about this day.
CHAPTER SIX
BALLET IS SUCH A UNIVERSAL, RECOGNIZABLE ART FORM THAT people always think they know more about it than they do. Iâve endured more than my fair share of goofy fathers pirouetting in place as they pretend to be me. And the guys who donât realize that theyâre the millionth person to ask where Iâve hidden my tutu. Or girls who say, with such
authority,
that they used to dance and then sheepishly admit to only taking classes for three or four years.
Ballet is my life. Iâm powerful, untouchable when Iâm out on the floor, and one day Iâll hold the titles Iâve dreamed of since I was a little girl: Soloist, then Principal Dancer. The Misty Copelands and Julie Kents and Polina Semionovas. The cream of the crop, the best of the best, the dancers
nobody
can fuck with. I started to think seriously about a professional career when I went on pointe five years ago, and thatâs when I truly realized just how few black dancers are performing in classical ballet companies. Sure, sometimes you can find them in the corps, but thatâs not the same as having your talent highlighted for everyone to see. I canât let that stop me, though. Iâll keep training as hard as I can, become such an amazing dancer that the companies will
have
to judge me based on my talent instead of my skin color. I want to be the best, plain and simple.
But today, I feel like a beginner. Iâm sluggish and the taste of bile coats my mouth and itâs affecting my dancing. Not to mention the face of Donovanâs kidnapper is everywhere I turn.
His smirk dances across the top of the barre as I stand in first position and bend my knees into a grand plié, my heels rising off the floor. I see his eyes in the mirror as I extend my leg straight behind me; they follow me around the room as I promenade in arabesque, daring me to break my slow, controlled balance. Usually, dancing calms me when Iâm upset, but those goddamned eyes wonât let me go, and Iâm starting to wish Iâd never left my bed this morning.
Donovan was found nearly 2,000 miles away with an older man, and thatâs reason enough to believe he couldâve been abused. But I canât stop thinking about how inexperienced he was when he disappeared. How scared he must have been. Iâd had sex by the time he was abducted, but neither of us knew much about anything until he found that book a few years before he was taken. We were aware of the mechanics, of course. How babies got here. We knew that kissing led to touching, which led to sex. We knew that people in our class had kissed, though having a boyfriend or girlfriend back then mostly meant holding hands at recess for a couple of days and sharing your lunch without complaining. We just didnât know about the whole âtouchingâ part and certainly nothing about how sex actually workedânot beyond the occasional glimpse of a watered-down scene on one of the shows our parents watched when we were supposed to be in bed.
But all that changed the day Donovan told me heâd found something I had to see. It was the winter of our fourth-grade year and we were in his room on a Saturday afternoon, forced indoors because of a snowstorm. I was bored at home, so Iâd bundled up in my boots and coat and walked two houses down to be bored with Donovan.
I was sitting cross-legged on the rug, paging through one of his Avengers comics, when he said, âT, I have to show you somethingâ in a low voice that promised secrets.
His door was closed, but his eyes kept darting toward it, as if someone would burst into his room at any second. We were safe. His sister, Julia, was just a baby, and she was down for her afternoon nap. Mr. Pratt was kicked back in the den with a tumbler of scotch, watching the Bulls shoot for victory, and Mrs. Pratt was in the kitchen, slicing apples for a cobbler.
Still, Donovan put a finger to his lips as
CHAPTER SIX
BALLET IS SUCH A UNIVERSAL, RECOGNIZABLE ART FORM THAT people always think they know more about it than they do. Iâve endured more than my fair share of goofy fathers pirouetting in place as they pretend to be me. And the guys who donât realize that theyâre the millionth person to ask where Iâve hidden my tutu. Or girls who say, with such
authority,
that they used to dance and then sheepishly admit to only taking classes for three or four years.
Ballet is my life. Iâm powerful, untouchable when Iâm out on the floor, and one day Iâll hold the titles Iâve dreamed of since I was a little girl: Soloist, then Principal Dancer. The Misty Copelands and Julie Kents and Polina Semionovas. The cream of the crop, the best of the best, the dancers
nobody
can fuck with. I started to think seriously about a professional career when I went on pointe five years ago, and thatâs when I truly realized just how few black dancers are performing in classical ballet companies. Sure, sometimes you can find them in the corps, but thatâs not the same as having your talent highlighted for everyone to see. I canât let that stop me, though. Iâll keep training as hard as I can, become such an amazing dancer that the companies will
have
to judge me based on my talent instead of my skin color. I want to be the best, plain and simple.
But today, I feel like a beginner. Iâm sluggish and the taste of bile coats my mouth and itâs affecting my dancing. Not to mention the face of Donovanâs kidnapper is everywhere I turn.
His smirk dances across the top of the barre as I stand in first position and bend my knees into a grand plié, my heels rising off the floor. I see his eyes in the mirror as I extend my leg straight behind me; they follow me around the room as I promenade in arabesque, daring me to break my slow, controlled balance. Usually, dancing calms me when Iâm upset, but those goddamned eyes wonât let me go, and Iâm starting to wish Iâd never left my bed this morning.
Donovan was found nearly 2,000 miles away with an older man, and thatâs reason enough to believe he couldâve been abused. But I canât stop thinking about how inexperienced he was when he disappeared. How scared he must have been. Iâd had sex by the time he was abducted, but neither of us knew much about anything until he found that book a few years before he was taken. We were aware of the mechanics, of course. How babies got here. We knew that kissing led to touching, which led to sex. We knew that people in our class had kissed, though having a boyfriend or girlfriend back then mostly meant holding hands at recess for a couple of days and sharing your lunch without complaining. We just didnât know about the whole âtouchingâ part and certainly nothing about how sex actually workedânot beyond the occasional glimpse of a watered-down scene on one of the shows our parents watched when we were supposed to be in bed.
But all that changed the day Donovan told me heâd found something I had to see. It was the winter of our fourth-grade year and we were in his room on a Saturday afternoon, forced indoors because of a snowstorm. I was bored at home, so Iâd bundled up in my boots and coat and walked two houses down to be bored with Donovan.
I was sitting cross-legged on the rug, paging through one of his Avengers comics, when he said, âT, I have to show you somethingâ in a low voice that promised secrets.
His door was closed, but his eyes kept darting toward it, as if someone would burst into his room at any second. We were safe. His sister, Julia, was just a baby, and she was down for her afternoon nap. Mr. Pratt was kicked back in the den with a tumbler of scotch, watching the Bulls shoot for victory, and Mrs. Pratt was in the kitchen, slicing apples for a cobbler.
Still, Donovan put a finger to his lips as
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