So...She Dances
"Are you ready, Annabelle?"
"Just — one — second!" I called from the top of the stairs, hopping on one foot, trying desperately to shove my sneakers on. I could have worn my outfit to the studio, but wearing a ballet outfit down a Port Angeles street could get you some really funny looks, so it was in my bag. Not that I wasn't all for funny, but my dad would probably have a fit. He was all for having a son, but my mom could only handle one baby, and poof! Out popped Anna. Not Mitchell, Anna. Annabelle Lisa Winston. It always sounded so proper – a dancer's name, I guess. Not a name for a goofball like me, but for a dancer like me. My two interlocking sides.
"Shoot," I muttered, trying to pull my finger out of the sneaker. My heel was in, but unfortunately, so was my index finger. Giving a yank, I heard my finger crack, something that I never did. Cracking fingers and knuckles was just disgusting to me. Taking the stairs two at a time, I met my father at the bottom. He looked almost nothing like me — His nose was long and big, while mine was curvy. His head was angular, mine was more rounded. And he was tall. Now, I wasn't extremely short, but to a good degree. I came up to just below his enormous shoulder.
"Ready," I said gleefully. Dance was my getaway.
"OK then, Anne...you go get in the car."
"Sure."
The car was gorgeous. Well, in a family sort of way. It was a minivan, but it was silver. I didn't know the name, but it was very...square. I normally didn't like such geometric shapes for my cars, but this one was special. The windshield sloped down elegantly, so it was like a box with one of the flaps put down. Except it was curvy. The car was hard to explain, but I loved it. The cashmere seats, especially. They were worn down and soft with age. This van had been around since I was five, but we didn't really need a minivan. It was from when my Grandpa had my dad and all five of his sisters. My poor dad. I bet they made him do dance class. It would have been good — show my dad some culture!
Climbing into the front seat, I settled down into it gently. It had a sort of "broken in" comfort that could only be found after something's been used for generations. Throwing my bag in behind me, not worrying what it hit, I prodded the button for the radio. My classical station. I didn't know the name of the song, but it made me think of a sad, slow waltz. Popping in my dance CD, "White Houses" blasted around the car. This was better. I did like classy music, but this was my solo dance piece.
My dad clambered ungracefully into the driver's side.
"Dad, could you try to drive above 'snail's pace' today? I want to get there on time. And ease up on the brake." He was such a horrible driver. Most dads were too fast. Mine? Total slug.
"Are you going to be a backseat driver?" His voice was rough and scraggily, like his beard.
"Um...I'm in the front seat. So, I guess that makes me...a front seat driver?"
We both laughed. It was easy to be with my dad, even though he wanted me to be Mitchell instead of his Annie. The thing that got me was that it was weird, too, because I wanted to be his Mitchell, too. I wanted to please him. My mother was...well...irresponsible at best, so I didn't have trouble getting on her good side. They — my mother and father — were divorced, and it was because they were so different. He was the logical one, and she was the daredevil. When I was little, I used to think they balanced each other out. Now I saw them for what they were — polar opposites.
Dad changed my song right at the bridge.
"My...fi — THRILLAH!! THRILLA NIGHT," blared the radio.
"God, Dad!" I shouted over the radio, but he only turned it up.
"You're Fighting For Your Life Inside A Killer, Thriller Tonight!"
It was so impossibly loud that I turned and stared out the window the rest of the way.
"Anne, Anne? Annie?" My dad was shaking my shoulder.
"Wha?" I blinked. We were outside the studio. "Oh. Um...bye, love you!"
Hauling my bag out of the backseat, I ran down the rest of the way to L'Académie d'Arielle Frances de Studio de Danse (Yeah, you want to try spelling that on your admissions papers? 'Why are you coming to the Academy? Please write in complete sentences!') The streets of Port Angeles were only just filling up, so I got there in no time, just enough to see my dad driving behind me, very conspicuously, might I add. I blew him an air-kiss before pulling open the old oak door with the wide glass pane that said:
L'Académie d'Arielle Frances de Studio de Danse
and in smaller print (much smaller, to fit it all):
Appréciez s'il vous plaît votre temps de danse et souvenez-vous : Nous ne voulons pas de danseurs qui veulent danser, nous voulons des danseurs qui DOIVENT danser!
