Bright Lights

Chapter 1:

I'm feeling very urban right now. I'm standing here in front of our new house in New York City watching the cab from the airport drive off and munching a bagel.

I just moved to NYC from Great Falls, VA. I wasn't happy about leaving my friends and going from public-schooled to homeschooled, but I have always loved New York. And now that I'm here, I'm happy to be.

Of course, my parents moved her partially for me. My mom is what some people call a Mama Rose. A stage mom. She's really into "my career" and pushes me and maybe lives through me a little. Luckily, I love the stage. Sometimes the pressure bothers me. But at the moment, I'm happy about it. It got me here, to New York.

Now, before we've even unpacked, I have a series of auditions to run through and I've already been accepted into Crossroads School of the Arts. It's a competitive, professional school. But it's not rigorous to the point of pushing people to anorexia. Even though I'm sure there are plenty anorexics there. There was a point when I became anorexic, much to my mother's delight. Fortunately, my dad was not delighted and threatened to have me hospitalized. It did not take me long to quit. My best friend, also a dancer, and my dad were a strong enough force to pull me away from it and my mother's obsession.

Of course, she hasn't changed.

~*~

"Bree!" My mother calls, coming up the stairs toward my bare room. "What are you doing up here?"

"Just looking."

"At what?" She demands, hands on hips, looking around my room unhappily.

I don't answer. There's not much to see but it is a nice room. Big, with three windows, a walk in closet, a tiny room with a window seat and an en suite bathroom. My mom demanded that my room be exactly the same as the master bedroom. Except mine has a kitchenette. Which she's stalking with low carb, low fat, low sugar, low calorie foods. And maybe some laxatives. The apartment also has a dance studio with a waxed wooden floor, a mirrored wall, a barre, and surround sound. She had asked the builder to put a stage in the living room but my dad drew the line there. He does this rarely but when he does, its final.

"I just came up to let you know we'll be staying at a hotel for a few weeks until we have some furniture. I'm planning some redecorating projects and we might want to go to a hotel later on, when they're painting."

I just nod. My opinion, nor my dad's matters to her about these things. It doesn't matter if we actually want to live in our house and settle down.

"So let's get your things!" She says, slightly impatiently. But then she smiles and gives me a hug. "I'm so happy we're here!"

I smile too. "I know you are." I am too, but right now I really miss my friends. Especially Tasha.

"You can call Tasha from the hotel." Rarely do I feel close to my mom, but there are moments when I remember she's my mom and she knows me best.

"Your dad's staying here though." She rolls her eyes. "And I have no idea why. I swear, sometimes that man can be a complete fool. This is not a camping trip! It would be more comfortable to sleep on the floor of a forest than an unfinished house. And this is New York! It's not safe."

I don't understand why its safe to sleep in a fully decorated house, but not a bare one. But I don't need to. My mother has spoken--my father is a fool. And I take after him.

"Maybe I should stay with him?"

My mom fastens me with a look. "Why? Two fools don't make a genius."

I think fast. "Um...for safety?" I'm not good at thinking fast.

My mom raises an eyebrow, barely hiding a smile, I can tell. "Safety?"

"Yeah. If someone broke in I could be like, grande battement, pirouette, toure jete!"

Mom laughs and demonstrates on me, kicking and twirling and jumping around. I quickly reciprocate and we dance around insanely, pretending to fall over and scream in agony. My dad hears this and naturally comes running up the stairs. "What's going on?" he demands in defense mode. Then he sees me collapsed on the floor, laughing, and looks over at my mom. Her eyes are twinkling. She looks young and genuinely happy. My dad grins at her like he thinks she looks really cute. I take this opportunity to go explore the rest of the house.

Chapter 2:

"Hey, Bree!"

"Tasha!"

"I miss you, girl!"

"Me too. So when are you coming up here?"

"Whenever you mail me the ticket." Which is crazy because her parents are rich.

"Okay, when are you free?"

She laughs. "Okay let's stop you’re making me sad. Maybe I can visit for Christmas."

“Your parents are doing something?" Which means leaving her to the staff while they jet off to Europe or the Islands or whatever suits them for the moment.

"Yeah."

"So you have no plans over Christmas."

"What do you think, Bree?"

"I think you're coming to New York. We can waste a lot of money shopping in the city."

"And Soho?"

"Of course."

