Educated

“I can’t,” I said.
“Oh.” She looked uncomfortable. “Maybe one of the girls can lend you
one.”
She’d misunderstood. She thought I didn’t have money. “It isn’t modest,” I
said. Her lips parted in surprise. These Californian Moyles, I thought.
“Well, you can’t dance in boots,” she said. “I’ll talk to your mother.”
A few days later, Mother drove me forty miles to a small shop whose
shelves were lined with exotic shoes and strange acrylic costumes. Not one
was modest. Mother went straight to the counter and told the attendant we
needed a black leotard, white tights and jazz shoes.
“Keep those in your room,” Mother said as we left the store. She didn’t
need to say anything else. I already understood that I should not show the
leotard to Dad.
That Wednesday, I wore the leotard and tights with my gray T-shirt over
the top. The T-shirt reached almost to my knees, but even so I was ashamed
to see so much of my legs. Dad said a righteous woman never shows
anything above her ankle.
The other girls rarely spoke to me, but I loved being there with them. I
loved the sensation of conformity. Learning to dance felt like learning to
belong. I could memorize the movements and, in doing so, step into their
minds, lunging when they lunged, reaching my arms upward in time with
theirs. Sometimes, when I glanced at the mirror and saw the tangle of our
twirling forms, I couldn’t immediately discern myself in the crowd. It didn’t
matter that I was wearing a gray T-shirt—a goose among swans. We moved
together, a single flock.
We began rehearsals for the Christmas recital, and Caroline called Mother
to discuss the costume. “The skirt will be how long?” Mother said. “And
sheer? No, that’s not going to work.” I heard Caroline say something about
what the other girls in the class would want to wear. “Tara can’t wear that,”
Mother said. “If that’s what the other girls are wearing, she will stay home.”
On the Wednesday after Caroline called Mother, I arrived at Papa Jay’s a
few minutes early. The younger class had just finished, and the store was
flooded with six-year-olds, prancing for their mothers in red velvet hats and
skirts sparkling with sequins of deep scarlet. I watched them wiggle and leap
through the aisles, their thin legs covered only by sheer tights. I thought they
looked like tiny harlots.