The Ballerina

The girl bowed gracefully, smiling with pearly teeth as she awaited the crowd with hopeful eyes as the applauded mindlessly for a moment. It always took them a moment to let their minds connect what they had just seen. So she waited simply, still standing en pointe. The light behind the audience’s eyes never sparked as she was used to seeing, but rather uncomfortable glances at one another were being exchanged. Whispers weaved through like sinuous snakes. The ballerina stood there as still as good possible in her beautiful pink leotard and skirt that her mother had purchased for her. 1

Her parents bowed their heads in shame, not wanting to be accused of the parent of her. The cold, hard grip of her instructor sent waves of pain in her shoulder as she led her off of the stage2

“You were terrible!” the old woman hissed in her ear, the words burning with venom. “Why did I even let you perform? You were always the weakest of the class.”3

The girl said nothing, allowing her sobs to answer from behind the curtain. The others girls looked at her and smirked or snickered. They knew her as the cry-baby who was awful at anything she tried. Even though she could see that they were people with tight buns and too much makeup, all she could see was a bunch of dogs waiting to chew her apart as soon as their leash’s were unhooked. When her instructor left to give the crowd a parting word, the girls circled her. They jabbed her with their painted finger nails and smiled cruelly with bright red lipstick covered mouths.4

“She’s only going out there to apologize for your terrible solo performance,” a short girl with curly hair said.5

Another added, “Yeah, you did really mess up out there. And everyone was there, even people from our school. You’ll be a laughing-stock!”6

One terrible word came after another from the girl’s fellow dancers. She held back the burning tears and ran out of the theater using the backdoor exit before they could even let everyone have a final bow. Letting the tears fall freely, she placed herself on top of an old crate next to the door. Their words still rung in her head like bells, loud and clear. The realization came to her that the audience had only been faking it the entire time. And it was when she had come out alone that they saw how horrible she really was.7

The bitter winter wind sliced through her leotard like it was nothing. The girl shivered and rubbed her arms as her teeth chattered. Leaning her head towards the sky, she squinted to see a snowflake fall from the heavens, followed by another. Soon, it was snowing hard, dusting her in the frozen precipitation. As the hot tears ran down her cheeks, she was suddenly filled with determination. She was going to show them, she’d show them all. Throwing her head back, she waited for the ceremony to be over and for her parents to come and get her.8

The minutes seemed to pass by like hours, though finally her mother and father showed after a frantic search for her behind the stage. They gave her stiff hugs, telling her in monotones how great she performed. Their voices were filled with lies. The girl was silent again, letting her bitter thoughts fuel the strive deep within her. She knew that she had talent somewhere inside of her that was waiting to show. It was a caterpillar pausing to turn into a butterfly. She smiled at the thought of her becoming the greatest ballerina, dancing with emotion and perfecting every single detail of her moves.9

The rest of the week seemed to crawl by for her. School was especially awful because, as her fellow dancers had promised, the entire school knew about her horrible performance. They whispered with one another and teased her beyond belief, yet she would not cry. Instead, she let the words be stored inside her. For the whole week, she did this, and every jab or trip would not be forgotten.10

By the time the Friday came, she was mentally exhausted. All of the stress was building and building, making her have a sick look to her. Although her parents suggested that she should take a day off even though she was not physically sick, the girl still was persistent about going to school. She did all of her homework and brought back good grades by the time that she had gotten home. The poking and prodding had stopped, and the rumors had been turned down, yet she still remembered those kids, picking on her as if she was an entirely different species than they were. Sighing to herself, the girl put on her normal leotard that she wore to her class and a hair of tights underneath them.11

“I don’t think that this is a wise decision,” the mother said gently. “Dancing really isn’t your forte, honey.”12

The girl said nothing, and the mother finally broke down and gave her a ride to her weekly private dance class, which was always afterschool at the Cappuccino Dance Studio tucked away from the chain stores in their town. She was driven up to the front and let off on the sidewalk. Her mother waved goodbye before speeding off towards home. Adjusting her gym-bag on her shoulder, the girl walked into the familiar building. The air smelled like lemons and the hardwood floor and just been polished. The receptionist who worked there only on weekdays was busy texting away, hardly looking up to shoo her away towards the locker room. 13

“Hurry on, you now that the teacher doesn’t like to wait.”14

Dropping her bag off at her normal locker, she turned to face the tall mirror in the corner. A girl stared back at her with green eyes and blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun. Her face was etched with some worries of what was going to occur in the next hour. She paused for a moment, letting her fingers touch the side of her face to make sure it was really her. Whenever she would look through this mirror, the girl would see nothing but fatigue in her eyes. But now, nothing glowed brighter than her pride.15

The girl turned quickly, remembering that this lesson would not last forever. She fished her slippers out of her bag and quickly laced them up. She stood up abruptly and loped to the door, opening it with a stretch of her arm. She walked calmly towards the studio, lined with mirrors. There was her instructor, flipping leisurely through a magazine. Like a cat, she pawed at the pages with a lazy aura coming off of her. She snapped her head as she heard the wood squeak unpleasantly underneath the girl’s feet. Her grey eyes narrowed.16

“You have quite some nerve showing your sorry face here again, miss. You have turned the Cappuccino Dance Studio into a laughing stock. I hope you are happy with what you have made of yourself- which is nothing more than a pathetic dancer.”17

The words burned through her ears, but the silence spoke louder. With a defiant look in her eyes, she waited for the instructor to tell her the moves that she wanted to be performed. With a smirk, the older woman snapped into a general, one who was cruel and ruthless, but could train the weak and scrawny into brave and strong.18

“Fouetté rond de jambe en tournant!” she barked.19

The girl recalled the harsh words by everyone: her parents, the children at school, her dance instructor. They scalded her stomach and made her feel as if she were a stupid human being who was good at nothing. This feeling lasted for only a moment when the she remembered that she would be the best; she’d make them eat their words. Her muscles took action over her brain as she poured effort into every movement that she made, every breath that she took.20

An hour went by before the woman clapped her hands twice, signaling the end of class. Sweat poured from the girl and she took in deep breaths. Before, she wouldn’t even perspire a drop, but today was different. She earned with sweat with her heart and soul.21

The instructor turned to the ballerina with a small smile, “You worked hard today. You are better than when I saw you last week. You are still not the best, of the class or otherwise, but you have showed more effort today than I had even seen before. And that is something to take pride in.”22

There was a long paused between them. Thinking that her student was still giving her the silent treatment, the instructor turned to walk out of the studio.23

“Thank you, Madame.”24

A larger smile tugged at the woman’s face before she pushed the door open and left her building.25