May meant so many things that when it arrived I didn’t know if I’d get through them all. For one thing, my ballet recital. For another, the announcement of who made the junior company of the Boston Ballet. On top of all that, it was First Communion Day at church. Although this was not something I personally had to do, or be involved in, the excitement around it at the Calabro house was contagious. I spent the entire afternoon there on the day of my ballet recital layering fried eggplants with mozzarella cheese and gravy, which is what they call red sauce, which is what my mother calls marinara. Then I raced from their house to the college auditorium where I would perform Spring for hundreds of people.
Antoinetta came, too, smelling of fried eggplants. Her father dropped her off and waited in the car. I could see her sitting alone from the wings, holding a little bouquet of carnations dyed blue. Secretly, I wished my mother would see Antoinetta and sit with her. But I also wished she wouldn’t, because who knew what she might say or do that would be completely embarrassing.
Randy came up to me and said in his weird accent: “What are you?”
“Spring!” I said.
“Yes, Madeline, you are Spring. Be Spring. Be it!”
When he walked away, Demi Demilakis came up to me. She was all white and silver, for Winter, and she said, “Do you have a crush on him? Because people from Transylvania are vampires.”
“He’s not from Transylvania,” I said. “He doesn’t even know where Transylvania is.”
Her eyes bulged out at me and she looked even weirder than usual because of the silver glitter all over her face.
“Where’s he from, then?” she said.
“Estonia,” I lied. That’s where my father was. Estonia. He couldn’t be at the recital because he was writing about Estonia for National Geographic.
Thinking about my father missing my performance made me sad, so I tried to think of spring things: tulips and baby birds and First Communions.
But Demi said, “Does your family want to come with my family for ice cream after?”
In one corner, all of the Summer ballerinas stood together in their pale blue costumes, their heads bent, their smiles radiant. Everywhere I looked, in fact, girls were helping one another pull their hair into buns, or sprinkle glitter on their cheeks. Demi and I were the outcasts. She looked so shimmery and hopeful standing there, but still I said, “Sorry. We already have plans.”
“Maybe next time?” she said hopefully.
“Right.”
The overture began, and Randy clapped his hands. “Places,” he said in his mysterious accent. Maybe he was Estonian, I thought. I got into my line, the first one. I was Spring. And I was magnificent. I could see my mother and Cody, both of them grinning and proud. I could see Antoinetta, impressed, maybe even dazzled not just by me, but by all of it. For a small moment, I actually felt happy. And it felt really, really good.
Holy Communion Day. The little girls wore white dresses and veils like brides, small crowns decorated with fake pearls and rhinestones, short white gloves. Some of them had a hint of pink lipstick on their lips, a splash of rouge on their cheeks, their hair twisted into French braids or buns high on their heads. They walked down the aisle of the church with a partner, a boy in a small navy blue suit and white shirt and bow tie. Two by two, in the same halting steps they would one day use when they got married. The boys’ hair was parted, greased back, slicked down. They all looked terrified.
I squeezed Antoinetta’s arm. “They’re so lucky,” I whispered.
But Antoinetta did not answer. She didn’t talk in church. Especially not this church, Sacred Heart, the one her Aunt Eleanor and Uncle Tootie attended. It was their daughter, Rachel, who was walking down the aisle now, her head held high beneath her fat bun and stiff veil. She clutched a small white cardboard purse with rosary beads and a picture of Jesus tucked inside.
I elbowed Antoinetta. “There she is,” I whispered. Even though Antoinetta didn’t answer, she smiled.