Side Effects May Vary by Julie Murphy Page B

least this one could live in a box beneath my bed.
    I wanted to be that person for all of them—the person they’d painted into their memory, the memorialized version of Alice—but that girl wasn’t me. And that scared me. As it turned out, my greatest fear in life had become expectations.
    Natalie looked back and forth between my parents. Dad patted her back. And Mom looked at me with anticipation. My forehead knotted in confusion, not sure what she wanted me to say. She raised her brows and tilted her head to Natalie.
    â€œOh,” I said. “Thanks.”
    Like an old friend, I wanted to keep ballet within reach, but this was too close. With this defunct body, I wasn’t all that interested in testing my limits. I slid the shoes back in the box, and gave Natalie and Harvey a stiff-lipped smile.
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    The summer before freshman year, I’d told my mom that I wanted to quit ballet. She agreed as long as I told Natalie myself. On the surface, I think I wanted to start high school fresh. I was done being the girl who had to go to ballet class every day. We lived in a small town and, yeah, I was considered good here. But in comparison to whom? I couldn’t be like Natalie, teaching pupil after pupil, hoping something might stick. If ballet was going to be my life, I’d only be happy living it on a stage. I preferred to accept the disappointment now rather than waste more years in a studio and have a casting director or an admissions board tell me I wasn’t good enough.
    On that day, I ran through the front door of the studio and into the changing room, bobby pins slipping from my bun as I changed out of my denim shorts and tank top and into my black leotard. I slid my black convertible tights on over my leotard and threw my backpack beneath Natalie’s desk.
    â€œAlice, get back here with that nest of hair,” called Natalie.
    Without a word, she rolled her office chair out for me and I sat down. She placed her hands on my shoulders and squeezed some tension from my sore muscles. Gently, she took out all of my bobby pins, and my head screamed with relief. Taking down a ballet bun is sort of like a brain freeze, causing a brief but intense headache. I held out my hand for her to place the discarded bobby pins in. When my hair was completely loose around my shoulders, she massaged my scalp for a minute, and I couldn’t stop the sigh that slipped from my lips. Instead of putting my hair back into a tight bun, Natalie placed a straight part in the middle of my head and gave me two long braids on either side. When she was through braiding, she took a couple bobby pins from my open palm and wove the braids together at the base of my scalp.
    That night after class, and after all the other students had gone home, I sat with Natalie on the floor of the largest studio while Harvey waited in the car. I told her I wouldn’t be back for classes in the fall. I sat up straight and enunciated my words, but inside they were a whisper.
    She didn’t say much of anything until we were standing in the dark with our bags in tow, getting ready to set the studio alarm.
    â€œYou can have until Monday to change your mind. I’ll hold your place until then.” The room around us was pitch black, so like most things people hear in the dark, I pretended not to hear anything at all.
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    Ever since I was a kid we’d always had cake before the meal at any of my birthday gatherings. One year I’d begged my mom to have cake first. She’d caved and it had been a tradition ever since. Besides, I’d always hated the idea of saving the best for last.
    After eating cake, Harvey sat right next to me with two plates of pizza—one for each of us. He wolfed down his slices and went for seconds while I still picked at my first helping. Our parents huddled around in a circle, conversing in hushed whispers while every couple minutes my dad glanced over his shoulder at me and