Cuchifrita, Ballerina Read online

  While I try to find my size—petite—I hear someone in back of me mutter, “Excuse me.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I turn and apologize to this blond girl, because I’m blocking her view of the tights rack. As she reaches over me for a pair of flesh-colored tights, I notice that her hair is pulled back so tight that her eyes are slanting like a mummy’s.

  Yuk, why is she buying beige tights? I ask myself as she walks away. I look at her legs to see if she is a ballerina, but I don’t think so. She must be a jazz dancer or something, because those tights are very, very unprofessional. I can just see Mrs. Bermudez, my old ballet teacher at Ballet Hispanico, pulling her to the side, and telling her so. “Pink is what dancers wear onstage,” I heard her tell the pobrecita who made the mistake of wearing beige tights in class one day.

  I scan the rack of pointe shoes—first picking up a pair of satin ones, then deciding on a pair of Capezios in leather. I ask the saleslady for a pair in a size seven. Taking off my red ballet flats and red socks, I wiggle my toes so they can breathe. That’s when I notice that my big toenail is purple, and the rest of my toenails are an ugly yellow color. Oh, well, that’s the price I have to pay for doing pointe work. I won’t be getting a pedicure for a long time. When you’re training, you need all the lumps, bumps, and calluses you can develop, to protect your tootsies.

  The good thing is, I have a squarish foot with short toes that are almost all the same size. They are the best feet you can have as a ballerina. I didn’t know this until Mrs. Bermudez looked at my feet one day and told me so. I’m also lucky because I don’t have a high arch—which looks prettier in pointe shoes, but is not as strong or easy to control.

  “How do those fit?” the saleslady asks me.

  “Fine,” I say, smiling as I gaze starstruck at my new Cinderella slippers.

  “You look so pretty in that red outfit,” the lady says, beaming at me. I wish I could tell her that she would look tan coolio in something red too, instead of that skirt suit in drab green—or as Bubbles would call it, “tacky khaki.” Red would go better with her beautiful black hair and exotic brown eyes.

  Just to make sure I don’t insult her or something, I ask, “Where are you from?”

  “Tokyo,” she says, beaming at me like she’s so happy I asked.

  I’m not sure where Tokyo is. The saleslady picks up on my blank expression and says, “Japan.”

  “Oh!” I exclaim, suddenly remembering that word the Japanese lady said at the Blessing of the Insects, when she tried to get past me to the altar. “Do you know what, um, ‘cootie say’ means?”

  Suddenly I feel stupid. The saleslady is probably tired of people asking her questions like that, and making her feel like a foreigner all the time. (I know Mom hates it when people can tell she is Dominican. She likes to pretend that she is French, or even just plain ole American—which, according to my history teacher, Mr. Globee, doesn’t even exist anyway.)

  But it looks like the saleslady is getting more excited by my question than insulted, because she starts laughing. “Oh! Maybe you mean—kudasai?”

  “Yes!” I say, so happy that we’re finally speaking the same language.

  “Yes—that means ‘please’ in Japanese!” she exclaims, and I can tell she is happy she could help me.

  Now I stand on pointe to make sure their is enough room in the toe. Contrary to what people believe, the pointe shoe doesn’t hold you up—it’s your foot, supported by your legs, supported by your middle.

  “I wish I could do that!” the saleslady exclaims.

  I smile, but try not to get distracted by how nice she’s being—because I have to concentrate to make sure these are the right shoes for me. Each and every pair of pointe shoes are handmade, and they’re kinda like snowflakes—they may look alike, but they’re all unique, and have all sorts of variations in the sizing.

  “Which company do you dance with?” the saleslady asks.

  “Oh, I’m not with a company—yet,” I say nonchalantly, but I’m so flattered that she thinks I am a professional ballerina. Now I feel as proud as a peacock—and my feathers are definitely starting to spread. “I have an audition,” I say. Then I realize that I’m telling a fib-eroni—because I don’t even know yet if I have an audition —not until I leave here, and check with the American Ballet Theatre office.

