Nine
Denise
Ever since I arrived at Kingswell at the beginning of the semester, I’ve avoided the campus dance studio. Which has felt strange because studios used to be my sanctuary.
My safe space.
It’s where I went when everything I was feeling was too much and the only way I knew how to deal with it was by getting lost in the movements of ballet.
I tried to avoid the nagging in my brain that practically begged me to come here, but then I got a call from my mother, basically guilt tripping me into going to her and Brian’s house for dinner tonight.
Instead of telling her I didn’t want to pretend to play house with her and Brian, I fought with her.
I’m happy for her and Brian. I just…I don’t want to be disappointed if their relationship ends too. Sure, both of my parents are still around. I have a stepdad who actively tries to be in my life but good things tend to be followed by something bad happening.
Amiyah being born made my parents realize they simply just existed around each other. They were roommates more than anything.
Their divorce pushed me toward dancing, needing an escape from the reality of having two homes now. Then after years of feeling I had it together, I no longer have ballet. I know I’m fortunate enough to still have both of my parents around after their divorce. I understand that they were able to put me through ballet. I see how good Brian is to my mom and sister. Even me. I get how lucky I am.
But I’m not a good person to be around. Not anymore.
I don’t want to be angry all the time. I just don’t know how to explain to people that ideally my life is perfect. I shouldn’t have anything to complain about but I’d give up my car. My clothes. My apartment. Just to be able to dance. Just to feel alive again.
The music from the French horns and clarinets reverberates off the walls. I feel it pulse against my skin, vibrating underneath my pointe shoes.
My body aches to complete the familiar movements of “Waltz of the Flowers” but my hip is on fire. I try to push through the reminder of the life I lost. I don’t want it to have any more power over me than it already has.
Most days I don’t even seem to bring myself to look in the mirror because as the months go by, the further away I get from that bright-eyed girl full of stupid hope and ambition.
Everything I have ever wanted finally neared the palm of my hand but deciding to push through an injury caused all of that to vanish into thin air. My own stubbornness caused me to lose my first love.
Ballet.
I just don’t know why I can’t seem to let it go.
My entire body screams in retaliation as I set my body up for a grand allegro, thinking maybe it was all in my head. The injury. The surgery. The pain.
Grand Jeté. Grand Jeté En Tournant. Jeté Alonce.
All moves I perfected and could do in my sleep, once upon a time. Front leg high, hands flicked up to create the illusion of a higher leap.
I feel like I’m a little kid again, head full of dreams and heart not so heavy. I feel more real than I have in months instead of like I’m floating outside of my body, just going through the motions of life. I exist again.
But the moment is ripped away from me because I don’t know how to quit while I’m ahead. I never have.
I fall out of my leap. My hip locks, causing me to trip and hit the maple floor with a thud.
I don’t cry. Not at first.
I pound the side of my fist against the floor as I grit my teeth, burying my face into the crook of my arm, and scream. The noise echoes in the room and I’m sure other people in the building can hear me but I don’t give a shit.
The ache runs deep, settling in the joint. I roll onto my back, gripping at my hip and begging for the burning pain to stop.
The aching in my chest to go away.
But it doesn’t and I finally allow myself to cry.
???