Juilliard or Else Read online

  "Abigail! That's not how a young lady presents herself in a room," she scolded, her blue eyes narrowing. "You should be ashamed. Have I not paid enough for your etiquette schooling?" she spat out, hands on her hips, waiting for me to answer her in a more proper manner.

  "Mother," I started, choosing my words very carefully as I repeated my announcement. "I have been accepted into The Juilliard Dance program for Ballet," I said more calmly this time while handing her the letter. She snapped it from my hand, almost giving my palm a paper cut as she scanned it over, her face completely impassive.

  "Stand up straight," she mumbled towards me, her diamond wedding ring shimmering as I pulled my shoulders back, fixing my posture.

  With hands in front, legs erect, spine perfectly straight, I stood there just like I was taught. I stared at her, waiting for a response. She and my dad paid top dollar for my schooling and even etiquette classes on the side, so I knew posture was the key in garnering her full attention and hoped it worked this time.

  My mother was a gorgeous woman with short blonde hair that framed her face perfectly and ocean blue eyes. She only wore cream, tan, or beige colored outfits, but occasionally black to a fancy charity event or black tie dinner with my dad.

  As I stood there waiting, a memory from when I was ten years old flooded my mind. I had passed a classroom full of ballerina dancers. It was amazing. My eyes watched their long arms stretching gloriously in front of their bodies, circling and bending at their knees. Their feet were delicately wrapped in ballet shoes as they balanced on their toes, wearing their pink leotards with matching tutus. They were gorgeous, moving rhythmically in formation with each other. It was then that I found my passion in life. I wanted to be a ballerina; I wanted to dance to music and make songs that much more beautiful for the eyes and ears of others.

  When I first told my mother of my dreams, she actually laughed at me. I was only ten. She said dancing would ruin my feet. At the time, I didn't know what that meant, but I begged my father to reason with her, pleading to change her mind. She never did. However, one day she came to my room and saw me in front of my mirrored closet door, practicing what I saw the ballerina dancers doing. It was then that she finally gave in.

  She sat me down and explained that she was allowing me to be a ballet dancer since that was the path I so desperately wanted to follow. She did have a few prerequisites, though. On top of completing any necessary homework, I needed to keep my grades in good standing. When I answered her in the proper manner of "Yes, mother," she then explained that she'd signed me up with the best instructors, and that I was to treat them with nothing but kindness, just as I would a teacher in school. If she didn't get good reports back, I could no longer attend dance class. I did everything I could do in order to get straight A's. I never hung out at friends' houses, basically just staying home and practicing until my toes would bleed.

  Clearing her throat, my mother looked into my caramel colored eyes. "Well, it's about time. You need to go practice your routine; that way it's perfect for your new instructor. Now go," she clipped, moving her hands in my direction, essentially swooshing me out to go practice. "And don't forget to pull your hair back off your shoulders."

  "Yes, mother," I said, holding my hand out for the letter.

  She thrust it at me and turned around to Isabelle, whose back was facing my mother.

  "No!" she yelled at her, causing Isabelle to jump and drop the spoon she was using to stir whatever was in the pot. "You're missing the third and most important step; we've talked about this, Isabelle!" she spat, slamming her fist on the table.

  Hurrying, I left the room before I could hear what my mother was so upset about. Isabelle probably forgot to stir the onions and mushrooms for the fifth time or something absurd like that.

  I walked down the hallway to my dance studio, which my mother designed just for me. We had it added onto our French Gothic House on the corner of 5th Avenue and 79th Street…like this house needed to get any bigger. However, my father didn't have a say in the matter because my mother controlled his money, buying whatever she wanted.

  I changed into my leotard and stockings, and then wrapped my feet up in my ballet shoes. I pulled my blonde hair back in a tight bun and turned on Pyotr Llyich Tchaikovsky's music to The Nutcracker in the first act, Scene 1 No. 2 the Marche. The Nutcracker was my favorite to dance to, especially during Christmas time.

