The Protégé

It was your typical bandana; the kind John Wayne must have worn in his movies. Not

that any of us had ever seen a John Wayne movie, but we imagined that’s what he would have

worn. 22” by 22”. Cotton/Polyester blend. Machine Wash, Hand Dry. Except Miss Dolores’

was a deep, bright purple. Not fuchsia, not lavender. To our knowledge, she didn’t harbor a

secret desire to play cowgirl to John Wayne’s cowboy. Nor did we think she associated with

gangsters. And, at first glance the bandana served no obvious purpose. Her long, thick black

hair was always tied in a tight braid. We speculated that perhaps the bandana kept a few black

strays from falling into her face, but no one could verify this.

Miss Dolores cared for the bandana as she did for her ballet shoes—the very ones in

which she danced Romeo and Juliet at the Civic Center in 1976. Baryshnikov had attended the

performance and complimented her on the role of Juliet. And for once, those dark black

eyebrows, always raised at a slight slant, relaxed.

During warm-up exercises, as our legs stretched to unreachable lengths, Miss Dolores

smoothed any wrinkles that had gathered in the bandana. As we dizzied ourselves practicing

pirouettes in the center of the dance floor, Miss Dolores folded it into a perfectly elongated

shape. Then, during our first water break, Miss Dolores tied the bandana around her head like a

headband. A signal that for one and a half hours our bodies would extend beyond the confines of

our physical limits. Suddenly, her four-foot eleven inch frame towered to six feet.

"Grande Jete′, Ladies. That means Big!" Miss Dolores roared as we struggled to leap

high into the air, feet pointed and legs straight. "Rond de jaim, arabesque. Hold it, Hold it!"

Our legs maintained a right angle in mid-air, tethered by an imaginary string; a mental trick to

keep our legs in place. "Outside pirouette. Attitude." At this point, we paused and stared with

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disbelief. "What are you waiting for?" Everyone, except for Michelle Lansky, stumbled to the

worn hardwood floor. As our faces pressed against the dark grain inhaling the smell of dried

sweat, Michelle demonstrated her mastery of the exercise. She was what every ballerina aspired

to be: tall, thin, and blonde, with a perfect turnout.

The bandana ordinarily remained on Miss Dolores’ head throughout the class, until that

unfortunate someone made a mistake. Then, we heard the ultimate “Stop!” We stood still,

frightened and frustrated with whoever fumbled. Miss Dolores’ pale, white hands turned bright

red from clutching the bandana. The angrier she became, the tighter she squeezed. "Ladies, how

you perform here during class reflects how you will perform on stage," her lecture began.

"Every time—I mean every time—you dance, you must do so as if it is the last time you will

ever dance." And then, to give the screw a final twist: "For some of you, this class is most

likely the last place you will ever dance."

We never once saw Miss Dolores without the bandana. It was as essential to her

movements as her ballet shoes. Which is why, in the end, it was only appropriate that Michelle

be the one to ask her about it.

It was a Tuesday afternoon before class in the dancers’ waiting room. We lay on our

backs stretching our legs to our faces, but they stopped midway. The more we tugged, the more

strongly our legs resisted. Michelle strolled in and easily splayed her long legs against the wall

into a perfect split. We so longed for those lithe, flexible-Julliard-bound legs. They called that

position the Needle, and Michelle was the only one who could demonstrate why.

"I think you should ask her about the bandana," Jennifer suggested as she practiced her

pirouette. She struggled to balance even a single turn.

"Why me?" asked Michelle, arching her back into a pliant bend.

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 "Because you're the only one who could get away with it," Sarah explained and winced in

an attempt to elongate her leg.

Michelle remained unconvinced. “Who cares? After this spring, none of us will be

back.”

"That's why we need to find out now, otherwise we never will” said Diana, pointing her

feet. The arches refused to yield.

“Ok, I’ll do it,” Michelle teased us with her graceful triple pirouette.

It was in between the pique′ turns and the adagio sequence that Michelle decided to ask.

