Nine Ladies Dancing #2
“Well, I don’t know if I’m a celebrity,” I say, feeling weirdly awkward about a kid I’ve known all my life calling me that.
“I heard your song on the radio,” she says, bugging her eyes at me. “That means you’re famous.”
“Okay,” I say, holding up a hand and forcing a little laugh. “But I’m still me.”
“I thought Preston was bullshitting,” she says. “He really brought you home.”
I give her a tight smile. “Can you get me out?”
She motions toward the door. “Sure. Where are you going?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But it would be nice not to be locked in here.”
“You sure about that?” she asks. “Because you’ve got the safest room in the house.”
I frown at her. “What does that mean?”
“Oh, you know,” she says, her tone breezy. “Crazy old guy, crazy young guy, crazy ex-wife who’s probably poisoning us all.”
“You think Mrs. Potter is poisoning you?”
“Would you blame her?” she asks. “I mean, Preston’s taking care of her, so maybe not him, and obviously not Charles.
That’s her son. Supposedly he’s from her husband, but the timing’s pretty sus, if you know what I mean.
Oh! Maybe her husband’s the one who’s going to kill us all.
I just know this place is creepy as fuck, and you got the best room in the house.
Not that I blame Preston for putting you here.
You’re famous and everything. You could be staying at the best suite in the Hockington if you wanted. ”
“Not sure about that,” I mutter. It’s not like I chose to stay here.
She grins and hands me one of the bags. “Want to work out with me?”
“Sure,” I say. I already worked out, but with the breakfast I ate, I could use two workouts, even though I only picked at the charcuterie tray Mrs. Potter brought for lunch.
I take the bag into the bathroom off the bedroom while Magnolia changes in the one off the main room.
I’m not even surprised to see a new pink leotard, tights, and top-of-the-line shoes that fit me in the bag she brought.
I’m beginning to think Preston’s been preparing for this for a very long time.
We meet back in front of the wall of mirrors.
“I haven’t danced in a while,” I admit.
“Nutcracker okay?” she asks, going to a panel on the wall.
“Sure.”
“Have you checked out the windows?” she asks, skipping across the room on her toes. “After they were busted up by the Dolces, he put in these. I swear they’re magic. Watch.”
She starts messing with a control, and blinds appear between what must be two panels of glass.
“Cool.”
She hits another button, and the blinds slowly move the other way, settling into place to form another wall of mirrors.
“The back of the blinds are mirrored,” she says, a big grin on her face.
“You can see yourself in both sides. If you get moving across the room fast enough, you can see like a million of yourself between the panels on the other wall and the blinds.”
“That’s a whole lot of myself to see.”
“Yeah, but who doesn’t like to look at themselves?” she asks, settling in at the barre. “Except maybe Preston. He hates this room. It’s like his kryptonite. Not that I blame him. If I looked like that, I’d hide too.”
“That’s rude,” I scold.
She shrugs. “But true.”
She begins to stretch, her body not overly thin like some, but graceful and strong.
I join her, though I’m nowhere near as flexible.
I feel big and clumsy next to her, the way I did for the last few years before I quit dancing.
I still dance to work out, but I’m not especially coordinated and was never great at it even when I had lessons.
It was mostly just the dream of a little girl who couldn’t lose her “baby fat” and wanted to look like the dancers she saw on stage.
Even my simple plies and arabesques look awkward next to the younger girl’s fluid movements, and I start to feel like I shouldn’t even be here.
“Twenty rond de jambes on each side, and then we’ll dance,” she says.
“I’ll watch during that part,” I say. “And stretch more.”
“Maybe you can give me pointers,” she says.
“Preston would only get someone to come in from Little Rock once a week. The other days I get voice lessons, and equestrian training, and swimming, piano, violin, and marksmanship. I swear he thinks keeping me busy will keep me from getting pregnant. I don’t know what he thinks I’m going to do, spontaneously conceive in my sleep or get knocked up by my own brother, Flowers in the Attic style. ”
“That’s… Disturbing.”
“Have you met my family? They’re way too obsessed with each other. It’s a miracle someone hasn’t already succeeded in having a four-legged, inbred baby.”
“Magnolia,” I scold.
“What?”
“That’s not funny, and it’s rude.”
She rolls her eyes. “Ugh, you’re so much less cool than I remember.”
“You thought I was cool?”
