The Sidekick

The blinding light shielded her view of the two hundred greedy eyes watching her. The heat from the bulbs pulled sweat from her face as she danced to the music. Above the speakers, she thought she could hear the buzz of the spotlight, an electric fence trapping her onstage. Left hand, right hand, twist, wait, beat, spin, just like she had practiced with her mother. It all came naturally. With the climax, a jump, twirl, and landing, her routine ended with the final note of the song. It had been a good performance, and the crowd knew it. Hands slapped together. Some mouths whistled and some throats yelled. The girl gathered herself for a small smile and a practiced bow before leaving the stage. 

Behind the curtains, the other dancers congratulated her, though expected nothing less. She heard someone calling,

“Clara, dear!”

The girl looked to her left, and a woman strode out with arms wide open. The woman was tall, slim, and angular, with elbows and arms that maintained the grace of a former dancer. A few hurried steps, which even in their rushed motion maintained a fundamental plié, carried the woman to her daughter. 

“Honey, you were wonderful!” A kiss landed on Clara’s forehead.

“Thanks, Mom,” Clara responded with the smile she usually wore in rehearsal, thinking of how amazing her mother was when she used to dance.

“After this, we can go get dinner, though the other parents would love to congratulate you first. Go change, and meet me in the lobby in ten, ok?” Another kiss pushed down on the top of Clara’s head.

Clara nodded and released her smile, watching her mom turn to speak with the dance director. With a jovial wave, her mother ignited the conversation. Her signature charisma and charm both flattered the director and extracted information on upcoming rehearsals, auditions, and opportunities. Clara stared at the two women a second longer, acknowledging the brilliance of her mother while fighting back the dread of having to face the spotlight again. 

She continued into the dim changing room. The other girls in her company, most close to her in age and all teenagers, cordially complimented her routine while removing makeup, undoing hair, and chatting idly with each other. Clara liked them, and could join them even, but conversations were almost exclusively about dance. She refrained from engaging. Also, her mom was waiting.

Clara found her bag, which was dripping in memorabilia and ribbons from various shows and dance competitions. She unpeeled herself from her bright costume and put on a large shirt and sweatpants. She took out the pins that stabbed her head and wiped off the makeup that smothered her face, remembering how her mother used to do her hair and makeup before a show when she was younger.

She thought of the first time she wore makeup for a dance and how her mother had carefully chosen the ugliest color for her eyelids and pressed the brightest blush onto her cheeks. Clara hated it, but any resistance was met with laughter and a steady hand that kept prodding the color expertly into place. Underneath her disgust of the highlighter colors, at least she enjoyed the stage back then.

“This was her first time wearing makeup onstage.” Her mother had said to some other tall adult after the show. “We made sure her look matched her outfit, so she could look her best up there!” Her mother looked down at her then, and so did the other adult, “Look at my baby, I’m so proud.” It made Clara feel good then. Though, she felt different about the memory now.

Clara finished up in the dressing room and slung her bag across her shoulder as she walked out, saying goodbye to the other dancers. They repeated their admiration of her performance and reciprocated the salutation. As she walked out of the room, Clara wondered if any of their parents had ever snuck backstage to speak to the director after their dances. 

The entrance to the lobby greeted Clara with large wooden doors that opened to a rather brightly-lit room—a stark contrast from the dark dressing rooms backstage.  It was lavish like most of the other dance venues with thick red carpet, an ornately carved high ceiling, and chandeliers. She contemplated whether her mother liked it as she scanned the horde of parents, administrators, and dancers before her. Clara heard her mother’s voice originating from the center of a circle of adults. The slightly elongated vowels and just-barely-higher-than-normal pitch meant another performance was taking place.

With a hard swallow and a deep breath, Clara stepped into the ring of people. Her mom saw her instantly, “Well if it isn’t the star of the show,” and put her long-fingered hand onto Clara’s shoulder. The other adults exalted Clara’s performance while she stood there awkwardly, unable to move without brushing off her mother’s hand. “Thank you,” she responded to the avalanche of praise, “Thank you.” It kept going, and Clara could almost hear the buzz of the spotlights from the lobby, though they were probably shut off by now. She looked at the smiles, the teeth, the makeup, the glasses—anything but their faces. “Thank you,” she replied to another compliment. 

After the adults were finished with her, they looked up back to Clara’s mother. 

“You are really dedicated to her success.” 

“Those extra practices you drove her to really paid off.”

“Did the outside lessons with Ms. Margerie help, you think? What are her going rates?”