"Well okay then."

We chat for at least another hour until her maid comes and reminds her about homework. Which, for the moment, I don't have. I tell her that and am rewarded with the phone being slammed down. I looked at Mom who was sitting on the bed across from me and watching me, smiling.

"Tasha's coming for Christmas!" I tell her.

"And both of you have this set in stone without getting permission from any parents?"

"Can Tasha come for Christmas?"

I get an "of course" before she launched into a long thing about how Tasha's parents neglect her and I'm lucky she plays a part in my life. Even Tasha agrees she'd rather be ignored than obsessed over and ruthlessly controlled.

The next day I want to go home and see my dad. Just to let him know nonverbally that I didn't choose Mom over him and to make sure he's still safe. And just because. But I have an audition at 8:30 and we like to be at those things at least half an hour early just in case and for a good impression. We wake up at six thirty. But I have to wash, blow-dry, and straighten my hair. I have long, thick, black hair. Black is in color and as in African-American. So that will take at least an hour if I'm lucky. And if there's time left over I'll grab a bagel and cream cheese. Of course if I do that my mom will want me to run a treadmill for at least ten minutes. So I'll probably just grab fruit and sneak a bagel later with my dad.

It turns out I'm having a good hair day today luckily. My hair cooperates perfectly and goes up easily into its routine but chic bun. It must be the silky hotel shampoo which I'm going to make sure to steal. But as I change into my tights, leotard, snug shorts, looser sweats, and hoodie, Mom informs me that I'm out of time. "Veggie smoothie in the cab!" she yells, pulling her hair into a bun. Very Mama Rose.

"Fruit. Please?"

"Whatever. No time to argue! Let's go!"

The smallest things are dramatic occurrences to my mom. And this is a big audition. It's for the Brooklyn School of Ballet. This school is very exclusive. For one thing, its strictly a ballet school, not just an arts or even a dance school. It's very expensive and its for the crème de le crème of dancers. So I don't expect to actually get accepted. I'll be happy if I get a callback! I mention as much to my mom.

"Don't say that!' she emphasizes. "An audition is like an interview. You go in it thinking the best of yourself so you can present the best of yourself and they will want the best of yourself. Understand?"

I nod, even though its really early in the morning for me to think through all of her "best of yourselves."

Chapter 3:

I’ve read about the Brooklyn School of Ballet in books, I’ve seen pictures in magazines, and I’ve researched it online. But looking at in real life is almost indescribable. It’s amazing. Both the architecture, the atmosphere, the features, and the feeling of me standing here inside the Brooklyn School of Ballet. And I have a reason to be here, I’m not just a random tourist. Wow.

This place gives me mixed feelings. I feel honored to be here…but in this expansive building with masses of other talented dancers, the “best of me” is feeling very small. The whole of me is feeling very small.

I look over at Mom. “Nervous?”

“Of course not! We’re here! Anyway its your audition, not mine.” But we both know that in a way, it is hers. Because she worked so hard to get me here…and because in her youth she worked to get here. Unfortunately, she didn’t get in. Anticipation and pressure is building up inside me write now.

“How early are we?”

She checks her watch. “Twenty minutes. Let’s go we can explore when you’re through.”

“Do we have time to get a bottled water?”

“Of course not!” she snaps, her denied nervousness showing. “We’re already ten minutes later than planned we need to find the waiting room and you need to warm up. I can’t believe you didn’t warm up at the hotel. I already let you sleep late.”

My mom usually does this before something important. She gets all riled up and excited and upset and usually launches into a long lecture. Which not only irritates me and makes me more nervous, but also embarrasses me in front of my peers. There are other Mama Rose’s doing the same thing. And then there are mother’s who sit quietly or softly encourage their daughters. And dancers who show up without their mothers. At the moment, I wish I was one of them.

“Pay attention, Breanna!”

For some reason the combination of my nervous energy and her intensity makes me snap back at her. “Mother, we’re late already! Let’s go.”

Just then a guy and a girl walk by us. The guy gives me a look and a silent whistle. And it’s not appraising. Okay, so I did sound like a spoiled brat then but it was well-deserved. Of course they don’t know that.

I look back at Mom expecting her to be giving me her seething glare. Instead she’s looking after the guy and girl. “I hope they weren’t a couple,” is all she says. I feel like groaning.

I feel like leaving.