“Rose! Try again!” Miss Sally, my ballet teacher, yelled at me. I tried to do the pirouette correctly, but my alignment was off, so I fell out of the turn. I was at my last ballet class of the summer before I left for a ballet summer program.
“Keep your ribs over your hips, turn out your legs, and hold your stomach,” she said while prodding at my abdominals, encouraging them to engage. I attempted the pirouette again, but with no better results than before.
“Now you know what you need to work on,” was Miss Sally's final remark of the summer to me. Now I know what I need to improve.
*****
So here I am. In a place I don't know. In New Jersey for the Princeton Ballet Summer Program. In Newark Airport, looking for a directional sign, while hoping I don't get lost. I see a list of places with arrows and my next destinations listed among them: Baggage Claim↑Ground Transportation ↑. I follow the sign, hurrying even though it is only 3:45 and I have until 5:15 for the shuttle that will take me to Princeton, specifically a place on the map called Baker Rink. I always worry about timing, especially when I am by myself, and especially when I am in a place I am unfamiliar with. When I finally follow the signs down two escalators I see the line of phones under a large sign that reads “Ground Transportation.” I need to use one of these phones to confirm my reservation on the Porter. I pick up the white receiver and dial 22 and wait. I despair when a female voice tells me that the first shuttle has no available seats and I have to wait for the next one. I go to a nearby food kiosk and buy a bag of Chex-Mix and beef jerky. God, I'm hungry. I prepare to sit and wait.
The shuttle driver is almost an hour late. I silently decide to myself that he shall receive no tip from me. Among the group of people being picked up by the driver is a boy that looks about my age. I whisper to him, “See, this is why I hate traveling. You never get to be on time.” I get on the shuttle and choose a seat by the front. No one sits next to me. I am tempted to fall asleep because I have been awake since around four in the morning, but again I worry because I am afraid I'll miss my stop. The ride is long because the driver drops off others before going to Baker Rink. The driver finally stops and calls out, “Baker Rink.” I guess I have arrived.
It turns out that the boy that I met in the airport is also getting off here. Unfortunately, neither of us know where to go. The feeling of despair creeps back again. I immediately get out my map. Still, not a clue. We spot two women across the empty road in front of us and hurry over, dragging luggage behind us, to ask where to go. Entirely unhelpful. These women get us slightly lost, but I point out on the map that we are going the wrong way.
“You know what?” I say, “I'm not so sure that this is the right direction.”
“Really?” the boy asks.
“Yeah, this is too far south. I think we should have taken a right to go east instead of south.”
“OK. I'll believe you, I mean, you're the one with the map.” I laugh.
“Well, I'll try not to get us lost.” We turn away from our original route and walk uphill along a quiet road. I finally introduce myself.
“So, I'm Rose.”
“Hi, I'm Dennis.”
“Where are you from?”
“Vallejo, California.”
“Hey, I'm from Berkeley, California!”
“Cool. How old are you?”
“Seventeen, you?”
“Yeah, me too. How long have you been dancing?”
“Since I was four. How 'bout you?”
“I've only been dancing for three years. I will definitely be in the bottom level.”
“Aw, c'mon. Think positively!” With this statement I give him a cheerful smile. By this time we have walked quite a ways and I notice that 200 Elm is the next building.
“Ha ha! Look!” I shout, pointing. “We found it!” With a newfound vigor in my step I stride purposefully toward the entrance. Once inside we slowly figure out who to ask for our dorm keys and dining hall meal cards. Finally, we are on our way to our dorm, Lockhart Hall. On the way there, I see a random trailer with a man inside it selling food. The outside is covered with Princeton tiger stripes, which clashes horribly with the old stone buildings of the Princeton campus. I'm really thirsty so I buy a Diet Coke, but we only stop for a moment. After a long walk through the empty and maze-like Princeton campus I finally decipher my map and we arrive at Lockhart Hall. However, Dennis and I discover that the doors are locked and we don't know how to get in. The despair returns again.
“So, how do the entrance keys work?” I ask.
“I don't know,” is Dennis's helpful reply. I walk over to door number three, which according to my confusing Princeton Ballet School documents is my dorm entrance. I see a small black box next to the door handle. I try to swipe my card through it, but there is no slot. After much confusion I finally realize that the door unlocks when the card is swiped past the little black box, not through it. I prop open my door with my suitcase and help Dennis open his door. I am finally inside Lockhart Hall, but I still have to find my room.
