my fears, Mom speaks up again. “For God’s
sake, Annalise, I’ve practically handed this to you on a
platter. Do you realize how lucky you are? I had to fight my way to
the top, and you’re just sitting back and letting it all slide
by.”
I stop listening, feeling a sick knot in my chest. I hate it when she
does this, makes me feel so guilty. I know that if she could, she
would trade places with me in a heartbeat. Jump on the next flight,
and come out here, relive her whole career all over again. But she
can’t, all she can do is give me everything she’s
learned, coach me to be the very best I can be.
But what if I don’t want this anymore?
Eleven.
It’s hard to describe what it feels like when I dance.
Last year, a documentary crew came to film the company. Mom pulled
her usual strings and got me time in front of the camera. I remember
sitting there, carefully posed in my leotard and pointe shoes, the
bright lights beaming at my face, everyone waiting for me to speak.
But what could I say?
That’s the thing about dance, it’s beyond words. The
movement, the feeling of getting the steps just right: when the
painstaking choreography fits together so perfectly, I can’t
even feel the individual tiny actions, just the gorgeous flow as I
lose myself completely in the story and the music, falling into
another world until I live and breathe and exist only as a rush of
motion; powerful, focused.
Free.
But the truth is, it’s getting harder for me to dance like
that. I can perform a dozen times, and lose myself like that only
once or twice. I try to fall, to surrender, but that only makes it
worse. It’s like I’m trapped in my own mind, too aware of
each and every muscle in my body, and the perfection I need to hit to
make it right. A ballet is like a winding stack of dominos: from the
very first step, everything should unfold as natural and easy as
breathing. But if you miss just one step, a split second, a heartbeat
in time, the whole sequence falls apart.
But those moments it all comes together ... That’s when I feel
it, a power like no other, beating through my body, like I could take
flight, right there on the stage. It’s a drug, a shot of pure
joy, and the longer I go between hits, the more I crave it, need it,
desperately fight to get back there, in that perfect zone, where the
movements roll off my body and my feet are made of stardust, golden
and bright. All the work and the criticism, the pain and
insecurities, they melt away, and I finally feel whole again, like
I’m the person I’m meant to be.
Like I’m worthy.
Twelve.
“Well, you sure ate your Wheaties today.” Karla gives me
a sidelong look as we drag our tired asses down the stairs after
rehearsals. “Where did that come from? I’ve never seen
you leap so high.”
“Do you think Gilbert saw?” I ask eagerly. I could drop
dead from exhaustion, but my whole body is bathed in a warm glow of
achievement, from one of the best rehearsal sessions I’ve had
in weeks.
“Hell yes,” she replies.
“Even I saw you,” Rosalie laughs on my other side. “And
I don’t even know what it was you were doing. I just know it
looked amazing.”
The other dancers shoot me envious looks as we file out, and Lucia
looks like she wishes I’d drop dead.
“I’m surprised you have the energy,” Lucia says as
she passes me. “You look so… tired. But then, with the
curfew, you would have slept the whole night through.”
I look up, panicked. What does she know?
“Of course, if you did go out, that would be a major
infraction,” Lucia continues. She gives me a pointed look.
“Why, it could even mean they threw you off the residency
entirely.”
My heart is in my throat. Did she see me? Is she going to tell?
“Have a great day!” Lucia coos, and sashays away, leaving
me in a cold sweat. I grab Karla. “Did you hear that? She
knows!”
“No way.” Karla glares over at Lucia. “She’s
jealous, for sure. If
sake, Annalise, I’ve practically handed this to you on a
platter. Do you realize how lucky you are? I had to fight my way to
the top, and you’re just sitting back and letting it all slide
by.”
I stop listening, feeling a sick knot in my chest. I hate it when she
does this, makes me feel so guilty. I know that if she could, she
would trade places with me in a heartbeat. Jump on the next flight,
and come out here, relive her whole career all over again. But she
can’t, all she can do is give me everything she’s
learned, coach me to be the very best I can be.
But what if I don’t want this anymore?
Eleven.
It’s hard to describe what it feels like when I dance.
Last year, a documentary crew came to film the company. Mom pulled
her usual strings and got me time in front of the camera. I remember
sitting there, carefully posed in my leotard and pointe shoes, the
bright lights beaming at my face, everyone waiting for me to speak.
But what could I say?
That’s the thing about dance, it’s beyond words. The
movement, the feeling of getting the steps just right: when the
painstaking choreography fits together so perfectly, I can’t
even feel the individual tiny actions, just the gorgeous flow as I
lose myself completely in the story and the music, falling into
another world until I live and breathe and exist only as a rush of
motion; powerful, focused.
Free.
But the truth is, it’s getting harder for me to dance like
that. I can perform a dozen times, and lose myself like that only
once or twice. I try to fall, to surrender, but that only makes it
worse. It’s like I’m trapped in my own mind, too aware of
each and every muscle in my body, and the perfection I need to hit to
make it right. A ballet is like a winding stack of dominos: from the
very first step, everything should unfold as natural and easy as
breathing. But if you miss just one step, a split second, a heartbeat
in time, the whole sequence falls apart.
But those moments it all comes together ... That’s when I feel
it, a power like no other, beating through my body, like I could take
flight, right there on the stage. It’s a drug, a shot of pure
joy, and the longer I go between hits, the more I crave it, need it,
desperately fight to get back there, in that perfect zone, where the
movements roll off my body and my feet are made of stardust, golden
and bright. All the work and the criticism, the pain and
insecurities, they melt away, and I finally feel whole again, like
I’m the person I’m meant to be.
Like I’m worthy.
Twelve.
“Well, you sure ate your Wheaties today.” Karla gives me
a sidelong look as we drag our tired asses down the stairs after
rehearsals. “Where did that come from? I’ve never seen
you leap so high.”
“Do you think Gilbert saw?” I ask eagerly. I could drop
dead from exhaustion, but my whole body is bathed in a warm glow of
achievement, from one of the best rehearsal sessions I’ve had
in weeks.
“Hell yes,” she replies.
“Even I saw you,” Rosalie laughs on my other side. “And
I don’t even know what it was you were doing. I just know it
looked amazing.”
The other dancers shoot me envious looks as we file out, and Lucia
looks like she wishes I’d drop dead.
“I’m surprised you have the energy,” Lucia says as
she passes me. “You look so… tired. But then, with the
curfew, you would have slept the whole night through.”
I look up, panicked. What does she know?
“Of course, if you did go out, that would be a major
infraction,” Lucia continues. She gives me a pointed look.
“Why, it could even mean they threw you off the residency
entirely.”
My heart is in my throat. Did she see me? Is she going to tell?
“Have a great day!” Lucia coos, and sashays away, leaving
me in a cold sweat. I grab Karla. “Did you hear that? She
knows!”
“No way.” Karla glares over at Lucia. “She’s
jealous, for sure. If
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