eastcoleman:
Now that I think about it, I’m getting a little nostalgic. Back then everything was simple. We felt free when we made music and nothing else mattered. Not school, not our parents, nothing. Just us and our instruments.
mockingbird:
Is it different now?
eastcoleman:
Yes, there’s more to it than there used to be. We have higher expectations of ourselves.
mockingbird:
You’ll get everything you want, I know it.
eastcoleman:
Do you really think so?
mockingbird:
I’m absolutely sure. You’ll achieve everything you want because you’re good. Besides, I’m not the only one who thinks so. Liam Bellamy is coming to Boston for you.
eastcoleman:
Yeah, that’s really amazing.
mockingbird:
It is, but above all, it’s totally deserved. Proud of you.
Chapter 10
Rayne
Smile Again—blackbear
Pointe class is a total disaster. Miss Chelsea, our teacher, is nice. Very nice, even. She doesn’t make a big deal over the fact that I’m the only one in the class who doesn’t dance en pointe. But I suddenly feel like an outsider. It’s humiliating to be the only one still wearing soft ballet slippers instead of the hard, uncomfortable pointe shoes. It’s also embarrassing to be the only one who can’t do the exercises properly, even with soft slippers. The other girls can do it with such ease that I want to cry because I feel so incompetent.
But I grit my teeth to hold back the tears, because I don’t want to let anyone see how much it matters to me. Zoe and Mae keep giving me sympathetic looks, which I have to ignore; otherwise I’ll really start crying.
Don’t overthink it, sweetie. Pay attention to the music, listen to your body, feel the rhythm. You can do this. There’s more to ballet than perfect technique.
I can hear Mom’s voice in my head, and I want to listen to her, but I can’t. She’s too quiet, and my self-doubt is too loud.
By the end of class, my feet hurt like hell. Strictly speaking, everything hurts. I’m completely exhausted. Somehow, I imagined that my first day would be different. Less awful.
“Take your time,” Zoe says for what feels like the thousandth time as we leave the practice studios after class. Mae stays behind because she has another class. Zoe and I are supposed to have contemporary dance now, but it doesn’t start until Wednesday because it’s being taught by a guest instructor from New York who isn’t here yet. My relief that the first day of training is over almost overshadows my frustration at my utter failure. But only almost.
“I don’t know if time will help. I’ll never be as good as you,” I whimper. I hate the sound of self-pity in my voice.
“You don’t know that. Besides, you’re really not as bad as you think you are.”
“Hmm,” I say, and Zoe rolls her eyes.
“Really. You’re just a little out of practice.”
“I’m not even sure I ever had any practice,” I sigh. “I should have taken it more seriously when I had the time.”