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[mrdwightdc-blog]

Bunny

Mother looked over at me from the wheel, against which her ridiculously voluminous breasts were pressed so firmly that I think she could almost steer the car with them.

“Oh daaarling, I’m simply exhausted,” she breathily exhaled in this affected, slightly British accent, even though she spent her whole life in Roselle Park, NJ, where everyone, except mother, spoke like Danny DeVito. “but I’m so looking forward to sharing with your little dear classmates at Career Day today! I’ll be in your classroom after I park! Toodles, dear!”

*

“I,” Mother paused for dramatic effect, looked across the sea of little faces in Ms. Prichard’s classroom, “am a professional Dancer…”

Mild engagement from the 6th graders met her anticipatory gaze.

“So, my little Munchkins, raise your hand if you want to be a dancer…”

Four hands shot up in the air.  Two belonged to the Messano twins, Rita and Debbie; one to Sharon Bedetti, and the other to Michael Flamity.

“Oh so delightful – Girls, do you study Ballet at the Westfield Academy, by chance?” She gave the girls’ “urban” style clothes a once-over, “It’s very expensive, so maybe not.”

“No – we’re learning Hip Hop at the Roselle Community Center – Ms. Johnston is our teacher. It’s soooo much fun!” Debbie gushed.

“and she says we’re the best in the class!” Rita continued.

“Oh….Hip Hop…Well that’s not really dance.  Maybe look into ballet, dears.”

The girls’ faces soured and sunk, and they both looked down.

“And how about you, young man? You know, as a male member of the species, you’ll have an easy time finding work as a professional in the Ballet world…you might need to shed a few, though…”

“Hmph!” Michael, looking slightly indignant, crossed his legs and, half turning away, rolled his eyes in disgust so as to say, “as if…!” He then flung his hair back and lisped, “Ms. B, I’m studying Jazz and Tap – I’m going to be a big star on Broadway.”

“Well, my little friend,” responded Mother in an attempt to appear nonplussed, “I think you’ll fit in quite well in the world of musical theatre; but remember, there are lots of ‘your type’ of boys in the ballet business, too, if you know what I mean.” She winked. Some of the older boys smirked.

“and you, young lady, are you studying ballet?” she looked plaintively at Sharon Bedetti.

“Yes, I am, Ms. Baldassari, and you are a big inspiration to me!”

“I am!” mother beamed, “and why is that?”

“Mom says that me and my sisters can’t do ballet past 8th grade – I have to quit soon - she says that once we get older we get too, uh… ‘unbalanced on top’ to dance… but if you can do ballet, I bet I could, too!”

“Yeah,” Bobby piped in “‘Bedetti girls should be called ‘Big Titty’ girls!”

The boys could barely contain their snickers...

“Bobby! Sharon!” Ms. Prissard barked, “that type of talk is entirely inappropriate!”

The class broke into uproarious laughter.

Clearly embarrassed, Ms. Prissard suggested to mother, “Ms. Baldasari, why don’t you start showing your slides?”

Mother flashed up the first slide, a 5 year-old in a tutu.

“It all began with this little exquisite little girl – We always had a passion for movement,” she looked wistfully away, far into the past, “We gravitated toward the graceful, the beautiful.  I grew up here, in Roselle, but on the Westfield side of town…” (Westfield was the really rich town nearby where the collars were as white as they were blue in Roselle). “I went to Westfield Dance Academy until I was 9, and then, after great perseverance and endless dedication… and talent… I continued by commuting to the City attend the Ballet Pour Les Jeunes, with the great Madame de Pimbêche as my instructor.

She waited for the validating “Oohs” and “Ahhs.” The faces responded with yawns and quizzical looks trying to figure out what “porelayjun” meant.

Mother, clearly nervous, continued, “Well, then, of course, at 18, I was accepted to Juliard – you know Julliard…?”

Nothing! Lips pursed in frustration, she clicked to the next slide, titled “Junior year, Juliard.”  My 20 year old mother was posed in fifth position, her slender, uneventful body, skinny all the way up and down like a pre-wrapped diner straw in a Tinkerbell costume.

Eyes darted between my mother’s breasts in the flesh and the non-existent ones in the picture. The tension of the question that everybody wanted to ask was thick in the air. Ms. Prissard’s cold stare was all that kept my classmates from boldly going into that line of inquiry…