The Cranes Dance by Meg Howrey

with it. But I had that crumpled-paper feeling inside my stomach again.
    “Why did you tell me she was fine?” I demanded, covering the side of my face with my free hand, a buffer against flying knives. “Why am I just hearing about this now?”
    Mom is no dummy. She let enough silence in so I could hear what I just said.
    “You haven’t been telling us everything either, have you?” she asked, very calmly.
    “What do you mean?”
    “What do I mean about what?”
    “It sounded like you were accusing me of something.”
    “Oh Kate, don’t be so sensitive,” Mom said, chirping. “I know you’ve always been very protective of your sister. That’sall I was saying. You always think I’m implying these … I don’t know whats.”
    “I just want you to keep me in the loop, okay. I don’t know why you can’t call me.”
    “I was waiting until we knew a little more. We don’t really know anything about this kind of thing. We have to let Gwen do this herself is what they keep saying. I know you want to help.”
    “Is her knee okay, at least?”
    “Yes. That they seem able to handle. These doctors, Kate. You should see some of the literature they hand you. They’ll
make
you crazy! Now how’s my Katie-bird? Let’s talk about you for a little bit.”
    I told her about my neck.
    “It’s not serious, though,” said my mom.
    “I don’t know,” I said. “It may be. It’s hard. I’m in a lot of pain, actually.”
    Jesus, my voice even wobbled when I said that. Luckily that jerked me back to my senses.
    “But I’m taking care of it. No bigs.”
    “You’ll be all right! Drink lots of water and wrap it up in one of your scarves.”
    “I will.”
    Conversation stalled. We talked a little more, in a desultory fashion. Like two people playing tennis, but on separate courts, so nobody could return a shot.
    “How are you holding up?” I asked her, at the end of the conversation. “Is there anything I can do?” These are the things one says. Especially when there’s a high-percentage chance that the response will be “I’m fine” and “No, thank you.”
    “You just take care of yourself,” Mom said. “You just be my rock.”
    “I guess Gwen won’t be coming back anytime soon, huh?”
    “Apparently the first thing is to get the right medication,” Mom said doubtfully. “But I don’t really know too much about all that.”
    I wasn’t being insensitive, by the way, suggesting that Gwen might believe she was Queen of the Fairies. If Gwen were here she’d be rehearsing Titania, Queen of the Fairies, for
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
.
    After we hung up I decided to stay in bed for a little while. That turned into skipping company class and staying in bed until ten. Just resting, you know. Like a rock. Obviously it was a very upsetting conversation. Actually I was pretty freaked out.
    It’s not a big deal—skipping company class. It’s not officially mandatory for soloists and principals, although you don’t want to go too long without putting in an appearance. And of course you do have to take class somewhere. It’s part of our creed, daily class. And one still says “class” even when one is a professional and has ceased to actually be learning anything other than the precise amount of erosion occurring in one’s cartilage. Not that one is perfect and there is nothing more to learn. But class at this point is really more about maintenance and self-evaluation. It’s easy to get out of shape if you aren’t always pushing yourself. It’s easy to lose your edge if you don’t constantly hold yourself to the highest standards.Unrecoverable torpor might not be a matter of a few missed classes, but it feels like it.
    Andrew came once to watch me take class. “It wasn’t like what I thought,” he said, and then: “It looks weird to see people dancing up close like that.” Later when we were having sex he told me that it really turned him on to watch me sweat. This is the kind of thing that