Page 17 of The Unraveling

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Go get cleaned up—now. We have to go.”

“I want to live with Mimi,” I said, as she yanked me up.

“Shut up,” whisper-screamed my mom as her own mother rounded the corner into the room.

“Listen to her, Brandy, she’s not being paid to say it, you know.” She gave a frustrated laugh.

“Bathroom—now. Get it all off. And change into these,” she said, thrusting some fabric into my chest. I hesitated, and she said, “Now.”

I scurried off, using soap and warm water to get the sticky juice off my skin, and then looked at the clothes I’d been handed. I was momentarily confused, but then through the door I heard my mom say, “The tights go under the leotard, Jocelyn.”

I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me, and then took off my jean shorts and floral T-shirt and slithered into the stockings. Next, I put on the thing I’d just learned was called a leotard, and looked at myself in the mirror and grinned.

As soon as that compressing fabric was on me, I felt something new. I loved the way it held me. I loved how slinky and powerful it made me feel. I felt like a wild animal, finally in the right skin.

And I looked like a ballerina. I knew them from cartoons and movies and things. I loved what I saw in the mirror.

When I came out of the bathroom, Mimi and my mom—who had clearly still been arguing—both looked at me with unfamiliar looks on their faces.

“Come here, Jocelyn, you’re missing one thing. Ballerinas wear their hair up.” Mimi quickly but softly pulled my hair off my neck and twisted it up into a knot.

“Are you excited for ballet, Jocelyn?” she whispered.

I nodded, not sure that I was, necessarily, but knowing for sure that I was enjoying the outfit.

“Jocelyn, let’s go,” said my mom. “Put on your sneakers and let’s go.”

I pulled on my white sneakers—now less white and more gray and black from all the scuffs—and went out into the hot summer heat.

The Camry’s air-conditioning system had been on the fritz, as my mom called it, so it was incredibly hot in the car. My mom turned it on and lowered the windows, which did almost nothing to alleviate the oppressive air, and pulled out of the driveway.

“Think about it, Brandy!” yelled Mimi after us, her hands on her hips.

“Un-fucking-believable,” muttered my mom, then cranked up the song “Rio” by Duran Duran, which was playing from one of her CDs. She loved that song. I hoped it made her feel better.

—

We walked into the ballet studio and I felt the same thing I’d felt when I saw myself in the mirror—an utter rightness. My heart was pounding hard, as if I was about to get on a roller coaster. There were lots of other girls there, all of whom were dressed like me but in plenty of other colors. I made a mental note to ask my mom for the purple set.

A woman walked over to us. “You must be Brandy and Jocelyn Banks, is that right?”

“Yes,” said my mom.

“It’s so nice to meet you, Brandy. And this must be Jocelyn.” She crouched down to talk to me, and I noticed she moved with more youth and flexibility than most grown-ups I knew. Even my mom groaned when she crouched down like that, and she was a lot younger than all my friends’ moms.

“Yes,” I said, holding out a hand to shake hers. “Pleased to meet you.”

“What nice manners,” she said, shaking my hand. “I’m Mrs.O’Hara. Have you ever danced before?”

“All the time,” I said, wanting to elaborate about how much I loved music and dancing. “I love Duran Duran and—”

“That’s not what she means, honey,” said my mom. “No, this is her first class.”

“Okay,” said Mrs.O’Hara, now surveying me. She stood and said to my mom, “She’s got just the right build. If she’s got any talent, she’ll do very well.”

“A big if, right?” joked my mom.

Mrs.O’Hara did not laugh, and my mom’s smile faded.

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