One Dream Only Page 2

  I take a deep breath, trying to regain focus. I change position and work on perfecting my arabesque penché, trying to reach the 180-degree line from working foot to standing foot.

  Svetlana—my favorite dance instructor and a former colleague of Mama’s—enters the room as I complete the final stretch to my arabesque. Her lips turn up in a bright smile.

  “You look so much like your mom,” she says. “With your hair half-down like that and passion showing in your every movement. Everyone can tell you’re the daughter of the great Katya Pushkaya.” She sighs and clasps her hands together. “She was really amazing.”

  “Thank you,” I reply, shaking out my muscles. I mean it—Mama was the best. She was the light illuminating any stage she danced on. She had that little something extra we all strive for: presence, charisma, and a way to lose yourself in the dance, bringing the public into the moment with you. The last time she came to visit me at school, almost everyone was in awe.

  Almost.

  A few girls had snickered behind my back, saying it’s well known that Mama stopped dancing because she’d developed the habit of going to rehearsal totally wasted. But they’re wrong; she started drinking when she gave up dancing. When she got pregnant with me.

  Svetlana turns off the music. “You’re going to do great,” she says, and then steps aside. “They’re ready for you.”

  They.

  The director of the school, a former dancer from the American Ballet Company who studied here, the head of choreography, and the foundation director.

  They’ll be judging me. They’ll be looking at every single movement I make, if my head tilts too much to the right, if my leg isn’t bent perfectly. I rub my knee again. The pain’s not strong, but it’s my weak point.

  One wrong move and I could really damage my future.

  I can’t let that happen.

  One day after the audition

  March 20th, 9:30 a.m.

  MY PLANE lands in Portland, Maine, with an hour delay because of the snow. I let the couple with the young child who’d been crying the entire way here pass in front of me. They smile gratefully and I return it. It’s like the world’s waiting for me and I’m ready to jump in. I managed to convince myself that Papa and Mama are going to be happy to see me and that we’re going to spend a nice weekend catching up, that I imagined how sad they both sounded during our last phone call.

  I hurry out to the baggage claim and spot Papa right away. He’s standing by the exit.

  I stretch my neck to see where Mama’s hiding, but I can’t find her. My heart clenches, but I don’t want to give up on my fantasy weekend just yet.

  “Natoushka!” Papa waves and opens his arms.

  “You know I don’t like hugging,” I mutter, but there’s something about the way he looks at me that tugs at my heart. His brows are furrowed and his lips fight a smile, but it’s a lost battle. His shirt isn’t tucked in properly and his usually smooth face is riddled with hair, as if he hasn’t shaved in a few days.

  Instead of turning away, I step into his embrace. He wraps his arms around me, and I feel like I did when I was younger, like nothing bad can ever happen to me with him by my side. My papa’s always been my hero, the one to save me from my nightmares, the one who made sure my lunch was packed up for school, and the one who explained to me that I wasn’t dying when my first period came.

  Mama was always too “sick.” Now I know “sick” meant she was totally hangover or too wasted to move.

  “Where is she?” I ask, still hopeful that Mama might be buying a magazine or waiting in the car.

  “She’s waiting for you at home,” Papa replies. My chest constricts.

  I should have known better than to believe her when she said she’d come. It’s not like she hasn’t seen me in months. It’s not like I had the most important audition of my career to date yesterday. It’s not like she’d promised last time that she’d come to pick me up.

  No, nothing like that, I think bitterly, clutching my necklace and trying very hard not to start crying right here.

  I run my fingers through my hair. We stroll by the store Cool as a Moose, turning toward the exit as the smells from Linda Bean’s Maine Lobster Café waft by. Their chowder is yummy, but after splurging at the steakhouse—Delmonico’s—with Uncle Yuri last night, I can’t even think about eating.

  “How was your flight?” Papa grabs my small suitcase.

