Teens > Summer 2008 Teen Writing Contest
Summer 2008 Teen Writing Contest
Grades 9-12 Prose Honorable Mention: "Mon Petit Danseur" by Chau Le
The previous season, I had not been promoted in my examination. I was not dismissed however, for I danced well. Somehow the judges must have been sensed the distress I felt, for I was still recovering from my argument with maman. The judges complimented me on my work and encouraged me to continue, claiming that promotion was close.
With that little bit of help, I trained hard in order to claim a promotion the next season. And passed I did. People congratulated me on my way out of the studio, praising my new status as sujet. Yes, sujet, only two steps from an etoile. The thought was a beautiful one.
Something that wasn't so beautiful was coming home. Returning home after dancing was always dreaded. I didn't want to go home, not to a place where it was dead and the life scarce. Our family slowly became more and more destitute as the days went on and our money was spent. The Chevaliers had become too used to fortune that we no longer knew how to adjust to poverty.
Even on the day of my promotion I didn't want to come home. I had no friends to go and have a celebratory dinner with, and it was in fact my fifteenth birthday today. Maman remained grim and silent towards me and had not accompanied me to the exam. Neither did papa. He was lying at home, sick. Papa had contracted a cold which morphed into a fever that refused to go away. But papa refused to rest in his bed, preferring to sit in his arm chair in a robe.
Somehow with this sickness he had contracted and the stress of trying to live on very little money caused papa to age twenty years overnight. His hair refused to turn from grey to white, insisting on stubbornly holding onto its youth resulting in a lack-luster matt of few strands of muted silver. Papa's eyes stared against the wall everyday, his eyes becoming bloodshot and the once deep brown color slowly sunk in somewhere that would never be found again.
In contrast, mama became plump from what I do not know, for food was no longer rich. It must have been from her sitting down all day and chattering to whomever was left in the house.
When I finally arrived home, I found a doctor kneeling at papa's side, his medical instruments laid out on a table.
“Monsieur Rene, has papa gotten better?” I asked the doctor. Monsieur Rene turned to me, a look of slight worry.
“Truthfully Mademoiselle, your father's condition has not improved. His current state is very weak.”
Monsieur Rene continued to exam papa and answer my questions. Finally it was time for the doctor to leave. Packing up his bags, maman rushed to the doctor, and handed him his payment. I heard maman whisper, “I am sorry Monsieur Rene, but this is all there is. There will be another installment within a few days.”
The doctor nodded and left.
Turning to maman, I noticed that we no longer had any servants at all. Maman had slowly dismissed any help we had, and it seemed that the very last had gone, including the cook. The small comfortable house had fallen into a sparse and dusty space. Some of the furniture was missing. The house resembled what we used to live in before Aurelie's husband.
“Maman, where is the furniture?” I asked.
“I pawned it. We have absolutely no money left, Capucine. Even paying the doctor bill is nearly impossible. Cannot you see what is happening? The only money we have is from your measly income! If you care about your father then you will accept Monsieur Montague!”
I did not answer her.
The more I argued with maman about going to the lounge after performances, the more I found myself doing exactly as maman wanted me to. And yet, in the lounge, even when I spoke with the abonne, I spoke stiffly and sternly. I wanted nothing to do with any abonne, and yet I continued to speak with them, as if something money would fall into my lap by saying hello to someone rich.
“Mademoiselle Capucine, you look splendid tonight. Your turquoise dress becomes your form so well. And your hair is like a river fall of auburn chestnut. And that necklace! Or is it a ribbon? Oh yes, the ribbon brings out your youthful beauty. What a flower you are.”* Monsieur Victor grabbed my hand and kissed it roughly while paying me sweet and syrupy compliments. I was not bought, and in fact was disgusted at such blatant and obvious flattery.
After I was able to weasel out of Monsieur Victor's incessant advances, I headed straight towards the refreshments. Grabbing a glass and filling it to the brim with red wine I drowned the glass. I had decided to come here after performing The Masked Dancers, but now I realized that I couldn't do this, couldn't subject myself to such tartness, and couldn't sell my body. No matter how sick papa was, no matter how much it seemed as if our family were going to be on the streets, no matter how now I now came home and had a supper of hard rye bread instead of steak, I could not do it.
But every night after every performance I was there, waiting for some form of miracle.
Finally when I had had enough of it, I proceeded to go him. While walking through the dimly lit corridor that led me back to the dressing room and stage, there was a looming figure walking towards me. It was Monsieur Montague.
“Mademoiselle Capucine, where are you going? You aren't leaving the party, are you?”
“It is late, Monsieur, and my father is sick. I need to attend to him.” I tried to continue walking, but the Monsieur turned his girth towards me and forced me into the wall by blocking my passage.
“You look…darling tonight, Mademoiselle Capucine,” Montague said, his breath strong of wine.
“Please Monsieur, for proprieties sake; call me by my last name.”
“Propriety?” Montague laughed, and I could tell that he was tipsy. “What do you care of propriety? You are a little dancer, Mademoiselle Chevalier.” Montague said the proclaimed my last name sarcastically.
“You're a dancer, and believe me, dancers don't care about propriety. Their little soft bodies comply with me as long as there are jewels involved. You little ducklings are so plentiful, play hard to get, but in the end you need me.” Montague smiled, and his teeth were stained and yellow. He leaned closer into me, and I gasped in fright.
I was afraid, afraid of this large and animalistic man. He was evil; he was the epitome of evil. Those small squinted eyes stared me down, and I coward in my little dress, wishing I had more clothing on, wishing that there was a barrier of a thousand brick walls between us.
For a moment there was silence. And then, Montague moved away from, smiled and said, “As I said. You will come to me one day. They all need me and others like me, dancers.” Montague walked off, waddling.
I smothered a whimper of fear and relief, and then started running, running home to where there was relative safety.
