Butterfly Child

                Sometimes I feel particularly good, like when I bite into a slice of a peach and separate the soft flesh with my tongue to savor the taste as much as possible.  I feel the same warm, enveloping sense of contentment and pleasure when I get a good score on a math test or when I watch Little Women and everything turns out right in the end.

In Biology we learned that certain chemicals released by the brain give us these happy feelings, but I don’t see how watching Winona Ryder look breathlessly up into the eyes of that German professor guy can cause chemical reactions in my brain.

Is it those chemicals that make me feel so good when I pull on my worn pink pointeshoes and begin going through my exercises to the familiar music?  As I curve my arms, lift my head, and draw my toe in swift motions over the worn, wood floor of the studio, satisfaction floods my body and a sense of belonging settles in.  This is where I’m supposed to be.  This is what I was supposed to do.  My friends who dance with me know this, my teachers know this, and once I thought my mother understood.  But now I wonder.

Last month she saw my feet when I took off my shoes and socks to walk in the surf at the beach.  Her eyes went wide and her face clenched like she was looking at something terrible.

“God, Anna!  What happened?”

Everyone knows that ballet dancers look beautiful when they stand on their toes and perch in the air like enchanted nymphs or something, but few people understand the sacrifice involved with going en pointe.  Humans were not designed to balance their entire body weight on so small an area as the tips of the first two toes on one foot.  Dancers have pointe shoes with blocks of wood or elastoplastic materials in the toes to provide a better base for the body, but the forces of gravity and the pliability of human flesh eventually take a toll on the dancer’s most prized possessions: her ankles and feet.

Mine aren’t really that bad; a little swollen after dancing and scarred from where blisters broke and friction rubbed off skin, but nothing like the twisted, deformed feet of my teacher or the other older, experienced dancers.  Many ballerinas have to go through surgery for fused joints, scarred tissue, ruptured tendons, and mangled bone structure.  It’s a price we’ve all accepted to pay when we get our lovely, satin-covered pointe shoes with their hard blocks, and lace the smooth, elegant ribbons up our legs.  You have to believe that it’s worth it for the joy of the dance, and I do.  But my mom is another story.

Everyday after that, when she drove me to practice, there was a tense silence.  Although I had explained to her the necessity of the shoes and the pain that they brought, her acceptance seemed forced and she repeated from time to time different versions of the same thing,

“You know you can stop ballet whenever you feel like it.”

“Haven’t you always wanted to try out for the girls’ swim team?”

“Maybe you should slow down and enjoy life more.”

Now that Joshie has his license, he drives me to practice on his way to work at his uncle’s shop, so I don’t have to put up with the silent disapproval of my mother.  It’s a relief but it’s kind of funny driving with Joshie because he has to push the seat all the way forward and his head barely comes over the steering wheel.

When I’m with him, I always feel like his mom or big sister, scolding him for not coming to complete stops or neglecting to turn his blinker on every time.  It’s been like that since I met him in kindergarten, the tiny kid with the big blue eyes who sat in the corner and cried when anyone spoke to him.  I took care of him during that time, and through most of grade school.  He always stood quite a bit below everyone else, as far as height went and even now most people mistake him for a twelve-year-old, but he maintains an innocent, cheerful, accepting view of life that always makes me happy, like peaches and Little Women.

When he drove me to the studio this morning, I hopped out of the rusty truck with my bag slung over my shoulder, reminding Joshie to stop for gas before he drove home in the evening.  But he turned off the truck and got out after me, squinting through the bright morning sunshine that hit his big eyes and illuminated his stiff hair.

Perhaps it’s because he’s sixteen and people still offer him children’s menus at restaurants that Joshie is always trying to look older.  This has led him to adopt a very strange style of dress that involves chains, buckles, and black mesh.  He also tried to bleach his hair blonde, but only resulted in turning it an unattractive orange-yellow color, like the fake cheese my mom put on our sandwiches when we were kids.  Using liberal amounts of gel, he has molded it into uneven cheese-colored spikes to replicate the style of the tough skater crowed.  Unfortunately, all his effort only makes him look like a cute little twelve-year-old, ridiculously done up in an attempt to look like a cool skater punk.

