Pointed Edge

By Dinamarie Isola                                                                                                   

The metal door slams behind me, shutting out the last bit of the day’s light, leaving the fluorescent bulb to its dreary work. My shoes scrape against the concrete steps as I make the long climb. Trudy is nearly at the top; the pink ribbon dangling from her bun bobs up and down with every step.

“You’re so slow, Dad.”

“Getting old,” I mutter. But the longer I stay in the stairwell, the less time I spend trapped in Miss Natasha’s dance studio.

She needs your support.

My wife, Lorraine, likes to say this often. But how does sitting outside Trudy’s dance class ease her fears that our family is breaking apart?

Trudy glances over her shoulder and waves at me before tugging open the door to what I call Hell’s waiting room—where hovering dance moms gather, competing, even though they are no longer in the running for anything.

I imagine them eyeballing my daughter as she flits past them, blissfully unaware of their scrutiny. Once she disappears into the changing room, the silent communication of lifted eyebrows and tilting heads will start as they assess whether my daughter is still as graceful and lithe as she was last week. I blame Miss Natasha—who decided to publicly score and rank the girls weekly to avoid drama when she assigns solos. Being consistently among the top three (and first in her age category), Trudy is an easy target.

The mothers’ mouths snap shut when I enter. I don’t make eye contact with any of them. I nod my chin, slide into a seat, and pray these forty-five minutes pass quickly. My earbuds have lost their charge, but that doesn’t stop me from shoving them in place.

Swallowed up in a sea of black leotards, powder-pink tights, and high buns, Trudy is indistinguishable from the rest of her classmates. They move like a graceful militia—uniform stride, arms swinging by the same measure. Chins jut forward like the Degas ballerina statue knockoff on the office desk.

While the moms jostle for space by the observatory window, watching the barre exercises, I ponder getting Trudy to consider lacrosse, soccer, or field hockey as an extracurricular activity. While sports parents may not be less annoying than these mothers, at least I can guide Trudy on the art of being on a team. But the trouble is eleven is already too old to study a new sport. Parents have been priming their kids since kindergarten.

She needs your support too. When I said that to Lorraine, her eyes narrowed.

Lorraine doesn’t appreciate my dispassion for the dance school that is making Trudy obsess about things she can’t control—like whether her bones are developed enough to let her start dancing en pointe. When I tell Lorraine that only we know what’s best for Trudy, she waves me off as if my vote counts for nothing. And so begins our passive-aggressive routine that only intensified when I stayed out with the guys from work on my birthday.

My promise of just one drink turned into an Uber ride home at 2 a.m. Greeting me were drooping balloons and a sagging cake heaved onto the center of the table. Lorraine sat in the recliner, her feet crossed at the ankles.

Things have to change around here.

They had changed. That was the problem, wasn’t it? Mother and daughter in their own secret sorority while the goofy, laughable klutz of a dad’s only usefulness is serving as a chauffeur.

The same loop of Tchaikovsky plays over and over to the whack of Miss Natasha’s pointer stick against the floor. She calls out instructions in her affected Russian accent, which I suspect is put on. Maybe she’s really Nancy from Levittown. Besides, if she really studied at the Bolshoi, why teach on Long Island when she could travel thirty minutes into New York City?

Suddenly the music stops.

“Lily, that was sloppy. Watch Trudy. She is in front of you for a reason. Follow her.”

I stare at my phone, pretending to be absorbed by my emails. I don’t look up and acknowledge the exasperated sigh coming from Lily’s mother or the heads that briefly turn in my direction. I suppose I have Lorraine to thank for helping me hone my ability to disappear in plain sight.

“No, no, no! Do it again.” Miss Natasha bangs the stick for emphasis. “Again.” Bang. “Again.” Bang. “Yes, finally. Thank you, God!”

“She’s been breaking out in hives,” Lily’s mother hisses. “We thought it was an allergic reaction, but I think it’s stress.”

“Krya is worried about her weight. She talks about it nonstop, especially after Natasha told them she noticed who ate too much over the holidays and that heavy girls aren’t going en pointe.”

Another mother mimics Natasha. “That fat will turn to big, ugly muscle!” They all share humorless laughter.

My gut tightens. Is this what’s in store for Trudy? Up until now, her weight has never been an issue. Her metabolism burns everything up before she even swallows her food. But she is a late bloomer. No telling what might happen when puberty hits.

Another mother rasps, “The small ones think they’re immune to her criticism. But no one is safe around Natasha. It’s just a matter of time before they fall out of favor.”

The grumbling continues, back and forth, but I notice no one threatening to stop the madness. Not even me, as I delete my junk email.

“Remember poor Isabella! Star pupil two years in a row and bulimic the next.” The mothers nod their heads in agreement. “They had to send her away. I still don’t think she’s right. She was down to sixty-eight pounds at one point.”

“That’s terrible!” A chorus of agreement swells until there are no more adjectives to throw around.

I’m not sure who Isabella is, and I’ve never seen anyone remotely overweight at the school, which turns my stomach. What is considered a healthy weight with this crowd?

“Not to change the subject, but did you see the new sweatshirts Natasha ordered? They’re adorable.” Soon the conversation shifts to whether they should have their own sweatshirt made proclaiming Natasha Academy Dance Mom.

I barely survived Natasha’s waiting room would get my vote.

“Let’s take the girls to Talon Salon for mani-pedis this weekend. Their pink paradise shade is a perfect match to the academy color.”

