Elizabeth watched the other girls as they danced, one by one, and they seemed to her like Markova, Maximova, Fonteyn. She was startled by a cold hand on her bare arm, and Mme. Netturova hissed, “On your toes, Elizabeth, you’re next.”
Elizabeth tried to say, “Yes, madame,” but her throat was so dry that no words came out. The two pianists struck up the familiar theme of Elizabeth’s solo. She stood there, frozen, incapable of moving, and Mme Netturova was whispering, “Get out there!” and Elizabeth felt a shove against her back, and she was out on the stage, half naked, in front of a hundred hostile strangers. She did not dare look at her father. All she wanted was to get this ordeal over with as quickly as possible and flee. What she had to do was simple, a few pliés and jetés and leaps. She began to execute the steps, keeping time to the music, trying to think herself thin and tall and lithe. As she finished, there was a smattering of polite applause from the audience. Elizabeth looked down at the second row, and there was her father, smiling proudly and applauding—applauding her, and something inside Elizabeth snapped. The music had stopped. But Elizabeth kept on dancing, doing pliés and jetés and battements and turns, carried away, transported beyond herself. The confused musicians began to pick up her beat, first one pianist, then the other, trying to keep up with her. Backstage. Mme. Netturova was signaling to Elizabeth wildly, her face filled with fury. But Elizabeth was blissfully unaware of her, transported beyond herself. The only thing that mattered to her was that she was onstage, dancing for her father.
“I am sure you understand, Mr. Roffe, that this school simply cannot tolerate that type of behavior.” Mme. Netturova’s voice was trembling with anger. “Your daughter ignored everyone else and took over, as though—as though she were some kind of star.”
Elizabeth could feel her father turn to look at her, and she was afraid to meet his eyes. She knew that what she had done was unforgivable, but she had been unable to stop herself. For one moment on that stage she had tried to create something beautiful for her father, had tried to impress him, make him notice her, be proud of her. Love her.
Now she heard him say, “You’re absolutely right, Madame Netturova. I will see to it that Elizabeth is suitably punished.”
Mme. Netturova gave Elizabeth a look of triumph, and said, “Thank you, Mr. Roffe. I will leave it in your hands.”
Elizabeth and her father were standing outside the school. He had not said one word to her since leaving Mme. Netturova’s office. Elizabeth was trying to compose a speech of apology—but what could she say? How could she ever make her father understand why she had done what she had done? He was a stranger, and she was afraid of him. She had heard him vent his terrible anger on others for making mistakes, or for having disobeyed him. Now she stood there waiting for his wrath to fall upon her.
He turned to her and said, “Elizabeth, why don’t we drop in at Rumpelmayer’s and get a chocolate soda?”
And Elizabeth burst into tears.
She lay in her bed that night, wide awake, too stimulated to go to sleep. She kept re-playing the evening over and over in her mind. The excitement of it had been almost more than she could bear. Because this was no made-up daydream. It had happened, it was real. She could see herself and her father, seated at the table at Rumpelmayer’s, surrounded by the large, colorful stuffed bears and elephants and lions and zebras. Elizabeth had ordered a banana split, which had turned out to be absolutely enormous, and her father had not criticized her. He was talking to her. Not how’s-school-coming-along-fine-thank-you-any-problems-no-Father-good. But really talking. He told her about his recent trip to Tokyo, and how his host had served chocolate-covered grasshoppers and ants as a special treat for him, and how he had had to eat them in order not to lose face.
When Elizabeth had scooped up the last drop of the ice cream, her father suddenly said, “What made you do it, Liz?”