Out of Step: Chapter 33
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Expecting me to come cheer her on as she dances my solo… Well, that seems a bit above the human pay grade
I never did hear what happened in that kitchen between Ma, Daddy, Naftoli, and Baruch. But long after the shalach manos has been dismantled, and everyone is back in school, Naftoli is still home. Still, there’s something happier about him, something calmer. And it’s nice to see.
I contemplate this as I slice carrots and cucumbers for a midnight snack. I don’t think I ever appreciated how hard it is to stick to a healthy diet. I’d listened as my classmates and family members moaned and groaned about calorie counting and skipping desserts and just shrugged as I smugly wolfed down seconds of everything. But now that I actually need to be careful if I want to stay healthy, I see that it’s not as easy as I’d thought. And besides, carrot sticks can in no way compete with Franczoz doughnuts. I’m sorry, they just can’t.
My phone buzzes. I give it a sideways glance as I spritz lemon juice over my plate. Atara. Hmmm, at this late hour? Balancing the plate and a glass of icy Diet Coke, I tuck the phone under my ear as I ascend the stairs to my room.
“Hey, you.”
“Hey.”
She sounds tired.
“You okay?”
“I guess.”
“Mhmmm…” I raise my eyebrows even though she can’t see me.
“I just…” She sighs. “I’m just trying to figure out how to invite you to see my dance solo without it being weird.”
Oh. “Too late,” I say weakly, kicking open my bedroom door. “It’s weird.”
She gives a fake laugh. “I know, I’m sorry. But it’s in two days and you haven’t said anything about it.”
That’s because I’ve been trying to figure out how to move to Mexico ASAP.
“Oh, gosh, I totally forgot. Tar, I must study for this dikduk test, but I’ll be there. I promise.”
I hang up, feeling bad. I didn’t have to mention the dikduk class she’s not part of, but hey, I’m only human. And expecting me to come cheer her on as she dances my solo… Well, that seems a bit above the human pay grade.
Angel Bella, at your service.
***
It’s not like regular weird, it’s super weird. Shayna places me right at her side. Legit. It’s like Shayna, the choreographer, the costume designer, Shayna’s mom, and me.
This is going to be fun.
Mrs. Greenberg gives me a hug. “Bella Rena, bubbeleh, Shayna told me what happened. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I always loved watching you dance. You possessed such spirit.”
I hug her back, rolling my eyes over her shoulder, but I can’t help smiling. “And I snuck in cookies,” she whispers in my ear.
I crack up, only because Shayna’s obsessed with no one eating in the auditorium.
Her mom’s a rebel. Love it.
Atara hops over to us. She looks beautiful with a full face of makeup and her hair in a braided bun with colorful ribbons woven through. A black robe covers her costume; I wonder, for the first time, what theme she ended up choosing. I’d feel bad about my lack of interest, but honestly, I’m barely holding back the tears for this one night. I couldn’t have faked it more than this.
“Good luck, hon,” I say, giving her a quick hug.
She pulls back and looks at me. “I really appreciate you being here. Really.”
I know it’s hard for you, her eyes tell me silently. I nod back, not trusting myself to say anything more.
***
Then the curtain is rising and Shayna is on stage welcoming us all. She says an introduction about the power of dance and then says, “Tonight is about choices. Because isn’t that what our days are filled with? Choices between good and better, between good and bad, between bad and worse? A special friend of mine taught me that recently, that grace is so much more than a perfect pirouette. It’s about life and how you choose to live it. Bella Rena Martin, thank you for inspiring us with this year’s recital theme: Choosing Life.”
I sit there, absolutely stunned, as the audience explodes into applause and Mrs. Greenberg gives my shoulders a squeeze. My theme. They were using my theme. With a little Bella Rena 2.0-inspired twist. Whoa.
Shayna slides into the row and gives me a wink. I wink back. Ow, my face hurts from smiling so much.
The curtain rises once more and there’s Atara. Her routine will both start and end the night.
She is incredible. Her costume is a blend of colors, she looks like rainbow cotton candy, and she is good.
She glides and leaps and bounds about the stage and I understand her struggle; it’s so clear, and it’s so familiar. Overcoming, choosing, triumphing.
The music stops, she freezes, and then she takes a bow. The audience is cheering, chanting her name, and my face is wet, because aren’t those my cheers? They should’ve been mine. But they’re not. And here I am, once more, with a choice. Remain bitter and angry? Or be the friend Atara deserves? And although it takes everything I am and then maybe a tad more, I clap and cheer and pump my fist until I’m hoarse.
She is just as amazing at the end. I clap, calling out her name, and meanwhile I feel empty and drained, as if I’d traveled somewhere far away. And maybe, I muse later in my room, maybe I have. Maybe I’ve traveled into the recesses of the adult world? Maybe tonight wasn’t so much about a dance solo as much as about me becoming less self-involved?
Besides, I comfort myself right before I drop off into a deep dreamless sleep later that night; I’m a better dancer. So there’s that.
(Originally featured in Mishpacha Jr., Issue 809)
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