Clara could almost see the lighting in the room change, and the buzzing in her ears faded as the spotlights turned their heads toward the mesmerizing woman beside her. All questions were answered with perfectly articulated, song-like speech. Her mother’s free hand exaggerated, emphasized, and punctuated. Her other hand never moved.

It was surreal to watch her talk. The air glady carried her voice through the lobby, and as Clara looked around the circle of adults, she saw all eyes were locked on the view of the elegant woman. Her mother exuded eminence, capturing the attention of every person there. Clara would bet even strangers were listening in—eavesdropping. Her mother spoke with an intellectual pride about her process helping Clara and added whimsical exuberance when reminiscing on memories of her past as a dancer. Her audience was in awe.

Through it all, Clara stood, observing. Looking from the enamored towering adults to her mothers mouth, all while feeling the fingers on her shoulder. She thought about her own performance, and how much better it would’ve been if her mother had been the one dancing the routine. The applause would have been even louder and Clara could have sat in the front row seat, clapping the loudest.

Her mother ended her commentary splendidly with, “We better be off, I have to get Clara some food for that feat of a performance.” She let out a soft laugh that carefully broke the spell on the crowd, and the circle of adults slowly disbanded. Clara felt her mothers hand move from her shoulder to her wrist. She led her out of the venue and they went to the car.

“They are just so kind. They loved watching you dance, you know, Janine’s mom could not stop raging about you,” her mother gushed.

At the car, they finally separated. Clara closed the passenger door while her mother inquired, “Did you know auditions for next year's Prima Donna Dance Company will be happening in August? That’s just two months away, so better start prep now.” Her mother turned on the engine, but didn’t move the car. Instead she turned toward Clara saying, “ It is really a great opportunity. The studio was just starting when I was still dancing, but it has grown into a reputable place. I’m sure you could get a spot, we just have to think of the right moves to get you in!” 

Her mother looked at her with the excitement that made Clara’s throat dry. Clara did, in fact, already know this information.

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Clara stared at her mother, flashing the rehearsed smile once more, but avoiding eye contact and dropping the smile just half a second too soon.

Her mother noticed, “Hey, are you ok? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I was just wondering… Why did Janine’s sister quit dancing?”

“Janine’s sister quit because she was not willing to put in the hard work to get her to the level five class.”

“But she was at practice every day, was that not enough?”

“Some people just can’t find love in things they don’t have a natural talent for, so they quit.  Now, you don’t have to worry about that. You’ve had incredible skills from the time you popped out, and we will make sure to get you everything you need to succeed! Ultimately, she quit because she didn’t have the passion.”

After a moment, Clara finally glanced up into her mothers eyes. She saw every time her mother drove her to practice, every time she had cheered for her, and every time she went the extra mile for her success. However, she also heard the buzz of the spotlights and felt the suffocating heat of the rings of parents. She saw her mother and her mother’s successes, she saw the injury that made her retire. She saw her mother soaking in the spotlight and saw her dancing. She saw the recordings of her famous shows that she would play on the old VHS. She saw the joy that dancing brought to her. She saw herself being born and her mother praying for her to be a dancer. Clara remembered the time when she didn't hear the buzz of the spotlights, when she didn't understand the curse of her mother’s legacy. Her heart reached into the past, trying to regain a memory of the way dance once inspired her. But now it was all contained in mothers eyes, too far to grasp.

“Right… I thought she danced well, though…”

“Listen, she was a good dancer, but she needed the right mindset. Hopefully she can move on to something that suits her better.”

“Hm, ok. That’s too bad.” Clara’s chest felt like lead, heavy and tired. She stifled a sigh. Instead she stretched. “That performance took a lot out of me, I think I may need a nap,” Clara said with her smile, being sure to pull it off this time. Her mother smiled back.

“Of course. Remember Clara, not everyone is equally committed to the beauty of dance, but your dedication clearly shines through with your talent. As your sidekick in this, I will make sure you have everything you need to become the best dancer you can be. In fact, I heard Frederick’s dad say, ‘A great dance deserves a great dinner.’ So what would you like?”

Clara bit her lip and looked out the window, knowing the best answer to the question though wanting something else. Her mom turned forward and began to drive out of the parking spot. Clara hoped her mother would forget any concern she had—she didn’t deserve to worry, and maybe the spotlights wouldn’t be so loud next time.

“Chicken salad, please.”

“Of course, hon! Did you know that was my go-to meal after shows?” Clara knew. “Low calories, and protein for recovery! Good choice.”