  “Fine, whatever, nothing special,” I reply harshly. I shouldn’t punish Papa for her mistakes, but sometimes I can’t help myself. I usually snap at him when all I really want to do is yell at her. But not today. I won’t let her ruin the good mood I’ve been in all morning. “I mean, a little bumpy, but nothing too bad,” I say and glance at Papa. His hands tremble a bit, which is unusual. Papa’s a pianist. He has the steadiest hands of anyone I know. I climb into the passenger seat of our car and wrinkle my nose. The car smells like a mix of Papa’s cologne and . . . vomit. “What happened in here?”

  “Nothing. Your mom got sick, but it’s all good.” Papa opens one of the windows, sending a gust of the chilly wind into the car.

  I cringe. “Is everything okay?”

  “Great. Everything’s fine. Don’t worry.” He maneuvers out of the parking lot and onto the highway before talking again. “They’re calling for more snow and sleet tomorrow and Sunday. Maybe you should leave earlier. Like tomorrow morning. Or even tonight. The last flight out is at about eight.”

  My heart breaks a little. Tonight? That’s so soon. I expect those comments from Mama, but not from him. “Do you want me to?”

  He glances my way for a second, before turning his attention back to the road. “That’s not what I meant. I know how important it is for you to be there on Monday, and if the flights get cancelled you’ll be stuck with us.” He attempts a smile, but it looks more like a grimace than the real thing. “I’m sure you got the part.” Before I can answer, he turns on the radio and switches to the CD he always has in his car: The Chopin Collection played by Arthur Rubinstein. According to Papa, Rubinstein is a legend. Papa used to tell me that playing an instrument and dancing had several things in common. He said Rubinstein nailed it when asked how he could continue to play the same waltz for over seventy-five years: Rubinstein had replied, Because it’s not the same, and I don’t play it the same way. It is so true. Last year, I danced a small role in Cinderella, and each night I discovered a new detail, a new feeling.

  Papa’s fingers tap out a rhythm on the steering wheel, and his deep voice hums the melody of the song.

  Familiar houses flash by the windows, and I close my eyes. The adrenaline from the past few days is slowly wearing off, and the music and my father’s humming rock me like a lullaby. Papa always tells me that when I was a baby, the only way to calm me down was to put on a Nocturne from Chopin and I’d fall asleep instantly.

  Chopin still has the same effect on me now.

  The car jolts to a stop and wakes me up. “Come on, sleepyhead. We’re here.” The snow covers part of the driveway, but a path is cleared up to our small house. The next house is a few miles down the road. Papa wanted to live outside the city because he said nature helped him create. Fortunately, Mama didn’t care where she lived. I rub my eyes, yawn, and then stretch as I get out of the car.

  My feet slip on a patch of ice, and I cling to the door. My heart hammers. Accidents. Stupid accidents happen all the time.

  “You okay there, Natoushka?”

  “Fine.” I press my lips together, taking another step but still holding on to the car.

  “Come on, let me help you.” He tucks his hand under my elbow, and we slowly make our way to a spot that seems safe. We walk up to the house and Papa pushes the door open. Warmth engulfs me. There’s a fire in the living room and soft music is playing in the background. Chopin again, but this time his Preludes.

  “Mama!” I kick off my shoes and shimmy out of my coat. “Mama!” I run upstairs.

  “Natoushka, wait!”
Papa yells after me, but I don’t listen.

  I hear sniffles through the door of my parents’ bedroom. “I’ll be down in a minute,” Mama calls.

  I turn the knob, but it doesn’t move.

  “I said I’ll be down in a minute.” Mama’s voice has an edge to it, and I back away slowly, feeling like someone punched me in the stomach. She’s probably been drinking, and again, I’m reminded what place I have in her life . . . None.

  I trudge back downstairs. Papa’s waiting for me, frowning. “She’s not doing well. I told you she’s sick,” Papoushka says. If I didn’t know better, I might believe him.