“Well, yeah,” she says, starting to do a series of single pirouettes. “I mean, all three of my cousins were always drooling over you, and you chose the best one. I had the biggest crush on Devlin when I was like, eight or nine. He was my first real crush. See, total incesticide.”
I laugh and shake my head. “Unless you actually did anything, I don’t think it’s incest. I’m sure lots of little kids have crushes on cousins and uncles and stuff like that.”
“I’m sure lots of kids in my family do,” she says. “I bet that’s why Mabel went to live with her dad instead of her mom. They were afraid she and Devlin would hook up if they lived together.”
“That’s sick,” I protest.
“Why don’t you ask Preston who Charles’s dad really is, and then tell me who’s sick,” she says. “Now, want to critique my Sugar Plum Fairy?”
“That’s a big role,” I say, ignoring her more disturbing comments
“Preston says now that the Dolces are imploding, I’ll be able to go back to a studio with an instructor.
I’d improve faster if I could go more often.
He says next year I’ll get to play the Sugar Plum Fairy for sure.
I bet I could have gotten it this year, but when they were casting, they didn’t want to put me center stage and draw attention to a Darling. So I’m just a lame snowflake.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that,” I say, remembering my own snowflake performance when I was in second grade. I get the feeling Magnolia’s in a much more advanced production than the kiddie theater I was in.
The feeling only grows as I watch her dance, dozens of images of her reflected back and forth in the mirrors as she leaps and spins across the room with such frenzied passion I think she’s going to injure herself.
I remember Devlin playing football that way, like the whole town would call him a failure if he didn’t leave every ounce of himself on the field every single game.
A little knot of sadness forms in my heart, growing until tears are leaking from my eyes by the time she’s done.
“Any pointers?” she asks, coming to a stop in front of me and dropping down in a little curtsy plie.
“No,” I say honestly. “You’re… incredible, Maggie.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Ew, don’t call me that. I’m not a baby.”
“Sorry,” I say, laughing and wiping away a stray tear. “Let’s stretch for a minute to cool down. Pretty sure if there’s a star here, it’s you, not me.”
She beams and returns to the barre, but all I can think is that it’s such a waste. A waste of her talent, dancing here alone every day, leaving her whole heart on the floor of an empty room when she should be dancing in front of a packed house.
A waste of Devlin’s talent, when he could have gone to college and played Division 1 football if he hadn’t fled town to save his life and his girlfriend’s.
A waste of Preston’s whole existence, not just his beauty. Three important years wasted hiding away in this old stone castle to protect what’s left of his fragmented family instead of living his own life, finding love for himself, starting a career. He didn’t get to follow a dream like I did.
My earlier anger is replaced by sympathy as I try to picture the lonely existence he’s confined to, that all the Darlings have been for the past three years while I was off trying to prove I was worthy on my own, without the love of a Darling.
But what if I’m not?
What if I left for nothing?
After we cool down, Magnolia says she’s going to change and then she’ll help me get ready for dinner. “I think you overestimate my success,” I tell her with a grin. “I haven’t forgotten where I came from, and I certainly haven’t forgotten how to dress myself.”
“I know, but I want to help you pick,” she says, skipping off to the bathroom.
I shake my head and watch her go. If I ever forget my roots, the ladies who lunch with Mama at the Garden Club or my stepmom at the country club will be the first to say I’ve gotten too big for my britches, that I need humbling.
I know how they gossip behind their menus, how their words hurt.
They’re the ones who told me to eat a salad instead of a steak long before Nash came along.
Magnolia returns a few minutes later, heads straight into the bedroom—does she have any idea what used to happen in here?
—and throws open the double doors to the closet.
Inside, it’s like an explosion of pink. I haven’t even opened it, since I had my own clothes in my suitcase when I got done showering this morning, and I had no intention of making myself at home in my prison.
Now I join her as she gapes into what could be the closet of Barbie’s Dream House, the life-sized version.
A dozen shades of pink beckon, from the palest, delicate baby pink to Pepto-Bismol bright; from dusty rose to garish hot pink.
“Is this who Preston thinks I am?” I ask.
“Isn’t it?” Magnolia asks, pulling out a champagne-colored, tulle skirt with rose vines and flowers made of rose gold thread sewn in delicate designs over the gossamer fabric. “I always loved how you dressed. I wanted to be just like you when I grew up.”