I smiled when I saw him squinting like that and fingered the worn strap of the bag hanging over my shoulder.  My hair felt nice, freshly washed, put up in a neat bun, and I knew his scalp must be stiff with the hardened gel.

“Are you practicing for your performance today?” he asked in that soft, gentle voice that I have always adored.

“Yeah,” I replied as we walked forward together to look through the wide, shining windows of the studio.  At the barre, the earliest class of little girls practiced their demi-pliés and petit battements in costume for their dance, raising their small legs in timed rhythm to the music while the teacher walked along the line, calling out instructions and correcting positions.   The little buns on the backs of their heads bobbed unevenly as they struggled to stay with the music and their fluffy, baby blue tutus only emphasized their short legs and plump statures.

“Like butterflies,” Joshie murmured, “Tiny, bright, butterfly children trying to float like the bigger, graceful butterflies,” his smiling face turned to me, “Like you, Anna.  You’re the best butterfly of all.”

Where I observed imperfection, he glimpsed beauty.

“Ballet isn’t a pretty little display,” I told him, sternly, feeling mean before the words even left my mouth, “Sooner or later, those chubby kids are going to find out that it’s a lot harder and more painful than they imagined from watching their Barbie Nutcracker movies.  Ballet is a strenuous, extremely athletic, highly competitive, and very precise art.”

Joshie turned red and looked at the soggy cigarette butts stuck in the cracks of the sidewalk where the moms and dads go out to destroy their lungs as their daughters practiced inside.

“I know, Anna.  I’m sorry.”

Guilt flooded my mind.  “It’s okay.  I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.  Those kids are pretty cute, I guess.  I’m just too critical.”

He smiled shyly and took the keys from his pocket.  “Well, I’d better get to work now.  See you at school.”

“Joshie, don’t forget gas!” I reminded him, as he climbed into the truck.

“It’s Josh!” he grumbled, slamming the door.  “My name is Josh, Anna!”

I tried not to laugh.  Sometimes he really does act like a twelve-year-old.  I think someday I should try to hunt up his birth certificate, just to make sure he’s not.  Josh, Josh, I reminded myself.  But he will always be little Joshie in my mind.

On my sixteenth birthday, in February, he gave me a dozen red roses and offered to take me out to a fancy restaurant, blushing ridiculously the whole time.  Whenever he does things like that, I tell him that I don’t want to ruin our friendship, because it means so much to me.  I suppose that Joshie probably has some kind of silly crush on me, and he really is a sweet person, but shallow as it sounds, I just can’t see myself dating a guy who barely comes up to my chin.

He came to the studio early on the day of my performance while I practiced incessantly and worked the CD player for me.

“Track seven,” I told him, fixing my position.  Dancers who are too relaxed look sloppy, but those who are too uptight look stiff.  As my teacher told me, I visualized a thread attached to the top of my head, keeping me straight, but not too tight.  Across the room from me I saw my friend, Ashley practicing her balancé combinations.

Music reached my ears, quick music for kicks and spins, allegro tempo, which means “fast” when it comes to music, but also can be translated from Italian as “happy.”  I am happy, I thought as I flew through the routine of rapid kicks and twists.  High jétes are my favorite because they’re so big and full of energy.  I felt as though the force and power of the music filled my body and if I danced hard enough I could fly off the floor.

Launching into a series of whirling pirouettes, I looked for a point to concentrate on for my spotting.  Avoid dizziness in your spins using “spotting” by focusing on a solid object that stands out.  Keep your eyes on it while you turn until you can’t anymore and then whip your head around to focus on it again.

