One Dream Only Page 3

A car honks. Out the window, I see a cab in front of the house; Mama disappears into it. At least she doesn’t intend to drive; the way she swayed as she stood didn’t look too good.

  “What happened?” I ask Papa. “And don’t tell me it’s fine.”

  “We had a fight, but nothing to worry about. I’ll make us something for dinner.”

  “Mama just left. She packed a suitcase and left, and you want to stay here and eat dinner? I know she’s not easy, and I know the way she treats you is wrong, but you never let her go like this before!”

  “It’s only for a few days. Until we both calm down.”

  “What if she drinks too much?”

  “She’ll be fine.”

  “What happened?” I rub the back of my head. There’s glass from a shattered vase on the floor, probably what I heard earlier. Books are scattered on the floor, and the lines around Papa’s eyes look deeper. He looks like he’s aged ten years in ten minutes.

  He softly touches my cheek. “It’s got nothing to do with you, my Natoushka. Sometimes people just need some time apart.”

  “Are . . . are you going to stay together?”

  “No matter what we decide, I want you to know that we both love you. It has nothing to do with you.”

  “But—”

  “No more questions, Natoushka.” He runs his finger over the picture he held earlier, clears his throat, and then strides out of the room. I pick up the photo. My dad’s arm is around my mom and she’s leaning into him.

  When did my family start falling apart?

  Six hours after the audition

  March 19th, 6 p.m.

  UNCLE YURI picks me up on time, as usual. He only uses his chauffeur when we’re going to Delmonico’s from the School of Performing Arts because getting cabs at this hour is insane and taking the subway would take forever.

  “Hi, future star,” he says as I step in. I settle into the car’s leather backseat and smile at the scent of his cologne in the air. He looks tired, but his smile still wrinkles in his Pushkaya eyes, as he calls them. Mama’s eyes are also blue, but much, much lighter, almost transparent.

  “Don’t jinx it,” I reply. He squeezes my shoulders.

  “I’m sure you did amazing, and you know what we’re celebrating today, right?”

  “What?”

  “The fact that you worked so hard and that you did your best! We’ll be proud of you no matter what.”

  I nod. Spending time with Uncle Yuri is always a mixture of feeling like I’m with Papa because they look and sound so alike and feeling like I’m with a good friend who always finds a way to make me laugh. Yuri is only two years younger than Papa, but he has a carefree attitude that Papa no longer has.

  His phone rings. “Hi, Mona. What’s up in Montana? Have you caught a cowboy yet?” He laughs. Mona and Uncle Yuri had been sort-of dating, but he didn’t want to be tied down.

  I watch the city through the window, my audition dancing circles in my mind. Maybe I should have smiled more. Or maybe less. Maybe I should have given more power to my pirouette. Maybe I should have extended my arms higher above my head when I jumped into a grand jeté, flying up in the air.

  He nudges me. “You did great, I’m sure. Stop thinking about it. How about I tell you about the latest drama in my building instead?”

  Uncle Yuri always tells me stories about the people who live in his building. This time he tells me about a lady who’s about ninety years old; he’s convinced she used to be a spy. It’s probably only his imagination. We love to play the what-if game when watching people.

  “What if she was a spy and used to be a ballerina as a cover-up?” I suggest.

  Uncle Yuri tilts his head to one side. “No ballerina stories this evening. You need to relax.”

  I shrug, knowing too well that it will be hard for me to talk about anything else when I’m still pulsing from the audition. The car stops in front of Delmonico’s.

  “Come on, let’s go,” my uncle says.

  The maître d’ takes us to my uncle’s favorite table, the one in the corner. We have to walk through the entire room to get there. Yuri, as always, shakes a few hands, pats a few backs, and offers a few compliments on the way before we sit down.

  We order our usual dishes: a Delmonico steak with garlic-herb whipped potatoes and a side of roasted onions and wild mushrooms for Yuri, and a filet mignon with grilled asparagus for me.

