Room C

Where my little ballerina danced

For forty-five minutes, the mom to my right scrolled. Flick, flick, flick, flick, tap. Tap-tap, flick, flick, flick. The mom across from me stared at the black rectangle in her right hand while she dangled a fuzzy ring with her left hand in the face of her baby below in a car seat. Over my left shoulder, a mom talked on the phone. She’d pick up Sogo’s when she left. It was on the way home. And the mom directly behind me typed on a laptop with a pink marble cover. Clickety-clack konk.

I engaged with a screen too. To watch it, I had to hold up my neck with my fist. I sat in a room with three doors labeled A, B, and C. A TV, the size of a Candyland board was mounted on the far wall. No sound came from the TV, but we sat close enough to the door that was labeled C to hear what went on behind it. The TV showed us—or me, the lone viewer—what the music inspired.

Flick, flick, flick, flick, tap. Tap-tap, flick, flick, flick.

Clickety-clack konk.

Room C had six ballerinas below 40 inches tall. They wore black leotards, pink tights, and ballet pink ballet shoes. Their hair had been spun to make a bun.

Flick, flick, flick, flick, tap. Tap-tap, flick, flick, flick.

Clickety-clack konk.

On the TV screen, I watched Brooke pick a hot pink beanie baby that I later learned was a teddy bear. They danced with the fuzzy friends on their shoulders, their arms, their feet, and between the knees. When the song finished, they scurried like fairies to return the stuffed animals and find a spot on the bar. “Who remembers how to do a plié?” the teacher asked. I watched Brooke push her legs together, look at her feet, and point her toes out. She stood in first position, ready to bend her knees. We’d worked on this earlier that day. The week before, I noticed she stood with a gap between her legs and her toes pointing forward when she was supposed to be in first position. At home, I helped her hit the pose. “When your teacher tells you to plié, this is how you stand,” I said.

Flick, flick, flick, flick, tap. Tap-tap, flick, flick, flick.

Clickety-clack konk.

I smiled when I saw her get there without me in front of her, pointing, correcting. “Brooke has the position. Good job, Brooke,” I heard her teacher say. My heart swelled as Brooke looked down at her feet and back up to smile at the one who praised her.

Flick, flick, flick, flick, tap. Tap-tap, flick, flick, flick.

Clickety-clack konk.

The teacher handed out ribbons that looked like the strings you tie to balloons—the ones you curl with scissors. They walked and twirled around the room making the ribbons float in circles and waves. The ballerina fairies scurried once more to return the Pom Pom ribbons to a bucket. White rubber dots sprinkled the dance floor. Each ballerina ran to a dot. They chasséd to the right with their right hands in fourth position. Then they went left. A new song came on about a burrito. The ballerinas bounced and clapped. They did an arabesque.

Flick, flick, flick, flick, tap. Tap-tap, flick, flick, flick.

Clickety-clack konk.

The TV screen went black. Then blue, purple, and pink circles swirled around. The ballerinas leaped about like shadows at the disco. The door opened, and all of the moms looked up, having missed the chance to delight in the dancing of their little girl—who won’t be a little girl for long.