| ROSIE AND ME |
| Shuffled off this mortal coil |
| Rosie always had an answer for any of our misadventures and only once did I see her discombobulated. Our mothers had decreed that we should take dancing lessons but the decision had been delayed so often that Rosie and I were nine-and-a-half before we found ourselves galumphing around a dance studio, two clumsy elephants flanking a Lilliputian world of dainty 3 to six year olds. Week after week we were humiliated. We could dismiss the giggling children but the dancing teacher refused to be ignored. Miss Emily was determined to shape Rosie and me in her own image, a prospect that filled us with alarm. Miss Emily was neither a thing of beauty nor a joy forever. Miss Emily taught ballet and she taught tap dancing. One look at our gawky undisciplined bodies and we were delegated to be tappers. Over at the dance barre supple youngsters contorted their bodies, oblivious to their bleeding toes and aching muscles. They were dedicated and Miss Emily could rely on them to work unsupervised. Rosie and I, on the other hand, were given to slacking off at every opportunity. We were too dumb to realize that this guaranteed us the brunt of Miss Emily's unwelcome attention. "Shuffle, tap, hop," she barked her rhythmic commands. We shuffled, we tapped and we hopped, but never in time with Miss Emily or even with each other. When Miss Emily filled the air with lively music our confusion was complete. "Girls, girls," she directed us. "Start with your left foot. Shuffle, shuffle, tap, tap, tap," she demonstrated in slow motion. "Smile girls, smile." We always started with our left foot. That was the easy part. It was the rest of it that was complicated. And the last thing we were going to do was smile. Our mothers soon realized their mistake. They were not as competitive as the other mothers, but they were conscious of their pocket books. They had already paid for the full course and insisted that we completed it. The owner of the studio expected Miss Emily to celebrate the end of a session with a recital. This performance was equally torturous for the participants and the audience. In retrospect, it was probably not a favorite time for the maniacally cheerful Miss Emily. We had extra practice during the final two weeks and those frantic rehearsals took their toll on us all. Miss Emily became very impatient and her enthusiastic voice changed into a snarl as she viewed the pathetic efforts of Rosie and me. One day she focused on Rosie. "Your left foot, dear, your left foot." Rosie obediently stomped down a foot. "You have only one left foot Rosie. Why don't you use it?" And the little girls snickered. Rosie muttered under her breath. "You ugly old woman. Leave me alone." "What did you say, Rosie?" "Nothing, Miss Emily." On our way home she was more explicit. "I wish Miss Emily would die," she said. "Rosie!" I protested. The next day the studio door was locked when we arrived, and there was a rough sign taped there: ALL CLASSES HAVE BEEN CANCELLED DUE TO THE SUDDEN DEATH OF MISS EMILY CARRUTHERS The mothers huddled together "Was it a heart attack? a car accident? a suicide? an overdose?" they wondered. Rosie was silent as we walked home."Rosie" I said. It wasn't your fault." Rosie sprang at me. "Did I say it was my fault? No, I didn't. Of course it wasn't my fault. Don't be stupid." "I thought maybe you . . .yesterday you said . . . and now she is . . . " "I know what I said. And I know that she is. I don't want to talk about it." copyright 2001 Brenda Ross |
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