Stairs, why did it have to be stairs? A quick survey of my surroundings shows that my room is not on the first floor. A noisy trip to the second floor, my 50 pound suitcase thudding onto each step behind me, and still no sign of room 232. At the halfway point on a flight of stairs to the third floor I ditch my suitcase and focus on finding my room first. I finally find that my dorm is on the top floor of this old, musty building without elevators. Dammit. I knock on my door, not knowing how to work my key yet, and a brunette girl opens it with a confused look on her face. I give some sort of greeting while dumping my two backpacks just inside the door. I also mention something vague about my suitcase and rush back downstairs to get it. Finally all my belongings are safely inside my room. I take a deep breath.
“Hi. Sorry I'm late. Are you guys my roommates?” Two girls with brown hair, one of whom looks a little bit scared, are looking at me in confusion.
“My name is Kalei, and this is Vicky,” says the girl who looks less scared. Crap, two brunettes with names ending in “ee.” I try to memorize their names, but my brain is still not functioning on a higher level.
Slowly, but surely, I get settled into the new place I'll call home for the next five weeks. I share a bunk with Kalei in a room meant for one. I meet my third roommate, Ashley, who is also from California; and I remember seeing her at my audition. It's nice to see a familiar face. However, my brain is put under even more pressure when I meet three girls from a dorm downstairs. Lulu, Lera, and another Ashley invite us to watch Across the Universe with them. We don't finish, which is disappointing because I haven't seen it before.
The first day comes to a close. I am absolutely exhausted and looking forward to my bunk bed. After waking up at four in the morning, being on a plane for five hours, and walking in ballet flats that gave me blisters, I am almost wanting to take the placement class the next day with a whole bunch of people that I have never met.
Day Two at Princeton starts poorly. I forget my room key, dorm entrance card, and dining hall card. I drag poor Vicky back with me. Unfortunately, we don't know where the breakfast dining hall is on campus. We see some other dancers who seem to know where they are going, and follow them in a stalker-ish manner for the ten minute walk to breakfast. I eat a good hearty breakfast of pancakes and bacon to quiet my nerves about the placement class.
“Kalei, I'm really worried. I don't know how I stack up compared to everyone else here. What if I suck? What if I'm in the bottom level?” I ask.
“Don't worry, Rose,” she answers, “I'm sure you'll do fine.” My ears hear her consoling words, but my brain doesn't listen.
My day does not improve. I am in the second van trip, which means I have to wait an extra twenty minutes for my van to return to get my group. When I finally get to the studios I feel lost and alone. I am not in a group with any of my roommates.
The first class I take is with a very scary Russian teacher. Her name is Miss Youskevitch. She does not allow colorful leotards, water bottles at barre, nor dancers to forget the combinations. Oh, God, please don't let me die. This isn't even the placement class. More terror is surely to come.
Placement classes are divided by alphabetical order of last names. Kirshner is second for my placement class. I am at the first barre, in the first group, and in the front line. In the middle of a difficult frappé combination, I mess up just as one of the head teachers looks at me. I must have the worst timing in the world right now. I do my best for the remaining part of class and finally the day ends. We go home, I arrive twenty minutes later than my roommates, and have to follow someone to the dinner hall. When I am finally in my bunk bed, I can't sleep because I am dreading to find out what level I am in.
Day Three reveals that I am in the level of Fern. All five levels are a certain shade of green. They were listed as follows: Moss, Fern, Sage, Pine, and Mint. I breathe a sigh of relief once I realize that Fern is the second highest level. I guess I don't suck after all. I promise myself to show that I deserve to be in Fern. I will work my ass off this summer.
My schedule is jam-packed full of dancing. I spend a total of six hours at the studios five days out of the week. On Saturday I only have two hours of dancing and Sunday is our day off. Although it is nice to have a day of not dancing, there is absolutely nothing exciting to do in Princeton.