  Well, I almost have an audition. So I tell her, “I’m going to be doing ‘Black Butterfly,’ so I have to make sure the shoe is hard enough to do thirty-two fouettes.” Fouettes are a very demanding type of turn, so I’ll be en pointe constantly in front of the judges. Of course, I’m not going to have to do the whole piece for the audition—but still …

  The saleslady is staring at me, waiting for me to make up my mind.

  “I’ll try one more pair before I decide,” I tell her, hoping she doesn’t get annoyed.

  But I don’t think she does, because she brings me three other kinds of pointe shoes, and lets me try them all on in peace.

  “I’ll take these,” I tell the saleslady, finally deciding on the fourth pair, which seems to have the most room at the toe for padding. Once I get to the register, I ask for some ribbon and lambswool. The lambswool will protect my tootsies, and minimize the rubbing of the skin against my shoe, but still let me feel the floor.

  “Which kind do you want?” the man behind the counter asks me, placing different types of lambswool on the counter so I can touch them.

  “This one,” I say, settling on the fluffier brand—which will wrap around my trouble spots (my big toe, the little toe, the knuckles, and the tips of my toes) without giving me grief afterward.

  “How much ribbon do you want?”

  Now is not the time to skimp on ribbon. “Um, six—no, make that six and a half yards,” I say proudly. There has to be enough ribbon to cross over my foot at the front, and wrap twice around my ankle to tie in a neat knot (not a bow, which is very unprofessional) at the back, outside the ankle—the part that doesn’t show when my feet are turned out.

  “What color?” the man asks, annoyed because I’m holding him up, and he has other people to wait on. Everywhere you go in New York, there is always a line, it seems!

  “Oh, I’m sorry—the flesh-colored one.”

  As I walk around the corner to the American Ballet Theatre, I stare closely at the sidewalk for any good omens. If I find money on the sidewalk—even a penny—in brujería it will mean something good is going to happen to me! Santa Maria, Sophia, and Catalina, please give me a sign—por favor!

  Suddenly, I notice that I’m dillydallying on the sidewalk. I guess I’m nervous about going to American Ballet Theatre—what if they tell me I don’t have an audition? Or that they lost my application? I’ll die right there on the spot! For the first time today, I wish Bubbles and Dorinda could be here with me. I always feel stronger when I’m around them. I smile to myself, thinking of the new nickname Bubbles gave me—Miss Cuchifrita Ballerina.

  Oh, that’s right. Aqua and Angie’s school—the Performing Arts Annex—is right here in back of Lincoln Center too. Maybe I should try to find them? Nah—it’s already four o’clock, and they’ve probably already left for the nearest BBQ hut. No, wait—there is one day of the week that they stay after school, and take extracurricular activities. Is it Monday or Thursday? I can’t remember. I shake my head to get rid of the cobwebs—I suddenly feel so confused and light-headed.

  At last, I find myself at the entrance of the American Ballet Theatre. Even though it’s only three blocks away from the ballet shop, I feel like Little Red Riding Hood making her way through the forest! Taking a deep breath, I open the heavy wooden door. My heart is beating so fast when I walk up to the receptionist that I think I’m going to have a heart attack!

  “Can I help you?” she asks, but she isn’t smiling, which makes me even more nervous!

  “I, um, filled out a form, I mean I sent in an application for the Junior Corps—”

  “You want to know if you have an audition d
ate?” the receptionist cuts me off.

  “Um, sí—I mean, yes,” I stutter. Now I’m really blushing, because I always lapse into Spanish when I,m nervous, and she must think I’m kinda slow or something!

  “What is your name?”

  “Chanel Simmons,” I say quietly.

  “Have a seat, someone will be right with you.”

  I always hate when people say that, because sometimes that means that you are in big trouble—like when I used to get called to the principal’s office in grade school.

  I look around at all the beautiful ballet posters in the office. Well, I am definitely not in grade school anymore. I sitting in the reception area of American Ballet Theatre—which has some of greatest ballet dancers in the world.

  Ooo, look—Paulina Perez! I stare at the poster of one of my favorite ballet dancers. She is so beautiful and graceful. “There was never a more beautiful Giselle …”—that’s what Mom said after she saw her in a production of it when she was younger.

  “Chanel Simmons?” asks a lady who has stepped out from behind a door.

  “Yes,”I respond, snapping out of my daydream.