  I walked on the points of my toes, passing the wall length mirrors on my way over to the ballet barre to stretch out my legs. When my warm-up was complete, I started on my routine for Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, which blended nicely with Pas De Deux for the ending.

  My legs stretched to their max and my arms didn't bend unless they were supposed to. I had perfect posture and I made my way through the entire routine without missing a beat. With my back bowed and toes pointed perfectly, I moved gracefully like an elegant swan across the room. When I danced, I felt as if I was the only person who mattered. I was in control – not my mother, not school, not even my etiquette. I was free.

  When the music ended, I felt proud that I had this routine down. When I looked at my reflection in the mirror, I saw my father standing in the doorway. He had his arms folded and was leaning against the doorframe. He looked so tired and I could clearly see the bags under his eyes. His tie hung loosely around his neck and his suit jacket was unbuttoned, completely rumpled up.

  I sighed, out of breath, "Oh, Daddy."

  He held his arms open for me and I made my way over to him, crushing our chests together. He was the complete opposite of my mother. I could call him daddy instead of father and he wouldn't mind. The only name I'd been allowed to call my mother was…well...mother. She always said mom never fit her, whatever that meant. I loved my dad more than anything, so I guess you could say I was a daddy's girl.

  "Abigail, you dance so gracefully," he said, kissing the top of my head. "I'm so proud of all your hard work."

  I pulled away from him to look at his face. "Did mother tell you that I received my acceptance letter today for Juilliard?"

  "Yes, she did – that's why I came to find you," he said, smiling as he placed a kiss on my forehead. "When do you start?" he asked, stepping into the room to shut off the surround sound music.

  Watching him move around my studio, I studied him. My dad was very handsome, tall and fit; however, he was balding at the top, so he shaved his head to a buzz cut. The look suited him. I got most of my looks from him.

  "I have to move into my new place in one month's time." I nodded, remembering what the letter explained.

  My dad rolled his eyes at my words, knowing they didn't come from the real me as he walked back over to look deep into my caramel eyes. "I'm so proud of you," he said, giving me another hug. "I know your mother and I don't tell you enough, but we are." With that, he left the room. My dad told me how proud he was of me all the time; it was his significant other who didn't. I turned the music back on and started my routine over again.

  Later that night, my mother and father argued about my new school. My mother wasn't happy about me living in the dorm rooms because of the lack of space and security. She disagreed with my father about contacting the school and having the other two girls move in with me in a secure apartment building; they would cover all the costs. Seriously, the babying would never end.

  My mind always went blank when my parents would argue. It's like nothing mattered except for their words, back and forth; my mother would fight until she got her way. There was no "or" in the matter; her feelings were the only ones that mattered.

  Listening to them altercate with each other, I picked, poked and prodded at my food and ate very little. I kept my head down and sighed.

  "Sit up, Abigail," my mother said, glaring at me from across the table.

  Pushing my shoulders back, I sat up and met her eyes.

  "Leave her alone, Carol," my dad said in a displeased tone. "Our daughter was just accepted to the finest Ballet school; we should be cele
brating tonight." He put his fork down and waved Isabelle over. "Isabelle, please bring a bottle of champagne – one of Mrs. McCall's favorites."

  With a nod, Isabelle left the room like the devil was at her heels.

  "We don't need champagne, David," my mother snipped, eyeing my father as she finished her bite of food with elegance.

  "Can I please be excused?" I shut my eyes, knowing that as soon as I said that, my mother was going to scold me on saying "can" instead of "may" I.

  "Abigail, you disappoint me yet again today." She put her fork down with force; it made a glass breaking sound, even though nothing broke. Picking up the napkin in her lap, she dabbed the corners of her mouth.

  Another one bites the dust, I thought.

  "Carol, stop," my dad abruptly cut in.

  "She needs to learn. It's may I be excused, Abigail. You are nineteen years old; it's time for you to act like it."

  I couldn't take anymore tonight. I had to leave the table before she would scold me more for my immaturity. "May I please be excused?" I asked my mother, careful not to give her anymore attitude.