I am happiest with my friends because Princeton's attractions are limited to a tiny movie theater. We have a large empty common room in our dorm where we put Vicky's refrigerator and microwave. Eventually we steal furniture from other empty rooms to put in our common room. Ashley, Kalei, Vicky and I hang out in the common room and have laughing sessions. Sometimes we laugh for no apparent reason, or we laugh at something that is actually funny. We become very close and create many inside jokes that no one understands except us. My favorite inside jokes are “Be Aggressive,” “Zoom,” and “7 o'clock?” My friends and I go see movies. We also religiously go to the nearby Princeton Library where we have Internet access. There are several amusing incidents that occur at the dorms and local candy store. We deal with cockroaches, fireflies, silverfishes, rabbits, squirrels and mourning doves. We also discover a building fault in the hallway of our dorm. When Kalei jumps up to touch the ceiling, the light fixture comes loose and it falls to the floor at our feet, breaking into shards. While at the candy store I try to get a few Reese's Pieces out of the dispenser, but the handle is loose and suddenly I am holding an almost full bag of Reese's Pieces. Great, just great. On the Wednesday of the last week I fall out of my bunk bed that has no guard rail or barrier. Through some miracle of the gods I land on my feet, though shortly afterward I land heavily on my derriere. After Kalei checks to make sure I am okay, I climb carefully back up to my bed, each step flexing my ankles in an uncomfortable way. I lie down as close to wall as I can, determined to never fall out again. Definitely going to need some ice.
An ice pack is like food to a dancer. Vicky and Kalei get shin splints, Ashley has tendonitis, and I have a indeterminate injury in the arch of my foot that restricts my jumping ability. I love to jump. I love to eat up the space of a studio during grand allegro. I hate my foot for stopping me. Nor can I do pointe work. So much of what I love is taken away from me. When Kyra Nichols, the famous prima ballerina from New York City Ballet—and the daughter of Miss Sally, my ballet teacher at home— comes to teach a master class, I am so disappointed when my injury stops me from dancing to the fullest. However, I am still able to do all of barre and part of center. Miss Sally has several combinations that Kyra uses in her master classes. Every single time Kyra uses the combinations of Miss Sally, she says “And Rose knows this one.” Everyone looks at me questioningly and I tell them to ask me about it later. I try to work especially hard in Kyra's class because I really want to improve.
I strengthen my
muscles, build endurance, and become more flexible in each class that I take.
In Mr. Martin's class I am trying to turn out as much as he does, which is a
first position of 180°. My turnout muscles grow stronger and stronger in his
class. In Miss Barton's class I work on my artistry and épaulement. However,
the natural tendency of my shoulders causes them to be rounded forward unless I
am actively working on keeping them open and down. I am so worried that I will
never improve my port de 
bras.
The scariest teacher of all, Miss Youskevitch, causes me to work on everything
equally. Her firm teaching hand and strict manner is not something I want to go
against. In Miss Youskevitch's class I memorize every combination and think
about every correction at once. Although she is extremely frightening, she
causes the best dancing to come out during her class.
On Friday, July 25, the day before my departure, we have our final performance. I am a lowly background dancer. My choreographer, Miss Barton, is my favorite teacher. Even though I have a small part, I play it to its fullest. I am supposed to be a happy, lively dancer, so I perk up my dancing and sharpen my movements. During the dress rehearsal Miss Barton compliments my dancing.
“Good, Rose. You bring a perfect spritely nature to this piece. I want everyone to move like Rose. Especially you, Sarah.”
While passing the time right before the show, Vicky and I are warming up our feet in the wings where we are going over our corrections and choreography.
“Vicky, what count is the third entrance on?”
“Eight, I think.”
“Yeah, me too. Aaaah. I'm nervous. Are you?”
“Yes!”
“It'll be okay. We just have to count the music, know the choreography, and remember to smile. Oh, and have fun!”
The performance goes surprisingly well. My piece is the opening dance of the show, so we plaster smiles on our faces and bring the stage to life. All my hard work, pain, and fatigue has led up to how I dance during this performance.
I have to leave very early on the last day. It is very sad saying my good-byes to my friends. I have a shirt that they all sign and leave notes on. I have a long time to wait in the airport, alone, again. However, now I do not feel despair, only nostalgia. I want to go back to my friends at Princeton, but Berkeley is calling me home.
Two days after I get home, I am in ballet class again. My friends at home are happy to see me, and I them, but I miss my Princeton Ballet School friends. A huge realization hits me when I am back at Berkeley Ballet Theater again: I have improved dramatically. I enter Studio A at 9:30 on the morning of the 29th of July. I excitedly greet my friends.
“Hi guys! I missed everyone!”
“Rose! You're back! How was Princeton?”
“It was fun. Intense, but awesome.” While explaining my time at Princeton Ballet I put on my ballet shoes and sweat pants. The first thing I do when I stand up is a quadruple pirouette. “Whoa,” is someone's appropriate response. Throughout my first class back in Berkeley I notice that I can do ballet better than before. Even though I never noticed improving while I was at Princeton, I see that my dancing has changed. I love dancing, and it shows in the new and improved way I move.