“Begin again,” Madame LeClaire snaps. “No, no! Begin again.” 

At the very least, I thought I nailed first position, but the pale clique of leotard girls on the studio floor tells me otherwise as they sit straighter, impressively rolling their eyes in sync. The free facelift that comes with Madame’s tight top knot gives her the Cheshire Cat’s fixed grin but none of his charm. She claims she’s thirty-seven, the age my mother would have been, but Madame looks decades older, with skin stretched like twice-used Saran Wrap over knotty chicken bones. 

I remember Mom’s full face, flushed with laughter, driving home the day my first-grade teacher reprimanded me during recess for chasing squirrels. I imagine the way Mom would similarly dismiss Madame, had she lived to see me butcher ballet. How she’d pick me up in her silver-cloud Cordoba, pop ABBA in the 8-track player, and mimic Madame by singing “Dancing Queen” in a terrible French accent. I’d say she sounds more like Count Dracula than—

Why is Madame glaring? This is demi-plié, no?

“Begin again!”

She should see me do the Hustle.

“Begin again!”

I’ve got it, lady. Voila! Demi-plié—the one Dad called “public toilet position” when he still made jokes. I crouch so my knees jut in opposite directions past my long, flat feet. I wobble, thinking this might be easier if I’d inherited Mom’s grace and high insteps instead of Dad’s gangly frame and shaky stability.

“Arrête!” 

Disgust is not Madame’s best look. She points, and one of the tiny dancers pops up like her plastic doppelganger that hides in my jewelry box, where I keep an old hermit crab shell, pennies from my birth year, and the broken watch Mom was wearing the day she ran a red light. As the other dancer executes perfection, I wonder if Mom died laughing, singing, or just running behind.

I sit on the curb in front of Madame’s locked door. Dad arrives predictably late with a fully functioning Timex, a hint of scotch breath, and a car radio “on the fritz.” It only picks up a faraway Spanish station and static. He spins the dial until he cuts it off, sighing.

“How was ballet?” 

“Fantastic.”

“Good. School?”

“Even better.”

From the passenger seat, a vantage point I never requested, I watch Dad’s mouth twitch like it’s tapping Morse code. His V-neck sunburn and rubber-grip smell beg me to give him a break.

“How’d you play?” 

He relaxes, re-living his golf game, shot-by-shot all the way home.

Someday, I’ll tell people I wanted to be a ballerina, but my feet were too big. An asset, I’d hoped, for karate, but my wayward side kick was a liability. Cheerleading ended as Dad’s humor returned, and my toe touch became Mission: Impossible.

When he found Mom’s old golf clubs, he called me to the backyard.

“Want to give it a swing?” 

Dad whistled at my powerful drive as I shattered a neighbor’s window and thought I heard Mom laughing.