The Dancer
Sunday I go to work at the family store. The sound of the bell ringing overhead as I unlock the door. Work hard, my father says, so you can go to college. I used to be a dancer. Now I study for school. My father doesn’t believe in free time. If I don’t have class I work.
No time for free time, he says, raising his finger at me.
The leaves are starting to change outside the window. It’s almost Halloween. Red and orange and yellow. I’ve always liked Halloween. Since I was young. Not for the reasons most people say. Like – to dress up as someone new or someone you’re not. I like the decorations on people’s houses. Jack o’ lanterns on windowsills and people made from leaves stuffed into old clothes. I like Halloween for the weather. Sweatshirts and jackets for walking outside.
Two boys come into the store. I’m standing at the top of the stairs. Wearing a beautiful dress. I curtsy like they do in the movies. I took dance lessons when I was young because this is what my mother wanted. I descend, gracefully. Moonlight shining through the window. My date in his black tuxedo standing at the base with his arm outstretched. Waiting for me to take it.
Saying, You look so beautiful, Marnie. Would you care to dance?
Yes, I say, calm and cool and nonchalant. I would like to dance.
Then he says, all charming and suave, Well, would you like to dance with me? and I take his arm and we dance beneath the crystal chandelier that sparkles like diamonds through the night.
Missus Corcoran was a strict dance teacher. She always yelled at me to focus. She yelled at me more than she yelled at anyone else.
Ligne, Marnie! Are you paying attention?
I usually read while I work. Not many people come in at once. It’s not that I love chemistry. I can hear my father’s voice in my head. No time for free time. Why would you stand around when you could be studying?
The boys come in. They joke and laugh and push each other. One of the boys smiles. He has nice eyes. He drives a black car I think looks silly. But he likes his car. He’s proud of it. That makes me like it too.
I read my book. I don’t make eye contact. Not like he could tell through my glasses. They’ll buy beer and I’ll ring them up and I won’t ask for their identification. His black car is sitting in the parking lot. Red and orange and yellow leaves on the sidewalk. Two boys with beer under their arms. They are not old enough. I don’t care. Father doesn’t care.
Jeté entrelacé! No, Marnie, spin and then drop.
A man comes in behind them. Wearing a black sweatshirt over a large stomach. He looks strange. It’s a strange neighborhood. He’s talking about cigarettes, cigars, what do I have behind the counter. He’s looking behind the counter. He’s getting too close. I tell him we only have cigarettes.
He asks for a small bottle of whiskey. He hands me money. Okay.
Chassé, Marnie. Pay attention.
Is this the right amount?
En Face.
I open the register. Suddenly his face is covered by a mask and he pulls out a gun. My breath goes out of my chest and I think this is not cool, not charming or nonchalant, this is not the beau I would curtsy for, this is not what was supposed to happen today. I have a test tomorrow, I have to study, I have to rake leaves, I have to –
Pas Jeté.
I can’t move. There’s a gun pointed at me. The man’s voice like a hiss telling me to give him what I have in the register. Cash and receipts. Cash and receipts, he says to me, shaking the gun. Now!
Chassé, Marnie. Are you paying attention?
My hands are sweating. The gun shaking in front of me. Shiny and black like the car in the parking lot. I know there is a button underneath the counter for calling the police. Father showed me where it was. I can’t find it now.
Focus, Marnie! Missus Corcoran says. You’re not paying attention.
My fingers fumbling with the register. Not as graceful as my curtsy. Why didn’t I pay attention when father showed me where the button was? I can hear his voice. You can’t fool around if you want to make it in this world, he says. You have to work hard. Do you hear me? Are you paying attention?
Yes, papa.
Allegro, Marnie, allegro! Missus Corcoran says. You’re not quick enough.
Yes, Missus Corcoran.
I see one of the boys, the one with the nice smile, come up behind the man. Then – BOOM!
What was that, Missus Corcoran?
Fouetté, Marnie.
BOOM!
What?
Fouetté.
It is like thunder in my ears. But – I think – it isn’t raining? My sister, she is three years younger than me, she is scared of storms. We hide beneath the blankets and talk about the chandelier under which we will someday dance.
Thunder goes BOOM BOOM BOOM and I can see the guy’s face mask fall off when the boy’s head explodes into red and blood and I think, but wait, it isn’t Halloween? Not for a few days. I need a costume. I need a dress in which to curtsy –
BOOM!
Ligne!
The world freezes around me with another BOOM as something blows through my chest where I no longer have any breath. I can feel my face. My cheeks are hot, hotter than anything I’ve ever felt before and I need to –
Petit jeté.
Like my whole body shakes and I don’t know what it means –
Chassé, Marnie, are you listening?
I think it hurts but I can’t feel anything because my body shatters like diamonds –
Spin and then drop, Marnie.
The chandelier that sparkles above me –
Brisé, Marnie. Very good.
And I descend, gracefully.
Finale, Missus Corcoran says. Finale, bravo.