Disappointments--Prologue
By Steph or as I'm also known, Reeka
(awriter78@hotmail.com)
Summary--A story about Paris, her family and Harvard.
Rating-PG
Disclaimer--I do not own these characters.
Thank you to Nate and Jamie for letting me use ideas from the Round Robin for this story.
This is my first Paris story. To be honest, this is my first non-satirical story that's about someone besides Luke. Please R/R.
Growing up, Paris had never been a girly-girl.
She had never played with Barbie dolls, never had any desire to play dress-up, never felt an urge to go to her mother's vanity and paint her lips red and greasy or paint her eyelashes till they stuck together in one sticky, black clump.
So it was a shock when her mother announced one day that Paris would immediately start taking ballet lessons at Miss Jenny's. According to Mrs. Gellar, Miss Jenny used to be a professional ballerina and it was very difficult to get your child into her class.
"Ballet?" Paris asked skeptically. This was the first she had heard about it. She didn't like the idea of ballet. She had more serious things to do with her time.
"Yes," Mrs. Gellar said sharply. "All the prominent families in this area have enrolled their little twits in this ballet class. And if it is good enough for them, it is good enough for you."
"Not that we think you're a twit," Paris' father had pointed out before going back to his newspaper.
"Of course not," Paris' mother said. "But this is a very exclusive ballet school. You should be grateful that our name still means something in this area." At this statement, she looked pointedly at her husband, who didn't react, oblivious to everything but the paper.
Paris wasn't feeling grateful yet. She turned to her mother, "I don't like ballet."
Her mother, a woman who wasn't used to having her decisions questioned, pursed her lips and said, "Harvard likes ballet."
Harvard liked ballet? Well if Harvard liked ballet, then Paris would learn to like ballet. So every Saturday morning, in between working an hour at the local soup kitchen and her afternoon shift at the tutoring center, Paris put on her ghastly pink puff of a tutu and even uglier pink shoes and she would dance.
She was not a natural dancer, but she was more driven than the average nine-year-old (some would say she was more driven than the average forty-year-old) and she worked hard until her steps were perfect, until she knew the routines like the back of her hand, until she knew enough where she could correct the other girls when they made mistakes. And they made a lot of mistakes.
All these practices, these stupid, monotonous routines, were of course leading up to a performance. A piece of drivel called "The Beautiful Snow Queen." One girl would be the Snow Queen, the other five in the class, the losers, would be princesses. Miss Jenny thought that there'd be less competition that way. Miss Jenny, Paris concluded, wasn't very bright.
"Paris," her mother said. "We'll get your hair cut before the performance, maybe get a few more highlights around the crown, it will draw attention away from some of the sharper angles in your face. And remember, everyone will be watching the Snow Queen, so the cook will have to start fixing you healthier, lower fat meals. That tutu has to fit. And we'll definitely have to cut out all dairy. You don't do well with dairy."
Paris frowned, embarrassed. "We haven't even had the tryouts yet."
Her mother sighed. "I don't even know why they're bothering to hold auditions. Who else are they going to give the part to? Madison Birmingham? That fool still doesn't know her right foot from her left. Or that one girl? What's her name? Catherine? She's at least thirty pounds overweight. They'll have to roll her on stage."
Paris didn't answer, just continued practicing. And on the day of the auditions, her mother dropped her off with these warm and fuzzy parting words, "Are you sure you haven't been eating dairy?"
"Yes," Paris said.
"Well fine. I'm going shopping and I'll be back in an hour to come get you." With that, she got back into the car and the driver sped away.
"Good luck, Paris," Paris muttered to herself as she walked into the studio.
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Paris sat alone, away from the five other girls, her head down in shame. She heard the familiar clackety-clack of her mother's heels and looked up.
"Where is this dance teacher of yours? Where is this spectacular Miss Jenny?" she asked, spitting out the words angrily. Paris pointed and put her head back down. Her mother grabbed her arm. "Come with me."
"Excuse me," she said. "Miss Jenny? I'm Renee Gellar, Paris' mother."
Miss Jenny smiled. "It's nice to meet you Ms. Gellar. Paris is doing beautifully."
Paris' mother sneered. "She is? And yet not beautifully enough to warrant the lead in this charade of a recital?"
At this, Paris flushed and looked down. She suddenly wished to be anywhere but there. She suddenly wished to be anybody but herself.
Miss Jenny fidgeted nervously. "There was another girl who fit the part of the Snow Queen better than Paris. Now that shouldn't be a reflection on Paris' abilities. Paris is doing remarkably well and her dancing…"
"Quit the bullshit," Ms. Gellar said. "I'm not one of your students who wouldn't know any better. Tell me. Who is this girl that supposedly fits this part so well?"
Miss Jenny sheepishly pointed to a girl who was twirling around in a corner. The three of them watched her twirl in circles until she fell down. The girl got up, giggled, and said to no one in particular, "That made me dizzy." In spite of that proclamation, she began twirling again.
"Why on earth is that clumsy girl Snow Queen?" Renee asked.
"That's Madeline. Although I will admit that some of her skills need a little fine-tuning, she just has so much enthusiasm. There's so much joy in her dancing. Paris," Miss Jenny began, "Paris' steps are perfect, but she doesn't look happy."
"And you would know if a child was happy?"
"You can tell," Miss Jenny said. "And an unhappy child is an unpleasant dancer whether their steps are technically perfect or not. An unhappy child is not entertaining to the audience."
Renee Gellar rolled her eyes impatiently at this explanation. "Ridiculous. Come on Paris. Let's go." She walked out of the hall, expecting Paris to follow.
Paris looked up at Miss Jenny. The dance teacher patted her head sympathetically. "I'm sorry."
Paris shook her head, suddenly feeling irritated with her teacher and her mindless niceties. "Don't be." Then she walked outside where her mother was waiting.
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As one of the five princesses, Paris danced perfectly. She even tried dancing with a goofy, simpering smile on her face to show everyone how happy and joyful she was. As soon as she realized how stupid she must look, she stopped.
It didn't matter. She kept the same expression on her face when Madison bumped into her, kept the same expression on her face when Madeline had her solo which she performed competently if not well, kept the same expression on her face when she realized that her parents weren't in the audience.
When the show was over, Madeline came over to her. "Do you need a ride? My dad will take us for ice cream."
"No," Paris said keeping her voice even and her eyes dry, "my mother will be coming any second. And I can't have dairy."
"Okay," Madeline said cheerfully. "Bye."
After twenty minutes of waiting inside, she sat on bench in front of the bus stop near the school. She wondered if anybody would notice if she got on the next bus and never returned home. Probably not. She was considering where she would go, when her nanny drove up.
"Paris," Nanny said, "I'm sorry for being late."
"No big deal," Paris said shrugging her shoulders. She got into the car.
Nanny watched her a second before saying softly, "Usted merece mejor."
Paris didn't answer her or even acknowledge that she understood even though she had been fluent in Spanish since she was seven.
She must have really disappointed her parents.
Well, tonight they really disappointed her.
And although she didn't know it at the time, this was nothing compared to what lay ahead.
This was nothing compared to what would happen nine years later when she would find out that she hadn't been accepted into Harvard.
To be continued…
Usted merece major--(according to Babel Fish)-- "You deserve better."