ONE
Chrissy
I shoved my ballet shoes in the small backpack and beelined for the door, late for my allotted time slot at the dance studio. I’d been up all night, and my eyes ached and head hurt. I’d finally had to switch off my phone to stop the incoming calls from Chad, my asshole ex.
We’d broken up six weeks ago after a year of on and off squabbling, and I hadn’t heard from him since. Until I’d left my job teaching first graders at the local elementary one night and spied him at the bar, hands and lips all over another girl. I’d never been more relieved that I’d made the decision not to sleep with him. Now that I had distance, I could see that I’d been searching for something he could never provide—mainly unconditional love and precious devotion. Chad had always disregarded my feelings, even pressuring me to sleep with him because “a twenty-two year-old virgin is a joke.” That comment had sent me over the edge. Giving him the most intimate part of myself didn’t feel right, something had always been missing. My heart hurt now for the the girl that had ached to find love and searched in all the wrong places. But it was so lonely watching your friends marry and have sweet, little babies, feeling like you were never good enough to deserve that, secretly pining for the only boy that had ever made you feel special even though he’d left almost six years ago.
So when I’d seen Chad locking lips with a stranger, I’d already hardened my heart to his callous treatment of me. But I’d averted my eyes a moment too late, his blurry gaze announcing he was probably more than a few drams of whiskey in. I’d hurried on, but within ten minutes, my phone had blown up with calls and text messages from him. I'm sorry you saw that. I miss you. She means nothing. I’d rolled my eyes as each one came in, ignored them, and after three hours of it, I’d finally shut my phone and hidden it in my nightstand. No sleazy ex-boyfriends for me. Or ever again.
I was done with men who made me feel as though I didn’t matter. Time and again I had chosen poorly, maybe because I didn’t think anyone of worth would find me worthwhile. But I knew now that being ugly didn't mean they could treat me like trash. I was tired of always finishing last. I wanted someone who wanted me and only me. I wanted what my parents had.
I pulled a thick sweater over my leotard, sprinted out the front door, and darted around the corner and down the main street of my small Midwestern town. Population 2,159 according to the decaying sign at the town line. I shivered, thinking I should have worn more than just my leggings and leotard for the short walk to the studio. The Minnesota spring breeze was nipping at my cheeks and adding an extra spur to my step. I had just one hour a week of private time at the dance studio, and I was already late. This time was so precious because I was alone, just me and the music.
I’d taken up dancing just in the last year, finding it helped calm my nerves and provided a little exercise, something that didn’t hurt considering I was about forty pounds overweight, with heavy breasts that accentuated my nipped-in waist and wide hips. I didn’t have a ballet dancer’s body, not by a long shot, and it’d taken everything in me to work up the courage to take that first class, offered at a discount for school faculty.
But I’d sucked in a deep breath, searched all night for a leotard that came in a size twelve and didn’t make me feel like sausage crammed in a black casing, and shown up on the first clade of class. The rest was history.
Chad had thought it funny when I first started, mocking my classes and skipping the performance at the end of the year. I didn’t care. I wasn’t dancing for him. In truth, I liked keeping this one thing just for me, all to myself. My escape.
I rounded the last corner and ducked into the dance studio. I grinned as soon as I stepped through the doors, the wide
Chrissy
I shoved my ballet shoes in the small backpack and beelined for the door, late for my allotted time slot at the dance studio. I’d been up all night, and my eyes ached and head hurt. I’d finally had to switch off my phone to stop the incoming calls from Chad, my asshole ex.
We’d broken up six weeks ago after a year of on and off squabbling, and I hadn’t heard from him since. Until I’d left my job teaching first graders at the local elementary one night and spied him at the bar, hands and lips all over another girl. I’d never been more relieved that I’d made the decision not to sleep with him. Now that I had distance, I could see that I’d been searching for something he could never provide—mainly unconditional love and precious devotion. Chad had always disregarded my feelings, even pressuring me to sleep with him because “a twenty-two year-old virgin is a joke.” That comment had sent me over the edge. Giving him the most intimate part of myself didn’t feel right, something had always been missing. My heart hurt now for the the girl that had ached to find love and searched in all the wrong places. But it was so lonely watching your friends marry and have sweet, little babies, feeling like you were never good enough to deserve that, secretly pining for the only boy that had ever made you feel special even though he’d left almost six years ago.
So when I’d seen Chad locking lips with a stranger, I’d already hardened my heart to his callous treatment of me. But I’d averted my eyes a moment too late, his blurry gaze announcing he was probably more than a few drams of whiskey in. I’d hurried on, but within ten minutes, my phone had blown up with calls and text messages from him. I'm sorry you saw that. I miss you. She means nothing. I’d rolled my eyes as each one came in, ignored them, and after three hours of it, I’d finally shut my phone and hidden it in my nightstand. No sleazy ex-boyfriends for me. Or ever again.
I was done with men who made me feel as though I didn’t matter. Time and again I had chosen poorly, maybe because I didn’t think anyone of worth would find me worthwhile. But I knew now that being ugly didn't mean they could treat me like trash. I was tired of always finishing last. I wanted someone who wanted me and only me. I wanted what my parents had.
I pulled a thick sweater over my leotard, sprinted out the front door, and darted around the corner and down the main street of my small Midwestern town. Population 2,159 according to the decaying sign at the town line. I shivered, thinking I should have worn more than just my leggings and leotard for the short walk to the studio. The Minnesota spring breeze was nipping at my cheeks and adding an extra spur to my step. I had just one hour a week of private time at the dance studio, and I was already late. This time was so precious because I was alone, just me and the music.
I’d taken up dancing just in the last year, finding it helped calm my nerves and provided a little exercise, something that didn’t hurt considering I was about forty pounds overweight, with heavy breasts that accentuated my nipped-in waist and wide hips. I didn’t have a ballet dancer’s body, not by a long shot, and it’d taken everything in me to work up the courage to take that first class, offered at a discount for school faculty.
But I’d sucked in a deep breath, searched all night for a leotard that came in a size twelve and didn’t make me feel like sausage crammed in a black casing, and shown up on the first clade of class. The rest was history.
Chad had thought it funny when I first started, mocking my classes and skipping the performance at the end of the year. I didn’t care. I wasn’t dancing for him. In truth, I liked keeping this one thing just for me, all to myself. My escape.
I rounded the last corner and ducked into the dance studio. I grinned as soon as I stepped through the doors, the wide
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