  "No, you may not. You haven't..."

  Before she could finish, my dad reached over and patted the top of my hand. "Of course, sweetheart," he said, giving me a reassuring smile.

  I rose from my chair and made my way up the stairs to my room. Once inside, I stripped my clothes off, slid into my pajamas and padded into my bathroom to brush my teeth. Stopping myself before I grabbed my toothbrush, I stared in the mirror for far too long. I'd made up my mind, and with that, my body followed my bare feet over to the white porcelain bowl, so clean and sparkling. Yes, it was clean. Isabelle had scrubbed it that way. I wish she could scrub away how dirty I felt.

  Lifting the seat, I stuck two fingers down my throat and easily heaved up my dinner with skilled practice. It was easier than learning to point your toes; you just stick your finger down your throat and let the gag reflex take over.

  I remembered when I was five, throwing up and crying for my mother to come rub my back. I had the flu and was constantly feeling the bile rising in my throat. I prayed the burn wouldn't come, but it always did and my mother never came. I still wasn't used to that burn. Would I ever get used to the burning in my throat the purging caused?

  I started sobbing, hating what I was doing to myself. I looked at the remains of my dinner. I laid my head against the side of the cool porcelain, trying to calm myself and catch my breath. My dad would be so ashamed of me if he knew. His perfect little girl couldn't quite measure up. I was sixteen when I first purged. It's been three years since then, and without doing it, I wouldn't be the right weight. I had to get up and move before someone came in and found me this helpless. With a warm rag, I cleaned my face, brushed my teeth and went to bed.

  The next couple of weeks flew by. I was working on a new routine, and my mother called Juilliard to explain my living arrangements to the headmaster of the program…like they could care and they didn't. My mother then did research on whom my roommates were going to be and contacted their parents.

  Both sets of parents agreed that for the safety of us girls, we needed to be in a more secure place. We no longer had to stay in the dorms, which made me mad. I was excited to start school and live in the dorms like a normal, regular college student.

  Mother went apartment shopping the very next day, but without me, of course. I didn't get any say in where I lived. I overheard her talking with my father about the apartment she did find on 22 West, 66th Street. It was across the street from Central Park, which put me just down the way from the Lincoln Center, where Juilliard was; I could easily walk there.

  But mother not only looked at the apartment, she bought it, and without my father's approval. The apartment itself was over three million dollars. My stomach literally fell out my butt when I overheard that. I gasped in the hallway of my father's study, hearing footsteps walking closer to me, and then the door click shut. My father was very displeased about that, but didn't voice his opinion. He always told me that he would rather keep my mother smiling than fight with her.

  My bulimia went from once every couple of nights to twice a day. I could no longer stop myself. The burning in my throat helped with the pain I couldn't release – the pain caused by my own mother…by how controlling she was...by her lack of caring. It was apparent all she cared about was the fact that I might end up embarrassing her. I was getting more and more upset with her. I couldn't wait to leave here and get out on my own. With the stress she would put me under, I didn't need to use my fingers to help the bile come; it just came on command. Whenever she would yell or be displeased, you could find me in the bathroom, kneeling in front of the toilet.

  I stood up from the toilet on shaky legs and leaned on the door frame to check the time, noticing it was three minutes before my private instructor, Ramón, showed up to teach me new choreography. When I finished brushing my teeth and wiping my face off, the doorbell rang right on time.

  I meet Ramón down in the studio. I was already changed into my black leotard with light pink tights and had my hair pulled back tightly. When I entered the studio, he applauded me. I stopped to curtsey at him.

  "My flower, I heard about Juilliard," he cooed as he grabbed for my hands, pulling me into the room. "Felicitations," he said, telling me congratulations in French and kissing both my cheeks in a traditionally French way. Thanks to my mother, French was my second language, and Italian my third. Did I even like Italian? I'm not sure; it honestly never mattered.

  He held open my arms and looked at me. "My flower, you look a bit pale, are you alright?" He brushed my cheek with his fingers, and then gave my hand a little squeeze.