  Mama’s true love is vodka. It’s also her most toxic relationship.

  Sometimes she proudly drinks herself to total oblivion in front of friends, joking that she can hold her own, saying it comes from her Russian heritage, but most of the time she hides her dirty secret, drinking when no one can see her, drinking so she can function, drinking until she crashes. I didn’t realize how bad it had gotten. Usually Papa kept me busy whenever she was having a down moment. He would play Chopin on his old piano, he would ask me to help him cook pelmeni—ravioli-like bundles of dough with meat and onions inside. My favorite kind has mushrooms and mashed potatoes in them. He would take me for a walk by the water, or he would insist it was okay for me to spend hours on the phone with Becca or rehearsing at the local studio.

  “I’ll go practice upstairs for a while,” I tell him.

  “Natoushka.” He holds his hand out, but I shake my head.

  “I’ll be dancing.”

  This is what I do when the pain becomes too much, when the knowledge that my own mother doesn’t care about me makes it hard to breathe. I dance.

  Upstairs, I stretch my muscles to the music Papa plays down below. The notes he’s creating from the piano are the saddest I’ve ever heard.

  He plays “The Farewell Waltz” from Chopin again and again. And for the first time, I’m afraid that even though my father loves my mom, she may have gone too far.

  Audition time

  March 19th, 11 a.m.

  I ENTER THE audition room with my head high.

  The director of the school smiles to the other judges. “Here’s our first student, Natalya Pushkaya, the daughter of Katya Pushkaya.” I’m not sure he says this so that everyone knows exactly who I am or because he’s trying to remind me that I need to be at least as good as my mother. His eyes bore into mine. “Natalya, are you ready?”

  I nod, not trusting my vocal cords. The director raises one finger to the technician. My heart pounds in my ears until I hear the first notes.

  The music pulls me into the story and the audience is no longer there. I’m Aurora, and I bow to my suitors, energy extending to my fingertips. I turn away, suddenly shy, but butterflies flutter in my stomach. I can look for love. Love can be real and I have the world in front of me. I tap my toe and extend my back leg, and then turn into a pirouette.

  One turn.

  Two turns.

  Three turns.

  I pause, inhale and exhale, and wait for the music to change.

  As soon as it does, I retreat to the darkest place inside myself, to the part of me no one knows, the part that feels empty and lost, that misses her babushka so much that it hurts not to cry, but that knows crying would destroy her. Everyone has a dark place they keep hidden most of the times. No one is only made of sunshine; even those people smiling or laughing all the time have memories that hurt them and people they miss. Being happy doesn’t mean never being sad.

  My movements grow heavier. My eyes drift closed, and when I open them, I see darkness around me.

  I finish this segment of the dance, almost in tears.

  I bow. My entire body pulsates, my heart hammers, and when I look at the judges, I hear my mother’s name and the words at least as talented.

  I’m about to burst with pride, but instead of doing a small jump, the end of my performance lingers in my mind. I bite the inside of my cheek, grounding myself in the present.

  The judges nod politely and take a few notes. Maria, the former dancer from the American Ballet Company, gives me a thumbs-up while the other judges deliberate.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Our decision will be posted on the wall on Monday,” the director says. Then he clears his throat. “But you know, Natalya, make sure you rest this weekend. You’ll need it in the next few weeks.”

  “I will,” I say. My brain is going through all the possible hidden meanings of this statement. Either I’ll need to practice because I sucked or I am getting an important role. Maybe the role.

  Only three more days until I find out.

  Svetlana opens the door of the audition room and ushers me out.

  My heart does little energetic pas chassés and I’m so excited that I skip down the hall as soon as the door closes behind me. I almost run into Emilia, who’s biting the skin around her nails.

  “You did great, didn’t you? I can’t believe I’m going after you. Right after the best student at school. I’m doomed!” She sighs and then smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m happy for you. But you know, I just want to be first for once.” She pauses and then turns away, muttering. “First somewhere. I’m not first anywhere, not with my parents, not with him. Not here.”

