by Tar-Silmarien
After Mallory's turn was over, we trooped down to the kitchen to "raid the refrigerator", as Claudia called it. She did most of the raiding, while the rest of us stood by the stairs, waiting.
After a while, Kristy got fed up and said, "Oh, let's just go upstairs again. It's not like she needs a guide or anything."
So we trooped up to Kristy's room again and got settled in. I was just about to suggest starting up the memories again, because I had the perfect one in my mind all ready to go, but the door opened and Claudia came in, looking disgruntled. "Hey! Didn't I tell you guys to wait?"
"There's already food up here, you know. It's not like we were starving," commented Mallory.
"Yes, but it's good to be prepared," Claud grinned, biting into a Mars Bar.
There was enough food in the room to last us several more sleepovers, but I chose not to point that out. "Uh, you guys? I've got my memory."
The others quickly quieted down and gave me their full attention as I began my story.
It was my tenth Christmas. Piles of presents were stacked under the Christmas tree, which brushed the ceiling and was dripping with homemade decorations. The kinara stood on the mantelpiece, ready to be lit. A fat snowman was sitting in the middle of the lawn, sparkling white snowflakes drifting down from the sky.
Becca was almost hysterical with excitement, bouncing around the house, shaking presents, swiping gingerbread cookies from the jar, and singing carols at the top of her lungs. Her excitement seemed to spill over to Squirt, who was just six months old, but still waved his stuffed reindeer around happily as he lay on his blanket in front of the tree.
I was also deliriously happy, but not for the same reason. In spite of the festive cheer that surrounded the house, I could only think of the announcement that my ballet teacher, Mrs. McLeod, had made the week before. The words still rang in my head:
"Since you've been working so hard, ladies, I think it's time that you went on pointe."
Screams of joy proceeded these words, as my class jumped, twirled, and leaped around the studio, hugging each other, Mrs. McLeod, and even the piano player, who looked slightly weirded out, but stayed.
"Next week, a lady from the shoe store will come with some toe shoes you can try on, and then after the Christmas break, we'll start some simple excersises at the barre," Mrs. McLeod explained. "See you on Thursday."
When Daddy came to pick me up, I jumped into the car and began chattering excitedly. "Guess what! We're allowed to get our first pointe shoes, Daddy! Next week! I'm going to look so beautiful, to stand on my toes, like the Sugar Plum Fairy in The Nutcracker! I'll dance on a big stage, and there'll be snow falling on my hair, and a handsome prince will come and twirl me around…" I sighed dreamily, imagining the audience throwing roses at me as I curtsied again and again.
Daddy laughed, reached over and patted my head. "You're getting to be a big girl," he said fondly.
I was too busy deciding whether my tutu would be pink or white to notice.
The week crawled slowly by. Thursday seemed to be an eternity away. I danced around the house, listened to music from Swan Lake and Coppélia, wore my leotard and tights all the time. Nothing distracted me, except for the evening when Daddy came home from work with tickets to see the New York City Ballet dance The Nutcracker. I hugged him over and over again, then locked them in my piggy bank and forbade anyone to even look at them.
I dreamed dance, I lived dance, I breathed dance, until the fateful day finally came. I insisted on having Daddy drive me to ballet half an hour before the lesson started, then chatted with the other girls – of course, about our toe shoes – until we were allowed into the studio.
We were disappointed that Mrs. McLeod made us do our regular excersises until "the shoe lady", as we called her, arrived.
When she did come, we jostled for position, each wanting to be fitted first. We finally drew numbers out of a hat, and I was fourth to last.
Enviously, I watched the other girls being fitted with shoes, each triumphantly carrying the precious pink satin slippers into the changeroom.
After what seemed like hours, my turn came. I eagerly tried on pair after pair, but Mrs. McLeod shook her head after each one and motioning me to try another one on. My heart sank lower and lower as the "already tried" pile grew larger and larger, and the untried pile smaller and smaller.
Finally, after all the other students were gone and Mama had come into the studio to see what was holding me up, the shoe lady shook her head sadly and said, "None of these shoes here fit your foot. It's too long and thin. But not to worry. I can order them in from Europe."
"How long will it take?" I asked, dreading the answer.
"At the best, a month. At the worst, three."
Mrs. McLeod caught my crestfallen look and said kindly, "I'll do whatever I can to get them in quickly."
I nodded in resignation, then ran to the changeroom and got dressed. I managed to hold my composure as I climbed into the car, not hearing Mama's reassurances. I made it through dinner, through homework, through bathtime. It was only in my dark bedroom that I allowed myself to cry.
Going on pointe is possibly the most exciting moment of a dancer's life. A milestone, a graduation from student to ballerina, from little kid to young adult, from junior to senior. Those pink satin shoes would be her most prized possession for weeks.
And I wouldn't reach that milestone until three months later. While everyone was at the barre rising to the tips of their toes, I'd still be stuck on demi pointe.
I walked in a fog for the next week, unable to dig myself out of the pit I'd put myself into. Mama and Daddy were getting worried, I knew, but still, I was depressed.
On Christmas Eve, we dressed up and went to the River Run Center to see The Nutcracker. I was able to forget my woes as I was swept up by the classic Christmas story. I stood up and clapped at the end, and was delighted when I managed to get an autographed shoe from one of the dancers.
But looking at the shoe, I still wished for one of my own.
Standing in the lobby as I waited for the rest of the family to come out of the washrooms, I looked around, hoping to see one of the dancers, to maybe ask for another autograph. I took no notice of the woman walking past until she turned to look at me. I then recognized her as the ballerina who had danced the part of the Sugar Plum Fairy.
"Are you lost?" she asked me.
I shook my head mutely. Her gaze fell to the shoe clutched in my hand and said, "I see you've gotten a pointe shoe of mine. You're a dancer too, right?"
Surprised, I looked at her. "Yes, I am. How did you know?"
She laughed and said, "You've got beautifully long, stretched legs. The way you carry yourself also gives it away. Are you on pointe yet?"
I lowered my eyes and sighed, "Well – sort of."
"What do you mean?"
I looked at her, and suddenly I was telling her all about last Thursday and how none of the shoes fit me. "I hate my feet," I muttered hopelessly.
She looked at my feet and told me to take off my shoe. I did, and she picked up my right foot and examined it closely. She then took off her own shoe and compared her foot to mine, then straightened up and said, "Come."
All my mother's warnings about strangers slipped from my mind as I followed the fairy down the hall to her dressing room. She opened her bag, pulled out a brand new pair of pointe shoes, and said, "Try these on."
I pulled them on, hopefully. I was disappointed that they were just as uncomfortable as the ones I'd tried on in the studio.
"Mmmm…yes. Well, I think these shoes should serve you well. You can keep them." She walked over to her dressing table and began to unbraid her hair.
"But – but they're so uncomfortable!" I gasped.
She smiled, amused, and said, "No one ever said that going on pointe is painless. I speak from experience."
A slow warmth seemed to engulf me, starting from my head and creeping down to my toes. Warmth turned into happiness, which turned into euphoria. I rose, unsteadily to be sure, onto the tips of my toes, then yelling my thanks to the fairy, I picked up my shoes and ran into the lobby to show my parents.
Christmas had never been better.
"You did get your wish," said Mallory. "You danced the Sugar Plum Fairy in The Nutcracker this Christmas."
I smiled and replied, "Yeah, I know. It was like a dream come true. I wish I knew the name of the dancer who gave me my first pointe shoes, but I'll always remember that might." Despite how corny it may have sounded, it was true.
Tar-Silmarien was our first reviewer and has graciously stepped in to write Jessi's chapter.