My eyes latched onto Joshie, kneeling by the CD player, watching me with his big, blue eyes.  Although he wore a ragged-looking leather jacket and a spiked dog collar his eyes looked so wide and innocent that the bad-boy effect was ruined.  His face blurred with my speed and disappeared for a fraction of a second as I whipped my head around, but then it appeared again: my anchor point, the object that kept me from losing my balance.

After practice, he helped me ice my feet before the performance, saying nothing as he saw how swollen and bruised they were.  My large right toe looked especially dark and painful, but the ice numbed the nerves enough for me to ignore it.  Ashley winced when she saw it and brought me some more ice.  Through the window we could see one of the more advanced students running through her dance, long legs flashing, arms curved perfectly allongé, beautifully elongated.

“She has balloon,” I told Joshie wistfully.

“What?” he said, squinting at the dancer.

“That’s what we say when a girl is light on her feet, when she only makes momentary contact with the ground.  Like a balloon.”  Ashley explained.

I rubbed absently at the scars on my feet.  “That’s what I feel like when I’m dancing, like I don’t even need to touch the ground.  Now if only I looked like that when I’m dancing!”

“You do,” he insisted, like any true friend, “You know you do, Anna.”

A troupe of beginning pointe students entered the room and the clumsy, wooden thumping of their shoes on the floor accompanied with noisy, girlish chatter drowned out the sound of his voice.

“We’re very proud of you,” my mother told me, after the performance was over and I stood with Ashley and Lisa, laughing about the mistakes we made. “You don’t have to prove anything, you know.”  Her eyes focused accusingly on my feet, elegantly done up in the shining pointe shoes with their long, silky ribbons.  “How are you feeling, Anna?  Do you want to go home now?”

“They need me to help with cleanup,” I explained, trying to avoid conflict, if possible, “Joshie will take me home.”

He appeared after they left, carrying a bowl balanced on each hand.

“Congratulations,” he beamed, offering one to me, “You were the most beautiful butterfly of all.”  After a pause he added, “And an outstanding athlete too!”

Laughing, I picked up the spoon and looked happily down at the bowl full of smooth vanilla ice cream topped with golden peaches.  I thought to myself that the evening would have been perfect if only my feet didn’t hurt so much.

“I’m determined to get my license this summer,” I told Joshie when we got into his truck.  When everyone else in my class took Driver’s Ed, I had been at ballet camp.

He froze and looked away from me.  “I guess you won’t need me anymore then.”

“Don’t be a sap, Joshie,” I grumbled, beginning to feel uncomfortable, “It’s not like I’m going to avoid you if I don’t need your truck.”

Pushing the key into the ignition, he turned it hard and the truck roared to life.

“It’s Josh,” he cried, “When are you going to stop treating me like a kid?”

“Whenever you decide to grow up!” I shot back, angry with my own pettiness and inability to think of anything original.  “You’re not a cool, tall, macho guy, Josh, and you probably will never be one.  Stop pretending and live with it.”

Whatever chemicals released in my brain that night to trigger happiness had long since dissipated.  I felt grounded, heavy with my anger and guilt.  My feet hurt horribly and I knew I would have to ice them again and take painkillers before bed.

 “Maybe you should go back to those flat shoes,” I imagined my mother saying, “Those didn’t hurt your feet.”

A soft sniffle carried in the silence of the moving vehicle and flashes of light from street lamps reflected off the salt water on Joshie’s face.  I felt like a horrible person for making him cry and I felt like crying myself if I didn’t get aspirin soon.

“Why don’t you try water ballet?” I could hear Mom saying.

Pulling the pointe shoes from my bag, I ran my fingers over the satin surface and the dirty, hard points of the shoes that scrape the floor.  “She has balloon,” I imagined people declaring, “She hardly touches the floor…like a butterfly…”

“I’ll never be ‘Josh,’ will I?” he said, “That’s all I’ll ever be to you…the little guy from kindergarten who can’t even wipe his own butt.”

In the dark, I saw the headlights illuminate a red octagon.  “Complete stop,” I reminded him.