  “Please, come in. I’m Mrs. Chavez, the Junior Corps registrar.”

  I follow her into a tiny, cramped office. “Please sit down,” she says, motioning for me to sit in the chair directly opposite her desk. I winder if this means I didn’t get an audition.

  Mrs. Chavez shuffles through some papers, then says, “Ah, yes.” She sits quietly as she examines my form. I can tell it’s mine, because I filled it out in red ink. Mrs. Chavez looks at me, but she isn’t smiling. “I see you attended Ballet Hispanico from the age of six till twelve. Where did you go after that?”

  “I, um, have been practicing at the studio in my, um, apartment, well, we live in a loft.”

  “Oh?”

  “Um, we have a barre in the studio and everything. My mother takes, um, dancing,” I say, deciding that I’m not going to tell Mrs. Chavez about Mom’s latest obssession with wiggling her belly button in the mirror!

  “Chanel—we received a recommendation from your teacher at Ballet Hispanico. She feels you could do the work if you put your mind to it, but it seems—”

  “I’m ready to put my mind to it now,” I say, feeling the heat flash around my temples, then shut my boca grande out of embarrassment for interrupting Mrs. Chavez in the first place.

  “Like I was saying,” Mrs. Chavez says slowly, making me feel embarrassed all over again, “Mrs. Bermudez felt your decision to interrupt your studies was influenced by your best friend, um—?”

  “Galleria.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Chavez says, then pauses, which I take as my cue to explain or plead my case.

  “Galleria, um, didn’t want to take ballet classes anymore—and even though I wanted to continue, I didn’t. See, my parents were getting a divorce around that time, and I didn’t want them to have to pay for it. …” I’m shrieking inside, because maybe I’m talking too much.

  “The divorce?” Mrs. Chavez asks, confused.

  “No!” I say, turning so red I match my sweater, “I mean, they didn’t want to pay for my ballet classes.”

  “I see,” Mrs. Chavez says, softening just a little—gracias gooseness! “Do you think you are really ready to dedicate your life to ballet?”

  I freeze inside. What does she mean by my life? “Well, I’m ready to work really hard practicing and rehearsing.” Por favor, Dios, please let that answer her question!

  “I’m curious, Chanel—what made you change your mind?” Mrs. Chavez asks, and now I see a little twinkle in her eyes, which means she must like me.

  “I’m fourteen now—and if I don’t get into a company soon, it will be too late for me.” I say, trying to seem as serious as I am.

  “Dedicating one’s life to ballet is a serious commitment—and very few girls each year are invited from outside the school to join the company in any of the divisions.” Mrs. Chavez pauses again, as if she is thinking. “In light of Mrs. Bermudez’s recommendation, we are going to allow you to audition for the Junior Corps.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Chavez!” I say, finally letting out a sigh of relief.

  “But I just want you to know, Chanel, that if you are not accepted, you may always feel free to audition for our school, or for other schools.” Mrs. Chavez sounds like she’s trying to soften the blow. “It’s the pursuit of ballet that is most important—not the institution.”

  “But I want to be with American Ballet Theatre,” I protest.

  Before I can tell Mrs. Chavez why—because Paulina Perez is my favorite dancer in the whole world—she is dismissing me. “Here is the information you will need for the audition on Saturday.”

  Mrs. Chavez hands me a form, and I want to bolt for the door. Corra, corra! I should just run away now—I’m not ready for an audition yet!

  Taking another deep breath, I realize that I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. I have been practicing for weeks. Ever since October, when Dorinda auditioned to be a backup dancer for Mo’ Money Monique’s tour, I secretly knew I wanted to try out for ballet again, and I started to practice whenever I got the chance. I just never told anybody.

  I only have to audition for fifteen minutes—what could possibly go wrong? I could do the steps from “Black Butterfly” backward—every combination, every grande battement, and, most importantly, every fouette—those beautiful turns that I have worked so hard to do perfectly.

  Walking toward the subway, I read my audition sheet over and over, to make sure I don’t miss anything. “Wear comfortable clothes. Don’t do a segment longer than fifteen minutes. Blah, blah …”

  I’m not looking where I’m going. As a result, I miss the first step going down to the subway, and almost trip down the rest! Luckily, the man in front of me breaks my fall.