A pause during a water break would’ve been better, but Michelle was the type of person who

didn’t wait for a moment to open; she opened one herself. Just as our right legs extended to turn,

Michelle interrupted with “Oh, Miss Dolores?” Miss Dolores stopped the music.

“Michelle, this had better be important to disrupt the class,” she warned. Michelle stood

unfazed. She quickly glanced at us, raised her eyebrows and gave a sly smile as we looked on

anxiously.

“Miss Dolores, I was wondering...” For a moment Michelle appeared nervous. We

exchanged sidelong glances, wondering whether she would falter. But the pause, lasted only a

split second. “What is the deal with that bandana?” Our stomachs dropped. “Excuse me?”

replied Miss Dolores.

“You wear it every single day.” Michelle's brazenness was no match for Miss Dolores'

capacity to remain stoic. “Did Baryshnikov give it to you?” Our hearts skipped a beat.

Miss Dolores’ arms remained crossed, the bandana secured tightly around her head.

“Michelle, maybe you should worry more about your triple pirouette? Your standing leg is bent

and your toes are flexed,” responded Miss Dolores calmly. Now we were caught off guard—

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Michelle always performed it beautifully, we thought. But perhaps her toe hadn’t been pointed.

Michelle’s wax-colored face took on a reddish cast. The class continued without further

interruption.

The following Tuesday we chatted about the upcoming prom and whether to make

reservations at a famed fondue restaurant. No one mentioned Miss Dolores and the bandana.

This time as Michelle’s legs spread into the Needle, she nearly lost her balances, as if her legs

were fragile toothpicks struggling under the weight of an overstuffed sandwich. During class,

Michelle stumbled on her triple pirouette and let her leg drop on the arabesque. Miss Dolores

offered her usual criticism, but no more or less than to anyone else. In the weeks thereafter,

Michelle's performance grew erratic. Some days she validated everyone's belief that she would

get in to Julliard. On other days, though, she would miss a step on basic adagio sequences,

combinations even the rawest beginner could perform. Ultimately, spring came to an end,

Michelle's performance remained inconsistent, and Miss Dolores continued to wear the purple

bandana.

As Miss Dolores predicted, most of us never continued to dance after that spring. We

went on to college and majored in Communications or Early Childhood Education. Our

collective hope of a future on stage rested in Michelle. This was later reconfirmed when we

heard that she never enrolled in college. A serious dancer never wasted her best agile years

inside a classroom.

We looked for Michelle’s potential in our children during their first ballet class at the

infant age of 4. Any time a national dance company performed at the Civic Center, we scoured

the program looking for the Michelle’s name in elegant print. When no one could spot it, we

assumed she was on tour in Europe.

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 Which is why we first doubted Jennifer when she reported the story of her niece. It was

during our afternoon cocktail hour, that Jennifer explained her niece had ballet potential.

“Michelle Lansky potential.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. Diana leaned in closer.

“Her mother wanted her in Julliard children’s program.” Jennifer continued. “But she got

rejected in the first round of audition. They flew to New York to speak with the judge.”

“That never works,” Diana said.

“Just listen,” demanded Jennifer. “The office clerk refused. So she spent all day trying

to convince her to speak with the judge, but the clerk wouldn’t budge. When I said ‘how

horrible,’ she said yes that “Ms. Lansky was a terrible woman.”

We put down our drinks.

“There’s no way.”

“Must be someone else.”

“Isn’t Michelle married?”

“She didn’t get a first name,” said Jennifer. “But” and paused so she had our full

attention, “she had a purple bandana tied around her graying hair.”

We were silent. We avoided each others’ gazes in fear of being the first to react. We

fiddled with the ice at the bottom of our glasses.

Sarah finally broke the silence. “At least she made it to Julliard,” she said, revealing a

smirk.

“Maybe they let her spend the lunch hour watching the other dancers practice.” Diana

giggled.

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 “If she’s extra-nice, she can demonstrate the Needle.” Jennifer chimed. We laughed

along for a couple more minutes and reverted to our usual topics—the latest PTA squabble,

disrupted vacation plans to Disneyworld, and various ways to disguise tofu in meals. And for

one afternoon our mundane discussion revealed the marvel of our lives.