  “Are you going to stay in the city this summer?” Uncle Yuri asks. He sips a glass of red wine while I enjoy my Shirley Temple. “You know you can stay with me if you do. Do your dorms even have AC?”

  My lips pull into a smile. He always worries that my school isn’t providing me with enough comfort. He doesn’t realize that I don’t have time for comfort. It’s all about work.

  “I’m not sure yet. Papa said he’d like to go back to New Jersey, even if Babushka isn’t . . .” I swallow through the lump in my throat. Talking about my grandmother is still difficult. “I think he wants to make sure I get to spend some time with Becca. And Mama with Becca’s mom. Whenever we’re there, she seems more relaxed.”

  “That sounds good.” Yuri takes another sip and then sits back in his chair. “How is Emilia doing?”

  We talk about everything—his job as a lawyer, the movie he wants to take me to in two weeks, how we both look forward to spring. In the back of my mind, though, I can’t help wondering about the auditions and the upcoming weekend at my parents’ house.

  I decline the offer of dessert, but it’s tough to say no. Especially when I can practically taste the apricot jam and banana gelato of their classic Baked Alaska walnut cake melting on my tongue. But if I wanted dessert, I should have had a salad, not the filet mignon.

  Uncle Yuri orders an espresso and clears his throat. “So, what’s wrong?”

  My head snaps up. “What do you mean?” I try to sound surprised, but my voice is too low.

  “You’ve been playing with your necklace almost all evening.”

  “Huh?”

  “Whenever you’re stressed about something, or you’re sad, you can’t stop playing with your necklace.” He smiles. “You’d be a terrible poker player.”

  “Have you played poker recently?” I ask, trying to redirect the conversation to safer topics.

  “Don’t change the subject.” He sighs. “Are you still worried about the auditions? Because I already told you, Nata: you did your best. You work all the time, you aim for perfection, and every single time I see you on stage, I am amazed at how easy you make it all seem.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat. Why can’t Mama say this to me?

  My uncle covers my hand with his and gives me a gentle pat before taking another sip of his espresso. “Come on, talk to me, Natoushka.”

  I take a deep breath, release it, and then clutch my necklace. “I don’t want to go back home this weekend. I mean, I want to. I want to see them. And I have this picture in my mind of how it’s supposed to be. Like Mama promised she’d come and pick me up at the airport, and maybe we’ll do something all together, like spend some time at the seashore.” I love walking by the water when it’s still cold outside and the tourists aren’t there yet. I let go of my necklace and then squeeze it again. “But I don’t want to go home just to be ignored. Mama rarely pays attention to me. And Papa always seems so sad.”

  “Sad?” Uncle Yuri frowns.

  “Like something’s off. Maybe I’m losing it because I haven’t slept that well for the past few weeks, but when I talked to him before auditions, he sounded . . .” I search for the right word, but it doesn’t come to mind. I shrug. “Off. He sounded off.”

  “And your mom?”

  “Mama didn’t really talk. I think she was crying, but I can’t be sure. She said she had a cold and that that was why she was sniffling, but I’m pretty sure she was crying.” I pause. “Maybe I should just stay here this weekend.”

  Yuri sits back in his chair and rubs the back of his neck with one hand. That’s
his tell, the one that says he’s worried about something but trying his best to not let it show. That’s how he looks right before a big case, or before any of my recitals. He’s always telling me to live life, but he also tells me I need to be careful not to hurt myself when dancing. People don’t realize how dangerous ballet can be: flying in the air in a grand jeté, making everyone believe in a story. If a ballerina does her job correctly, all movements will look easy and flawless; the hours spent behind the barre rehearsing cannot show. Last year, two girls had to leave the school for months because of injuries: one didn’t land a jump correctly and hurt her Achilles tendon, and the other had a total burnout because she couldn’t handle the pressure.

  My uncle still hasn’t answered, and I clutch my necklace again. “What do you think? Should I go?”

  “Were you looking forward to seeing them?”

  “Yes,” I whisper. Because even though it’s not always easy, I do miss them. And maybe this will be the weekend we end up reconnecting.

