Sisters, sisters, ladeedadeedadeedadee sisters...

p.s. the costumes were jane's idea--i am a star and she is mother earth...

Wednesday night is Beginning Modern, down at the Rose Wagner Performing Arts Center. I haven’t been to a dance class since I was seven years old, living in my purple leotard, and jumping from mat to mat across the studio at Miss Tad’s cue. At lunch yesterday, my sister Jane tried to psychoanalyze my past for some reason why I stopped dancing. Did someone offend me, had I been embarrassed, was there any event I could remember that pushed me to shin guards and half-time treats? Unfortunately, my memory goes dark—I’ve told all that I know. Purple leotard, Miss Tad, jumping on mats.
Jane and I are two years apart, but we look like twins. When we both lived at home, we always shared a room. First, it was next to mom and dad’s and there was only one bed and two girls and an explosion of dollies and picture books. Then it was the room on the landing that is now the study; the room where the lamp caught my pillow on fire when I fell asleep reading; the room with the bunk beds and the tee-ball stand and the mailbox. I’ve never been to another house where the mailbox burps into a bedroom, which is probably why it became the study. Finally, when we were most childish, we moved into a room in the basement, right on the heels of fresh paint, new carpet, and new matching but separate beds.
Our relationship used to be like a middle school summer reading assignment—it’s something you might enjoy on your own, but the fact that it’s assigned takes away all hope of fun. We were pushed together in everything—bedrooms, after-school programs, birthday party invitations, haircut styles, parent-teacher conferences, piano lessons, you name it. Naturally, we resisted the pressure to merge into one child. We chose our respective worlds, gave up the rest, and minded our own business. I can see now that this happened, but I can’t imagine being aware of it at the time. Jane was master of art; from drawing to crafts to decorating to oils to fashion to dance to sewing to cooking. I latched on to the rules and structure of school, waking up early on Saturdays to do my homework in the fourth grade, and almost unreachable when inside a book, which was most of the time.
Now we live apart. Jane is married, but we still have regular sleepovers—as if we couldn’t break the habit of eighteen years. It’s ridiculous to still live half a life, expecting Jane to compensate, but not being the artistic one has become part of my identity, just as not being the smart one has become part of hers.
Wednesday was a downer day, for no reason but the time of year and the constant forward motion to the year anniversary of mom’s death. Everything depressed me, from a UTA bus at an intersection to the chipping red polish on my toes. I felt like I was stuck in a Salinger novel, preferably Franny & Zooey. That night, Jane stopped at my house after work to recruit me for dance class.
My response to all things dance is immediate and automated. No. No question; no. This time, Jane persisted; she’d pay for the class, she’d promise not to look at me, I could sit out whenever I wanted, and it was a beginner class. Not to mention, it would get me over being depressed, and that was a guarantee. So I went.
I laughed my way through the class, amused by the contortions I forced out of my body instead of the graceful motions I saw in the teacher. I missed steps and got lost in the routines; I stared at myself in the mirrors with fascination, on stage for the first time. But it felt good to move—to really move—and to put the body first instead of words when I had something I needed to say. Maybe someday I will take myself to dance class, but for now I enter Jane’s domain by invitation only.