Joshie slammed on the brakes and my shoes skidded off the top of my bag, over his lap.  For a moment, I couldn’t think, and then I got mad.

“What is your problem?”

Glaring at him for a moment, I noticed that Joshie’s hands shook slightly as he gripped the wheel.  Night air surrounded the rumbling truck, at the world felt strangely calm while turmoil boiled inside that atmosphere of the truck.

How did this happen? I wondered incredulously.  Joshie and I never had fights.  He’s such a quiet, understanding person, that we never seem to disagree, and when we do, he always gives in.  Suddenly I questioned whether I had ever given in, if I ever had ever given him anything in return.

“Do you want to pull over and talk?” I asked softly.  My feet throbbed cruelly.

Without warning, he stepped on the gas and sent the truck hurtling down the street, flying over potholes.  As we approached the intersection, the light changed yellow.

“Brake!” I shrieked and watched him press down hard, but the vehicle barely slowed and a look of panic came over Joshie’s tear-streaked face.  The light turned red before we even reached the intersection and the truck tore directly through.  I could hear horns blaring and tires squealing on wet cement.  Something hit the side of the truck and then another.  I heard glass breaking as the metal walls of the truck closed in on me.  The world turned upside down and my bag tumbled off the seat.

My shoes, I thought stupidly, One of the them got caught under the brake…

Eventually the movement of the truck stopped and I could feel the night air come streaming in, accompanied by loud, annoying voices.  Someone near me coughed and gasped desperately.  The air smelled like blood, but as the rest of my body hurt so badly, I completely forgot about the pain in my feet.

It’s loud here and I don’t want to wake up.  Everything is so heavy and sad.  With a lot of concentration, I can bring back the taste of the peaches and if I clench my mind I can even feel them in my mouth, separating with the movement of my tongue.

I thought that hospitals were peaceful places where you can relax and recover, but this one is very busy.  There are a lot of little lights flashing and machines beeping and people crying.  Voices are everywhere, saying loud, terrible things.  I think I hear the voice of Joshie’s uncle, but I can’t understand his words.

“Hey, talk to me,” someone says, “What’s her name?…Anna?…Anna, if you can hear me, let me know.”

I don’t want to wake up here.  I don’t want to hear.

“She’s fine, except for the damage to lower body,” he says softly, “She’ll definitely survive….feet are completely crushed…good thing she had on her seatbelt…”

“Anna!” I hear my mother gasp, “Why, why, why, why…?”

“She’ll be alright.  You’ve got a strong girl here,” the man says, “Too bad about the little boy…he seemed so young…”

I groan.  Pain is spreading in a molten wave through my body.

“Anna?” the voices start up again.

“Hurts,” I whimper.

Someone pokes a needle into me and drugs rapidly enter my bloodstream, numbing the pain.  Desperately, I search for the taste of peaches.

“I have nothing to give you.  My hands are empty,” Professor Bhaer told Jo in Little Women.  The painkillers take effect quickly, triggering chemicals in my brain to make me feel better.

I have balloon, I think, pleasantly floating above my pain.  I am like a butterfly, beautiful and light, dancing over the stage or a meadow of flowers, looking for my focus point to keep me from losing my balance.

Finally I see Joshie sitting in the corner, smiling at me from under his chees-colored hair, and my feet are so light and my spins are so fast that I’m not even touching the ground.

“The most beautiful butterfly of all,” he laughs, clapping his hands.  But when I whip my head around to find him again again, I see that Joshie has suddenly changed into a bright red balloon and is floating away into the sky.

Why, why, why, why…?

Allegro, I think, happy, happy, happy, I am happy.  Josh, Josh, not Joshie, I don’t need a license, I won’t get a license.  He gave me peaches and he told me that I float, “You know you do,” he said.  I can’t give like he does; my hands are empty.  I can’t see the beauty in the imperfection.  The balloon is gone now; it disappeared into the sun, and I have to whirl over the world all alone, dizzy but still floating.

Happy, happy, happy butterfly…