scholarship. The other two had offered only half scholarships, which meant my mom and grandparents would be on the hook for the other half and everything else, like housing and food. Also, PNB taught Balanchine, so it would be the most like what I was already learning from Eloy at the Dance Forum.
“You should visit,” Eloy said. “That’s the only way you’ll know if it’s the school for you.”
“I wish,” I told him. We could barely afford to send me for the summer—there was no way we could afford a visit.
Or so I thought. . . .
Even without getting to visit, I decided that PNB was the right choice. Partly, it was about the money. We just couldn’t afford to have me go anywhere else. But it was also about the city, and the program. Seattle wasn’t as big as Washington or New York, and for a kid from Iowa, it felt manageable. I was going to be alone there all summer, and Mom felt safer imagining me in Seattle than in Manhattan. And the more I read about the school, the more I felt it would be the best match for what Eloy was already teaching me. Still, I wished I could go visit, just to be certain.
Right after I finally decided on PNB, the strangest thing happened. Mom’s job made a sudden announcement: they needed her to go to Seattle—immediately.
“Do you want to go?” she asked me. “I think we can make it work, if I trade in my ticket for two cheaper ones.”
Did I want to go? She’d have had to lock me in the garage to keep me home! I think I might have screamed aloud before I got ahold of myself.
I pretty much went right up to my room and started packing. When I’m excited or nervous, I get really bad and pack my whole wardrobe. I don’t know why, but I always do. Every. Single. Time. It’s like a disease. Some sort of packing disorder. I packed all the journals Dad had given me, and all of the framed pictures of both of us. But Mom reminded me that we could bring only what fit in a carry-on bag because it costs money to check a suitcase, so I only took one photo: a picture of Dad out in California, near the water, which always made him happy. He was smiling at the camera, looking over his shoulder, and I always felt like he was looking back at me from some moment in the far future when we would be together again. Even at my darkest moments, the photo gave me hope and made me smile. I take it with me every time I travel.
From the moment we landed, I loved Seattle. Being near water made me feel like Dad was there with us. I could almost pretend that the last year hadn’t happened, and we were on a family vacation. Then there was the school. PNB was beautiful. It had big windows that let the light stream in, and these giant cool pillars outside the building. Mom arranged for me to take a master class with them, to see how I liked it. The teacher was none other than Peter Boal. He was a dancer with the New York City Ballet and artistic director of PNB. In the ballet world, he was famous.
The woman behind the desk at PNB asked if I needed dance clothes, but I’d brought mine with me.
“Thanks!” I said, my smile beaming. I couldn’t believe it: everything was working out.
That class turned out to be one of the best I’d ever taken. The studio was beautiful. The students were talented and focused. Peter was amazing. The moment that I stepped out of that classroom, I was filled with pure joy. I remember Peter telling me that he was looking forward to having me come and train at the school.
Too bad it never happened.
Mom was waiting for me in the lobby when the class let out. She looked upset but wouldn’t say why. My stomach flip-flopped inside me. We left the studio and went to a mall nearby to get lunch. After futzing with her chopsticks, Mom finally looked at me.
“Alex,” she said, “I have to tell you something.”
She took a deep breath, and I waited.
“I don’t know how else to do this, so I’m just going to say it. Grandma and Grandpa don’t have the money
“You should visit,” Eloy said. “That’s the only way you’ll know if it’s the school for you.”
“I wish,” I told him. We could barely afford to send me for the summer—there was no way we could afford a visit.
Or so I thought. . . .
Even without getting to visit, I decided that PNB was the right choice. Partly, it was about the money. We just couldn’t afford to have me go anywhere else. But it was also about the city, and the program. Seattle wasn’t as big as Washington or New York, and for a kid from Iowa, it felt manageable. I was going to be alone there all summer, and Mom felt safer imagining me in Seattle than in Manhattan. And the more I read about the school, the more I felt it would be the best match for what Eloy was already teaching me. Still, I wished I could go visit, just to be certain.
Right after I finally decided on PNB, the strangest thing happened. Mom’s job made a sudden announcement: they needed her to go to Seattle—immediately.
“Do you want to go?” she asked me. “I think we can make it work, if I trade in my ticket for two cheaper ones.”
Did I want to go? She’d have had to lock me in the garage to keep me home! I think I might have screamed aloud before I got ahold of myself.
I pretty much went right up to my room and started packing. When I’m excited or nervous, I get really bad and pack my whole wardrobe. I don’t know why, but I always do. Every. Single. Time. It’s like a disease. Some sort of packing disorder. I packed all the journals Dad had given me, and all of the framed pictures of both of us. But Mom reminded me that we could bring only what fit in a carry-on bag because it costs money to check a suitcase, so I only took one photo: a picture of Dad out in California, near the water, which always made him happy. He was smiling at the camera, looking over his shoulder, and I always felt like he was looking back at me from some moment in the far future when we would be together again. Even at my darkest moments, the photo gave me hope and made me smile. I take it with me every time I travel.
From the moment we landed, I loved Seattle. Being near water made me feel like Dad was there with us. I could almost pretend that the last year hadn’t happened, and we were on a family vacation. Then there was the school. PNB was beautiful. It had big windows that let the light stream in, and these giant cool pillars outside the building. Mom arranged for me to take a master class with them, to see how I liked it. The teacher was none other than Peter Boal. He was a dancer with the New York City Ballet and artistic director of PNB. In the ballet world, he was famous.
The woman behind the desk at PNB asked if I needed dance clothes, but I’d brought mine with me.
“Thanks!” I said, my smile beaming. I couldn’t believe it: everything was working out.
That class turned out to be one of the best I’d ever taken. The studio was beautiful. The students were talented and focused. Peter was amazing. The moment that I stepped out of that classroom, I was filled with pure joy. I remember Peter telling me that he was looking forward to having me come and train at the school.
Too bad it never happened.
Mom was waiting for me in the lobby when the class let out. She looked upset but wouldn’t say why. My stomach flip-flopped inside me. We left the studio and went to a mall nearby to get lunch. After futzing with her chopsticks, Mom finally looked at me.
“Alex,” she said, “I have to tell you something.”
She took a deep breath, and I waited.
“I don’t know how else to do this, so I’m just going to say it. Grandma and Grandpa don’t have the money
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