  Yuri’s lips turn up into a tiny smile, one that doesn’t wrinkle his eyes. He doesn’t say another word, though.

  “I do want to see them,” I continue, talking to him as well as myself. “Okay. I’ll go. Everything’s already set up and maybe I’m imagining things.”

  “What time is your flight tomorrow?”

  “Nine a.m. from JFK.”

  “I’ll take you there if you want. I only have to be in court later in the day.”

  “Okay.”

  “Let’s get you back to school.”

  When we step out, snow flurries dust the sidewalk. I tilt my head and let out a sigh. “I love the snow, but it needs to stop so I can leave tomorrow,” I say. I turn to look at Yuri. “Can you drop me off at the West 72nd Street entrance to the park?”

  “Why not all the way to school? It’s getting dark. I don’t want you walking all by yourself.”

  “I’ll be fine from there. I want to walk a bit.”

  “With the snow? You said you had enough of it.”

  “I do, but at the same time, there’s nothing like fresh snow in Central Park. And it’s only a ten-minute walk from the west entrance. I’ll be fine.”

  “All right. But you text me as soon as you get back to the dorms.”

  In the car, we don’t talk much. Yuri frowns as if he wants to tell me something but isn’t sure it’s the right time. That’s the face he had when Babushka passed away. My parents asked him to bring me home so they could tell me. She died all alone.

  I swallow the tears that build up in the back of my throat whenever I think about how I wasn’t there for her. I only called her once in a while. I took her for granted.

  Mama always said that dancing requires sacrifices. I just never thought she also meant sacrificing people.

  Two days after the audition

  March 21st, 4 p.m.

  “You’re going to be late,” Papa calls from outside. The snow drifts down steadily, covering everything in a peaceful white blanket.

  My heart skips a beat. I’ve told him three times that I don’t want to go back today. Mama is still gone and Papa looks even worse than he did yesterday. He doesn’t understand that I deserve to know what’s going on. If they get a divorce, would they even tell me?

  “I don’t want to go back. I want to stay here. They can tell me if I made it or not over the phone.” I stand still, burying my fears of them splitting up. Maybe divorce would be best for them. Mama’s drinking is clearly getting out of hand, but then I’d lose her, too. There’s no way she’ll get help without Papa pushing her.

  “You’re going. End of discussion.” He pauses. “You need to be back at school. We’ll be fine, Natoushka. Okay? Grab your suitcase and let’s go.”

  I draw in slow, steady breaths. Getting mad at Papa won’t solve anything. And he seemed so sad earlier at the kitchen table. “Fine, but I’m coming back next weekend,” I reply.

  “We’ll see.”

  I walk carefully out the door and down the steps to the car, and then settle into my seat. Papa puts the car in reverse, and the tires slide on the wet ground.

  “My flight might be cancelled, you know.” I attach my seat belt and cross my arms over my chest.

  Papa maneuvers the car out of the driveway and heads toward the interstate. The little roads are neither entirely plowed nor salted and I’m not sure how he can see anything with the snow as thick as it is. He turns the radio to NPR.

  “Papa, why do you let yourself be bullied by her?” I ask after a few minutes. “You fight all the time, but it’s getting worse.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it, Natoushka,” he replies.

  “But I want to. Why did Mama leave? Why were you yelling?” I press him, but he doesn’t answer, his fingers playing an invisible piano on the wheel.

  “Papoushka?” I try again, but still nothing.

  “Fine.” I pump up the radio volume and change it to a Top-40 station.

  “I told you not to play with the radio while I’m driving.” He switches the program back.

  “And I want to know what’s going on.” I change the radio again.

  He swats my hand and sighs, not taking his eyes off the road. “The important thing is you know I love you.”

  He sounds so serious, way too serious. “Don’t get all sentimental on me now, Papoushka,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.

  He glances my way, staring at me for what seems like forever. His fingers are all fidgety. The car slides dangerously across the centerline of the road, but then he shakes his head, mutters something I don’t understand, and rights the car, regaining control. Loud honking distracts him, and lights slice through the snow, nearly blinding me in the early-evening darkness.

