Jersey Tomatoes are the Best by Maria Padian Page B

the perfection of the simplest step commands me. It’s a quiet, pure place, and as I work I feel the pace of my heart lessen and the nervous tension in my shoulders loosen.
    Then, at
grand battement
, it happens. Leg lifts: one leg planted while the other is raised into the air from the hip, then brought down again, knees straight. The goal is to loosen the hips, turn the legs out from the hips. Over and over we lift
devant
(in front),
à la seconde
(from second position) and
derrière
(behind). Each time my foot goes a little higher, the joints relax a little more, and on the third
grand battement à la seconde
I feel completely loose, I see my foot soar above my head, theleg scissors down, straight, and I realize: it is the best, most perfect
grand battement
I have ever done. I feel this … rush … of elation.
    This is when it happens for me. Never during a performance, or onstage, or in the mirror. But at these unexpected moments, when I’m too tired to look in the mirror, and just slip into
feeling:
one perfect execution. Something lovely, beautiful, created by me. Only for an instant, then it’s gone.
    But this is why I dance.
    When the instructor calls for
révérence
, the stretch that marks the end of the exercise and is the traditional gesture of respect for the art, I feel a pang. I hate to stop. Hate to abandon this space.
    As I reluctantly leave the
barre
and head with the rest of the class to the changing room, I see Madame. She is watching me. Probably has been, for I don’t know how long. Our eyes lock, and reflexively I smile at her. God knows why. And in return she does … nothing. Her expressionless face is flat. Neither approval nor disgust registered there.
    I’m a stranger blocking her view of the wall. I am molding clay. Anonymous, beige, to be twisted and retwisted into sylphlike shapes of ballet perfection.
    I can’t decide whether to lunge at her and seize her by the throat, or collapse on the floor in hysterical sobs. So since I can’t decide, I quietly follow the line of girls out of the studio.
    *   *   *
    We have two hours before
pointe
class at one o’clock. Perfect. There’s a lounge on the second floor with big couches and adrinks machine where I can get a bottle of water. Just the place to put my feet up and eat my bag lunch, but as I head for the elevators, one of the pixies invites me to join her and several others at the canteen.
    “Thanks, but I brought,” I say, displaying my bag as evidence.
    “Oh, they’ll let you take food in,” she assures me.
    Next thing I know I’m riding the elevator with three of them. The girl who invited me does the introductions.
    “I’m Marguerite,” she says. “This is Anna. Caitlin.” Each nods and smiles. Each has her hair smoothly pulled back in a tight bun. No one wears jewelry, not even earrings. We’ve all changed into leggings and loose T-shirts. Soft wool clogs that could double as bedroom slippers. “Eva,” I say, smiling back.
    “Is this your first summer?” asks Marguerite.
    “Yes,” I reply, surprised. “Have you done this before?” All three nod.
    “Third time,” Marguerite says matter-of-factly. “Third,” she adds, pointing to Anna. “Fourth,” she says, pointing to Caitlin. I don’t even bother to hide my astonishment.
    “I didn’t know people repeated,” I say. Anna shrugs.
    “Still trying to get an invitation to the full-year program,” she explains. “They’ll let you keep trying until you’re, what? Seventeen?” she asks Caitlin, who nods. “So I’ve got one year left.”
    “You’re sixteen?” I ask. No way is this flat-chested pipsqueak older than me.
    “Yup. The old lady of the group. Everyone else is fifteen. You?” The elevator doors slide open.
    “Same.”
    The canteen looks like a cross between a high school cafeteria and a hospital lunch café. Smells about that appetizing, too. We find an empty table with four metal and plastic chairs, and sit. All the pixies carry