  She sniffles.

  “You’ll do fine,” I tell her. “You’re going to be amazing. If I’m threatened by anyone, it’s you.”

  And it’s half-true. I am afraid of her being chosen instead of me. She doesn’t have the passion, but she has the technique, and her mom’s a big donor to the school. Mine’s a celebrity in her own right, but she’s hardly throwing money at the board.

  I squeeze her hand. “Look at me.” I pause until our gazes lock. “You worked hard for this. You performed the routine perfectly yesterday. Just let yourself go.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Stop overthinking the routine. Feel it. Feel every movement. When you dance, pretend Nick’s the only one watching you.”

  “Nick? You really want me to fail, don’t you?” She laughs, but her eyes sparkle at the idea and I know I’m right.

  “You want him to wake you up with a kiss. You want to live every moment of the kiss, you want everyone to feel the way you do. Show them how you feel!”

  “Emilia,” Svetlana calls.

  “You can do it. I mean it. Do you want me to wait for you?”

  She shakes her head. “No. Go. I’ll be fine. Thank you.” She walks to the entrance, her head high and her shoulders back.

  And like we do before any big event, I call out what many ballerinas around the world use instead of the ill-fated break a leg. “Merde!”

  She doesn’t turn back to me.

  One day after the audition

  March 20th, 5 p.m.

  I HAVEN’T seen Mama all day, even during lunch. Papa tried to distract me with conversation about school and the new piano piece he’s working on, but sometimes his eyes would focus on the stairs as if she’d magically appear. He’s been playing the piano for a good part of the afternoon, and I’ve been upstairs in my room rehearsing.

  This hasn’t been the weekend I imagined. At all. It’s been so long since I spent time at home. I really believed that at least we would have dinner together, that maybe we’d cuddle on the couch and watch a movie, that Mama would ask me about my audition, that we would go on a walk like we did when I was younger and was obsessed with finding the perfect leaves to draw.

  “Zatknis!” I hear Papa shout from downstairs. I startle. It means “shut up” in Russian and I’ve only heard him swear twice before: once when he lost the bid to compose a soundtrack and again when Becca’s parents dropped a bucket of water on him at the lake. I leave my music on, hoping my parents won’t hear me coming down the stairs. Something shatters on the floor, and a door slams. Now they’re in the study, and they’re screaming at each other in a mixture of English and Russian, their voices muffled so I can’t understan
d what they’re saying.

  The doors flies open, and Mama’s eyes widen when she sees me. “Natoushka,” she whispers. Her hand hovers in the air, as if she wants to touch my cheek or pull me close to her. But instead, she sighs and goes back to her bedroom without a word. There’s a shuffle, and sound of a dresser opening.

  Papa’s still in the study.

  “Papoushka,” I say.

  He’s holding a picture of the family at Christmas two years ago. The picture was taken right after eating my babushka’s famous vinegret—iced boiled beet roots, potatoes, carrots, chopped onions, and sauerkraut. We’d convinced Babushka to stay with us for two weeks. Yuri had come down from the city with his girlfriend at the time, Tawna. Everyone’s laughing in the picture.

  “Papoushka,” I repeat.

  “Everything’s fine, Nata. Everything’s okay.” But his shoulders are slumped and he continues to stare at the picture. “It’s okay.”

  Mama stumbles down the stairs with her suitcase.

  My eyes dart from him to her. She pauses at the door, and my heart’s screaming for him to stop her. He’s always the reasonable one. He’s always the one making sure they keep it together. But he doesn’t say a single word.

  “Mama?” I call, hoping against all odds that she’ll stop and listen to me.

  When she does stop and turns around, I hold my breath. I take a step forward, but Papa slams the picture down on the shelf, and in a voice of steel, says, “Zatknis, Katya.”

  Mama flinches and then hurries out the door.