  A semi-truck barrels toward us, honks again, and then pummels across the road.

  I’ve never understood the expression “my life flashed before my eyes” until now. I have so many things I want to live for, so many things I still want to say, to Papa, to Mama, to Becca, and to the friends I have neglected. I have so many ballets to dance.

  “Papa!” I yell.

  “Hold on tight,” Papa shouts, cranking the steering wheel. Our car slips across the road, tumbles to the side and into the grass. It’s moving so fast and we just keep going. It’s like we’ll never stop.

  “Hold on!” Papa yells again.

  And then there’s nothing.

  Eight hours after the audition

  March 19th, 8 p.m.

  Despite what I told Uncle Yuri, I take the long way back to school through Central Park. I pull out my iPod and can’t help the smile that blooms when one of my favorite of Chopin’s waltzes comes on. Waltz in C-sharp minor starts somewhat slow, but then the pace picks up. I do a pas chassé and a quick pirouette, bowing to an invisible audience. The snow falls harder and everything looks magical, full of possibilities.

  My shoulders feel light, and even though I’m still a bit worried about the results of my audition, dinner with Uncle Yuri relaxed me, and now I know in my heart and in my bones that I nailed it.

  An imaginary conversation with the Juilliard recruitment committee plays out in my mind.

  “Miss Pushkaya, this is unusual, but we’d like you to star as the principle ballerina for the showcases, and you have free reign over the choreography,” the director of Juilliard tells me.

  “I’d love to,” I reply.

  I skip across the snow-covered grass, laughing. Maybe I’m worried for nothing. Mama will pick me at the airport with Papa, and her eyes will glint with happiness while Papa stands tall, both of them shining with pride.

  Maybe they won’t fight this weekend. Maybe Mama won’t drink. Maybe we’ll celebrate as a family.

  Together.

  I hurry the rest of the way home, looking forward to seeing Emilia, to catching up with Becca, and to packing my suitcase. When I enter our room, though, Emilia’s nowhere to be seen. She left a note on my desk, between the clutter of my papers and her neat bookshelf:
>
  Gone to rehearse.

  I frown. Even I took the evening off. Most students are out celebrating. Why is she rehearsing now?

  I stride out of the room and make my way to the studio. Music blasts through the speakers. I open the door and poke my head inside.

  “Emilia?” I call softly, not wanting to scare her. If she’s practicing her jumps, she doesn’t need me to frighten her.

  But I don’t need to worry.

  “I don’t want to hear it!” Emilia shouts at Nick. “You were right. You and I . . . we’ll never work!”

  “This is bs and you know it. I was wrong.” He pauses. “I can’t stop thinking about you.” Her mouth gapes open. “I want to kiss you. Tell me you don’t want me to and I won’t.” He pauses. They stare at each other for a few seconds. Emilia rises on her toes, and Nick cups her face with one hand while the other snakes around her waist.

  He watches her, giving her enough time to move away or say something. When she doesn’t, he leans his face toward her.

  “You’re driving me crazy,” he tells her. She’s about to say something back, but their lips meet and it’s like watching a new dance unfolding in front of me. They get lost in one another.

  I can’t help but stare.

  I’ve never been kissed. Not even once. Not even a little peck or while playing spin the bottle—okay, fine, I’ve never played spin the bottle. But still.

  They pull apart. Emilia’s eyes widen, but then she tugs him back to her. She whispers something I can’t hear. Something I probably shouldn’t hear.

  I slowly close the door behind me, wishing Emilia trusted me enough to tell me about what’s going on, missing the easy conversations Becca and I always had during our summers together.

  Back in our dorm room, I pick up my phone and dial Becca’s number but it goes straight to voice mail.

  “Hi, Becca. Sorry I’ve been MIA. Call me back.”

  I slowly pack my bag, making sure I bring Fuzzy with me. He takes up a quarter of the space, but I can’t leave him behind even for a night. I still have leggings and several leotards at my parents’ house, but I add one more dance outfit just in case.