“That would be fun!”

When the girls finally finish their lesson, they file out precisely as they had marched in. Trudy looks straight ahead, focused on the head in front of her as if she is leaving the stage and must remain professional until she is completely out of sight.

The mothers flock around Miss Natasha as she emerges, still holding her pointer stick. Shoulders back, feet turned out, she walks as if taking center stage, waiting for the spotlight to close in and the music to queue up. All the complaints and whisperings from earlier have been abandoned in favor of availing themselves to help Miss Natasha get a better deal on the new HVAC system the studio desperately needs. Lily’s father has a contact, and Kyra’s mother offers to start a fundraising campaign.

I stand, hoping that somehow my daughter will be ready to leave any second. But all I accomplish is catching the eye of Miss Natasha, who raises her index finger to the women before walking over to me.

“Trudy is progressing very nicely. She is a hard worker.”

“Yes, she is.” My eyes shift to the changing room door. Open. Come on, Trudy, hurry up. But willing it doesn’t make it so.

“She is ready for private pointe lessons. We can start next week, after this class.” Her bony hand rests on her wisp of a waist.

“We have to meet with her pediatrician.”

Natasha scoffs, “Pediatricians know nothing about ballet.”

“But he does know about bone development.” I glance to the mothers, who look back wide-eyed and gape-mouthed. No one challenges Miss Natasha, apparently. Or maybe they think I’m crazy for turning her down.

“Your wife never mentioned the pediatrician. She calls every week asking when Trudy will be ready. Perhaps you are confused.”

Things have to change around here. Lorraine’s condescension crawls up my back.

“My wife and I are in agreement.” But are we? Heat rises from my collar when Miss Natasha tilts her head as if to say, We’ll see.

I grind my teeth together to hold back the string of curses building in my head, which leaves me grimacing when Trudy approaches.

“I was just telling your father the good news.” Miss Natasha holds eye contact with me for a beat too long, and I roll my shoulder, wishing that could get her to step off.

Trudy beams. “Isn’t it great, Dad?”

The best I can give her is a tight smile. “Honey, we’ll discuss this with your mother. We have to run now. I have an important call.” I nod to dismiss myself, but I suppose Miss Natasha has already done that for me.

 I head for the door, aware that the mothers are staring past me, their mouths twisting with envy. And when I look back, I find Miss Natasha lovingly cupping Trudy’s chin, anointing her the chosen one.

***

I sit in the driveway and watch the house light up as Trudy moves from kitchen to living room and finally to her bedroom. Lorraine doesn’t see me when she pulls in, nor when she steps out of the car. I pop my door and motion for her to join me.

“Why are you sitting here? You scared me!”

I step out and lean against the car. “Trudy texted you the news?”

“She’s thrilled!” Lorraine’s wide smile is there to coax me into forgetting our agreement.

“I’m not,” I say.

“I spoke with the pediatrician.” She waves her hand as if that settles the matter.

“She hasn’t been to the doctor once this year.” I smirk, pleased that I thought to ask Trudy this on the way home. “He should examine her; that’s what we agreed to.”

“You’re making too much of this.”

“When something is important to you, you never think you’re making too much of it. But when I have an issue, I’m overreacting?”

“Just leave this to me. What do you know about eleven-year-old girls and ballet?”

“Enough to know that place is toxic. You tell me to be there for her but dismiss me when I look out for her. You say things have to change, but you get to do whatever the hell you want, while you pick me apart every chance you get.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No, Lorraine. You’re not fair. And you lied to me.”

“You lie too. You lost track of time on your birthday! Liar.” Her eyes fill, and I know we’re not talking about dance or a missed birthday dinner, but this great disconnect that grows wider each passing day.

“You want the truth? I’m invisible in my own house. At least when I was out with friends, they were happy to be with me. I never feel that way here. And unless we’re prepared to live, not as roommates, but as partners and parents making decisions together, then there is no point to being married.”

“You want to divorce me over a dance class? Unbelievable.” She wipes away her angry tears.

“I don’t want a divorce. I want a better life for all of us. Aren’t we worth a shot?”

She stares at her feet, sniffling, and I hope she can find the right answer down there. Finally, she whispers, “Okay.” I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

“I’ll call the pediatrician tomorrow and make an appointment.”

She nods. “I’ll tell Trudy.”

“No, we both will.”

I wrap my arm around her shoulder and pull her close. We remain, leaning into one another, letting the warmth of our bodies fill the space between us. And perhaps, like me, she offers a silent wish that this is enough to pull us back from the edge.

Dinamarie Isola is actively engaged in exploring the craft of storytelling. Through poetry and prose, she strives to tear down the isolation that comes from silently bearing internal struggles. She received her BA in English/Writing and Communications from Fairfield University. In addition to her work as an investment advisor, Dinamarie has a blog, “RealSmartica,” to help others better understand personal finance. She is a member of the Women’s Fiction Writers Association. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Appalachian Review, Across the Margin, Apricity Magazine, Avalon Literary Review, borrowed solace, Coachella Review, Courtship of Winds, Down in the Dirt Magazine, Evening Street Review, FictionWeek Literary Review, Five on the Fifth, Mixed Mag, MORIA Literary Magazine, Nixes Mate Review, No Distance Between Us, Penumbra Literary and Art Journal, Perceptions Magazine, Potato Soup Journal, Remington Review, Summerset Review, and Tulsa Review. Visit www.DinamarieIsola.com to view her portfolio.