  “You all right?” he asks, concerned.

  “Yes,” I respond, feeling like a babosa. Whenever I get nervous, I always seem to do stupid things! I clutch the plastic bag containing my beautiful new pointe shoes. Catching my breath, I get to the bottom of the subway stairs in one piece. I can’t wait to get home and sew on the ribbons, then break them in during practice with Melissa.

  I chuckle, thinking about what Bubbles shouted out to Melissa this afternoon: “Melissa, don’t dis her!” Bubbles is so funny. Suddenly, I feel a pang in my chest. I really do think of Bubbles as my sister. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for her. I mean, going to Fashion Industries East High School and being in the Cheetah Girls.

  The only thing we don’t have in common anymore is ballet. I sigh away the sadness. If I could have one wish, I would ask a fairy godmother to make Bubbles a ballerina too—then we would really be the dynamic duo, bound till death—and we could pirouette to a payday!

  Chapter

  8

  I’m too excited to eat dinner. I run straight to the exercise studio, to sew the beautiful ribbons onto my pointe shoes. I plop down on the floor, happy that Mom and some lady I’ve never seen before are too busy in the den to care about me.

  I rifle through my heart-shaped thread box, looking for the right thread to use. I put back the cotton thread, and settle on the crochet kind—it’s stronger than cotton, which rots and snaps after being rubbed by my sweaty feet. I bend the heel so it lies flat against the side of my left pointe shoe. That way, I can find the right place to sew the ribbon.

  After I finish, I sew dressmaker’s tape on the inside, to make the ribbons especially strong. This way, when I wear out these pointe shoes, I can use the ribbon over again. Sometimes I’m such a smart señorita! I say to myself proudly, as I sit and gaze at my pointe shoes. Then I change into my unitard and put them on.

  The doorbell rings, and I jump up to get it, noticing that I’m feeling a little light-headed again. I wonder if I’m coming down with a virus, I think, panicking to myself. Maybe I’m better drink a glass of water.

  “I’ll get it,” I yell, so Mom doesn’t have to come out of the den. I
want her to keep busy talking to the lady.

  “Hola, Melissa!” I say excitedly, hugging her, then ushering her right into the exercise studio. Melissa is looking around like she is really impressed.

  “Your hallway is five times bigger than my whole apartment!” she says with glee, then gasps at the exercise studio. “Ay, Dios mío, if I had this to practice in, I’d never leave my house!” Her eyes are moving around like pinballs.

  “Well, I can’t even get in here half the time,” I protest. “My mother exercises twice a day.”

  “Verdad? Really?” Melissa asks, impressed.

  “She used to be a model,” I offer in explanation.

  “Really?” Melissa says, sounding like a broken record.

  “Really—and believe me, she works really hard to stay skinny. More than me!” I say, laughing. “Hey, guess what? I got an audition for the Junior Ballet Corps!!”

  “Really?” Melissa responds, her big brown eyes opening even wider, but now even she’s laughing at herself for saying the same thing over and over again.

  “Really, mija—so we’ve got to practice hard!” I show off my new pointe shoes. “I went to Tippy toes after school.”

  “Well, let’s break them in,” Melissa says, getting serious. I can tell that she loves ballet as much as I do. She changes into her leotard and begins her warm-ups at the barre.

  I can’t help but notice how much smaller her butt is than mine. Suddenly, I feel insecure. My butt sticks out too much for me to be a ballerina.

  “How is Mrs. Bermudez?” I ask. Now I miss her, since she gave me such a good recommendation to Mrs. Chavez.

  “Strict as ever, but she doesn’t teach the advanced classes anymore,” Melissa says. “We have a new teacher, Mrs. Ferrer—she came from the Joffrey, and she’s really strict.”

  “Really?” I respond, sounding just like Melissa. Joffrey Ballet School is in New York too, and it’s just as famous as American Ballet Theatre. Maybe I should try out there, too. Their students graduate to the Joffrey Ballet Company, and to companies all over the world—sometimes even to faraway places like Eastern Europe, where Princess Pamela is from. That would be so exotic! I think dreamily to myself as I warm up.