  Of course, I lied to him. "Yes, Master Ramón, just tired," I muttered. If Ramón ever found out about my bulimia, he wouldn't let me dance. Even though he didn't agree with my mother half of the time, he would go straight to her about it.

  He dropped my arms and walked over to the stereo, turning on the classical music to Swan Lake.

  "You must learn a new dance today, my flower," he said, walking to the center of the room as he faced the mirrors, raised his hands, inhaled deeply, and then bent at the waist to touch his toes.

  I made my way over to the ballet barre and went through my stretching routine.

  Ramón walked up behind me and placed his hands on my shoulders. "The fun begins, my flower. En' Face. Let's start with some positions." I faced the front of the room and made eye contact with Ramón in the mirrors. The sweet and friendly Ramón had left the room, replaced by uptight, pain-in-the-ass Ramón instead. "First position; arms and legs," he commanded.

  I positioned my arms at a curve in front of my body, forming a circle, the balls of my feet turned out completely so my heels touched each other and my toes pointed outward.

  "Very nice," he rewarded. "Second position, arms and legs."

  I positioned my arms open to one side with my elbows slightly rounded like the first position; on the balls of both my feet, I was completely turned out, but my feet were spread apart.

  "Again, very nice Abigail," he said, nodding. "Fifth position; arms and legs," he demanded.

  I positioned my arms and lifted them over my head. My arms rounded with the elbows slightly bent, and my hands held close together, but without my fingers touching. I placed my foot in front of the other, both of my feet touching as my toes aligned with my heels.

  "Straighter on the legs," he said, bumping my calf with his toes. "Mieux." He nodded in approval at my correction. "Let's do an Adagio together," he said, placing his hand on my lower back. We made very slow movements together, looking graceful and effortless, floating as we performed slow lifts, turns, and other supported steps to warm us up for what was going to come.

  "Très bon, my flower." Ramón praised. I smiled back at him. "Now, the real fun begins."

  Swan Lake is a tough ballet to dance to. Princess Odette is turned into a swan by an evil sorcerer's curse. To capture that and make Princess Odette co
me alive through the dance, you had to make all the turns perfectly and give the right emotions through the turns. Trying to emulate Odette's beauty while remembering not to fall, I kept my neck straight and head held up high.

  Odette's evil double, Odile, is harder for me to grasp because she's evil. Instead of smiling as if I was Odette to show my beauty, my face had to stay passive. Ramón told me to think of my mother and glare, as if I would be glaring at her. I tried not to smile at that.

  "RAPIDE, ABIGAIL, RAPIDE!" Ramón kept yelling at me to move faster. "Tête haut, head high, Abigail!" He snapped his fingers. "Sourire, big smile for your audience."

  I corrected my face and smiled; my feet were starting to get sore, but being a ballerina, this was nothing new.

  "Now, Allegro, Abigail." I leaped into the air as high as I could go.

  "ENCORE!" I tried again. "ENCORE!" I leaped again, feeling that I went higher than the first time.

  "Now, Arabesque and Arabesque penchee."

  I stopped while standing on one leg with the other leg extended straight back. I lifted it as high as possible while tilting my upper body forward to maintain my balance.

  "Pirouette, NOW, ABIGAIL!" I started turning over and over, rising en pointe as I did each turn, and maintaining my balance so I didn't get dizzy and fall on my face.

  "Stop! Echappe', ABIGAIL!" I stopped and jumped from the ground with both my feet together and separated them in the air, finishing my leap with my legs apart. I knew when I landed, my feet ended up together when they were supposed to be apart.

  "ENCORE, ABIGAIL!" I did the leap again, but corrected myself on what I did wrong. This time when I was in the air, I felt weightless and landed perfectly with my feet apart.

  "NOW, Plié and Chassé." I bent my back and moved my foot forward, and the other foot quickly followed behind, chasing it. Keeping my body bent backwards, I continued to maintain my balance.