’t keep having this conversation with my mother. It only reiterates what a failure I am. How my work is degrading and distasteful. If I’m to be accepted in the family, I have to aim higher in my career. Grace the stage with my name up in lights. To them, it shouldn’t matter if I work in a strip club or Broadway. Why can’t they love me and be proud of who I am? Not what I do.
Before she can lecture me more on my living conditions, I say, “Gotta go, Mom. Someone’s at the door. Love you. Bye.”
I hang up, toss the phone on the sofa next to me, and scrub my hands over my face. No one is at the door. I’m still waiting for my food to arrive. Although, I don’t think I can eat anything. Nausea rolls in the pit of my stomach. It often happens when I talk to my parents.
If I don’t make it on Broadway, I’ll always be a disappointment to them. So Imustmake it. There’s no other choice. As soon as my ankle is healed, I’m focusing all my attention on a Broadway career. I’m not letting any distractions get in my way. I want this. Been dreaming of performing since I watched my first show,The Phantom of the Opera, when I was five.
While picturing my life on stage, why does my chest feel heavy?
Chapter Eight
HAYDEN
When we arrive home after ballet class, Lily dumps her dance bag by the front door and stomps up the stairs. The slamming of her bedroom door soon follows. What is wrong? I couldn’t get a word out of her on the car ride home. If she doesn’t talk to me, how can I help her?
Making my way to her room, I knock on the door, and I enter. Lily is lying on her back, staring at the ceiling. As soon as she sees me, she flips onto her side to face the wall.
“Hey, Lily Pily. Can we talk?” I take cautious steps toward her, like I’m approaching a wild animal. When she doesn’t answer, I sit on the edge of the bed, facing her back, and rest a hand on her hip. “Have I done something to upset you?”
Is she at the age where all I need to do is breathe and I’ll annoy her? No, there’s more to it. Something must have happened at school, and for some reason, she’s taking it out on me.
I hear her sniff, and she shakes her head.
“Are you having trouble with your friends from school or in ballet class?”
Another sniff. She doesn’t deny it.
