Jersey Tomatoes are the Best by Maria Padian Page A

crosses her eyes, clutches her throat and makes mock gagging sounds. I burst out laughing.
    “I mean, could you believe him?” she says, relief in her voice.
    She chatters unrestrainedly now. As she walks ahead of me, the muscles in her calves bulge.
    Bet she’s one of those heavy hitters. She’s carrying too much weight to be quick. Then again, you never know. Don’t underestimate the big girls
.

Chapter Ten
EVA
    I t begins with
plié
. It always begins with
plié
.
    A simple bend of the knees from first position, where the heels touch and the feet swivel out in a parallel line. Do this while resting your hands on the
barre
, a long wooden railing that extends around the perimeter of the room. First, the
demi-plié
, a partial knee bend, heels remain on the floor. Again. Again. And again. Slowly the calves warm, the thighs stretch, the buttocks and stomach tuck in. Always the line straight and the center firm.
    Next, the
grand plié
. Bend so the thighs are parallel to the floor. The heels can rise now, and one hand rests on the
barre
while the free arm sweeps a graceful, circular motion. As if you’re embracing a big beach ball. The head tracks the arm: dreamlike, hypnotic. Give no hint of the rigid concentration and strength it takes to repeat these movements again and again, as the muscles move from warm to burn and sweat glistens on your neck.
    And always, always in front of you: the unforgiving mirror.
    I’m the biggest in the class. Tallest. Fattest. A giantess in a room full of pixies. You suck, and they stuck you in a class with girls two years younger
.
    Your head is held on a string that pulls you up to the ceiling. Even as you
plié
down, that string pulls, keeps you from folding in on yourself. Straight, long and tall on the way down, and slowly straight, long and tall on the way up. The legs grow warm but the strength comes from the abs. The focal point for every move.
    Madame approaches. I see a suggestion of her quick step in the mirror. As her assistant calls out, “And
plié
! And up. And
plié!
And up,” Madame visits each girl at the
barre
, murmuring comments, making corrections. I turn my eyes toward the mirror in fierce concentration. Now, Eva. One perfect
plié
.
    She stands slightly behind me. Then I feel her hand between my knees, gently coaxing them open.
    “More turnout, but from the hip. Open at the hip. If you cheat with your knees you’ll injure yourself.”
    I imagine my thigh bone twisting in its socket ever so slightly. Ligaments scream, but I ignore them. I check the mirror. Better. Definitely more open. I begin the descent, this time for
grand plié
, and focus on the straight line of my back.
    Madame has one hand on my butt and another on my stomach. She pushes my butt forward.
    “Tuck the buttocks
in
, Eva!” she says firmly. Again, I check the mirror. I correct, instantly, but Madame has already moved on. My straight, clean line is lost on her.
    Ballet booty. That’s what you’ve got. Big fat butt sticking out ofyour leotard. That butt alone weighs more than one of these other girls. You’re the fat elephant in the kids’ class, Eva
.
    It goes on. For ninety minutes. From
pliés
we move to
tendus
, from
tendus
to
frappés
, then on to
ronds de jambe
, first
en dedans
, then
en l’air
. I have never spent so much concentrated time at the
barre
in my life. The words of the woman in the black warm-up suit return to me: “We do many, many
tendus
here.”
    Somewhere between the umpteenth
tendu
and
ronds de jambe en l’air
, I lose track of time. I lose track of everything, actually, except the particular movement I’m called upon to perform. I’m in this place that Henry calls the zone, where all the background noise fades and the only thing that exists is what you’re doing right at that moment, whether it be a forehand or a
plié
. The instructor’s voice, my burning calf muscles, even Madame’s striding presence among us, disappear, and I’m in a small space where