-- -- -- --
"Take it from zee top, chéris!" Madame Frances called from her director's chair. The first thing I had ever noticed about her was her hair, and at the moment, it was sticking out in several odd angles. Like a beaten up triangle, made of curly red-orange hair that had to be the result of over-lightening brown hair. It was a brassy orange, not a color that was intended, I guess. We were doing tap at the moment, and the entire class groaned. For once in my life, I joined them. Three hours of dance — whether it be hip-hop, ballet, tap, jazz... — hadn't ever taken a toll on me, but for some reason, I had an enormous head ache. It was right at the back of my head, and it was nagging me to insanity. I couldn't think clearly, so I just lined up with the rest of my group. Madame Frances flipped on "Buttercup" by The Foundations, and we started tapping. It wasn't my favorite song to tap to, and it was sort of hard because it was a little slow for our level, but our group did OK with it, and we always tried to throw in extra fast moves to balance things out. We always managed to get away with a little bit of solo without the Frank-mister noticing. We always worked it out in free break time who's turn it was. Today was Kristen. She did a little wild tap thing from her spot. Frances didn't notice. My head was pounding, though, so I didn't catch a few steps.
"Very good, Oies Splendides!" cheered Madame Frances.
"Did she just call us —"
"I think she really did —"
"Geese? Gorgeous Geese?"
Madame Frances had hit a new low. Twirling her wild orange hair around a finger, she waved her free hand, a signal that told us we were free to leave. Everyone dashed out, but I stayed behind. I had a private ballet lesson for my solo piece. It was something the Academy did to the person that the board — I had no idea what that was — picked out of each group that was above all the rest. Apparently, that was me this year, just like it was last year, and the year before when they started the whole thing. I was in for it.
-- -- -- --
"Annabelle? Are you paying attention?"
"No," I answered truthfully. "I have a horrible headache. May I be excused a little early?"
"Oui, oui. Avancez, alors, le chéri!" She often talked in french to her students, Madame Frances. Since I had grown up with a French grandmother around — my father's mother, my mom's mom was Irish, and great fun when she wasn't totally wasted — I was pretty much fluent in French, all save for the writing part. I just got so mixed up with all of the wacky spellings that I couldn't write a french word for my life, other than, "Oui".
"Merci beaucoup," I said gratefully, whisking myself and my baggage — one ballet bag with tap, hip-hop, and jazz outfits in it — into the waiting room where I would encounter my father. He wasn't always early, but I was surprised not to see him there when I entered. There was someone sitting in there from the La Push reservation, but I didn't think much of it.
"Quil Ateara?" called Madame Frances from behind me. The boy stood up, and I realized, with a jolt, that he was no boy. A very tall man, in fact, he look around twenty five.
"I'm considering dance lessons for my — for a girl named Claire," he said in a deep, husky voice.
"Yes, and vat does zee name have to do vit anyting?" I imagined that this Quil was having a hard time understanding my eccentric teacher's accent and wording. Vould you like a piece of pie? I said, vould you like a piece of pie? Vould you? Vould you like me to stop talking like zees? I bet you vould!
"Um...I don't know...? Look, how much are they, and who do you think would be teaching them?"
"Vell, I vill be teaching eet, of course. But Annabelle vill be student teaching, von't you, Annabelle?" I looked up at the sound of my name.
"I vill — I mean, I will?" I'd still been making fun of her accent, and I guess I'd carried it over to my normal speech patterns.
She huffed. "Vell, of course you vill, cheri! Did ve not tell you or somesing?"
"Um, yeah! You kinda missed mentioning that to me, Madame Frank — um, Frances." She must have been feeling a little slow today, because she missed my name slip-up, too.
"Vell, you vill be. Droit? Droit. Bien, sont vous dans?"
"Are you in," I translated quickly in Quil's ear. He gave a little nudge of thanks, then nodded.
"She's two," he put in.
"I am avare of zee age of said child. Ve discussed eet over zee phone? Oui?"
"Wewe, I mean, yes." He obviously didn't know much french.
"All settled! Voir-vous les jolis poulets plus tard, alors!" With that, she threw the keys at me and strode out the door. It was only then I noticed that she was wearing a leopard patterned leotard.
"What did she —,"
"She said 'See you pretty chickens later, then'. Yes. She actually just called the last class, 'Gorgeous Geese'. No lie. Well, I, er, have to lock up, I guess. And you should probably be getting back to your Claire...?"
"I don't live with Claire. I just visit."
"Oh...OK, then. Well, have a nice night!" As the enormous man left, I looked at the digital clock that hung on the steel-blue, peeling walls of the waiting room. It was 9:01. Dad was late.
Locking the door on my way out, I sat on my bag, waiting patiently for the car. I'd been here since five o'clock, and all I wanted to do was get home. Finally my favorite minivan pulled up.
"Sorry, hon, I had to grab groceries."
"Don't worry, Daddy. Your only ten minutes late..." I trailed off.
"I really, really and sorry," he apologized.
"Don't sweat it, Daddy-o. I just want to unload these groceries and go to bed."
He smiled, and pulled forward down the dark streets of Port Angeles, towards Forks, towards home.