thing to piss her off.
Brielle glares at Rachel. “It’s a fucking barre. Get over it.”
“It’s a fucking boy. Get over it,” Rachel throws back. She stands there awkwardly for a second before she gives up and walks to another section of the barre.
Brielle drops to her butt in front of her own spot and sticks her legs out in front of her in a stretch, directly in Rachel’s path. Rachel’s toe hooks Brielle’s foot and she pitches forward onto the ground.
Rachel’s hands skid out in front of her and she cries out as she makes impact. She stays on the floor for a couple seconds before she pulls herself onto her knees. She turns to Brielle, her mouth open, and I brace myself for the string of curse words to follow.
But Adam rushes up behind her and grabs her arm to pull her up to her feet. “You should really be more careful. You don’t want to hurt yourself on the first day of real class.” He gives her a little shove away from us to get her moving again. She pauses, staring Brielle down, and for a second, I think she’s going to lunge at her. But she doesn’t and I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Your friend-making skills astound me,” Adam says.
I can’t help my smirk at his comment. It’s absolutely true.
Brielle crosses her arms over her chest. “She started it. What are you even doing here? Last time I checked, you’re not a girl.”
“I was just passing through on my way to the boys’ studio. I should go.” He waves and heads toward the door.
“Later,” Brielle says.
“Try to behave,” he yells over his shoulder.
“Yes, sir.” She salutes him.
I put all my energy into tying the ribbons on my pointe shoes, tucking in the bow on the inside of my ankle. If I focus on every single movement as I make it, I don’t have to think about how my life is falling apart. And I don’t have to worry about how I’ll make it through the semester with a partner when one bad lift could end my career. My fragile hip won’t come back from another injury.
I know my limits, but I don’t expect anyone else to learn them, or trust anyone not to push them.
A woman I recognize from last week walks into the room and conversation quiets around me. Her platinum blond hair is styled in a pixie cut. Her black leotard and sweater stand out against her pale white skin. She doesn’t look like she’s stepped outside in the L. A. sun in the past year.
She walks to the front of the room and turns to watch us get ready for class. The remaining girls trickle into the studio. Only one space is open on the twelve-person barre. Girls around me warm up their feet and stretch in their shoes. I lift my leg onto the higher level on the barre and lean against my leg. Rachel whispers to the girl next to her, Courtney, and they both glare at Brielle and then at me.
I ignore them. Brielle flips them off.
After about five minutes of watching us stretch, the teacher steps forward. “Ladies, welcome to your advanced ballet technique class. My name is Miss Laney. You will be required to wear pointe shoes for every practice. Even though we are a contemporary school, you need to maintain proper technique. Understood?”
The girls around me nod.
“Good. Let’s begin. Spread out on the barre and make sure you have enough space. We’re going to start with two demi pliés and a grand plié in first, second, and fifth positions, relevé in fifth position, hold for a count of eight and turn to the other side.”
Soft piano notes drift from the speakers as the music starts. I push down on the tips of my toes one at a time. I haven’t worn my pointe shoes as frequently here as I did in New York, but that’s enough to make the skin on my feet less resistant to the unforgiving stiff blocks. I rest my hand lightly on the barre, careful not to wrap my thumb around it. Standing with my feet together, I open them at the toes, my heels glued together. My hips turn out and my feet stop just before they reach 180 degrees.
Everything
Brielle glares at Rachel. “It’s a fucking barre. Get over it.”
“It’s a fucking boy. Get over it,” Rachel throws back. She stands there awkwardly for a second before she gives up and walks to another section of the barre.
Brielle drops to her butt in front of her own spot and sticks her legs out in front of her in a stretch, directly in Rachel’s path. Rachel’s toe hooks Brielle’s foot and she pitches forward onto the ground.
Rachel’s hands skid out in front of her and she cries out as she makes impact. She stays on the floor for a couple seconds before she pulls herself onto her knees. She turns to Brielle, her mouth open, and I brace myself for the string of curse words to follow.
But Adam rushes up behind her and grabs her arm to pull her up to her feet. “You should really be more careful. You don’t want to hurt yourself on the first day of real class.” He gives her a little shove away from us to get her moving again. She pauses, staring Brielle down, and for a second, I think she’s going to lunge at her. But she doesn’t and I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Your friend-making skills astound me,” Adam says.
I can’t help my smirk at his comment. It’s absolutely true.
Brielle crosses her arms over her chest. “She started it. What are you even doing here? Last time I checked, you’re not a girl.”
“I was just passing through on my way to the boys’ studio. I should go.” He waves and heads toward the door.
“Later,” Brielle says.
“Try to behave,” he yells over his shoulder.
“Yes, sir.” She salutes him.
I put all my energy into tying the ribbons on my pointe shoes, tucking in the bow on the inside of my ankle. If I focus on every single movement as I make it, I don’t have to think about how my life is falling apart. And I don’t have to worry about how I’ll make it through the semester with a partner when one bad lift could end my career. My fragile hip won’t come back from another injury.
I know my limits, but I don’t expect anyone else to learn them, or trust anyone not to push them.
A woman I recognize from last week walks into the room and conversation quiets around me. Her platinum blond hair is styled in a pixie cut. Her black leotard and sweater stand out against her pale white skin. She doesn’t look like she’s stepped outside in the L. A. sun in the past year.
She walks to the front of the room and turns to watch us get ready for class. The remaining girls trickle into the studio. Only one space is open on the twelve-person barre. Girls around me warm up their feet and stretch in their shoes. I lift my leg onto the higher level on the barre and lean against my leg. Rachel whispers to the girl next to her, Courtney, and they both glare at Brielle and then at me.
I ignore them. Brielle flips them off.
After about five minutes of watching us stretch, the teacher steps forward. “Ladies, welcome to your advanced ballet technique class. My name is Miss Laney. You will be required to wear pointe shoes for every practice. Even though we are a contemporary school, you need to maintain proper technique. Understood?”
The girls around me nod.
“Good. Let’s begin. Spread out on the barre and make sure you have enough space. We’re going to start with two demi pliés and a grand plié in first, second, and fifth positions, relevé in fifth position, hold for a count of eight and turn to the other side.”
Soft piano notes drift from the speakers as the music starts. I push down on the tips of my toes one at a time. I haven’t worn my pointe shoes as frequently here as I did in New York, but that’s enough to make the skin on my feet less resistant to the unforgiving stiff blocks. I rest my hand lightly on the barre, careful not to wrap my thumb around it. Standing with my feet together, I open them at the toes, my heels glued together. My hips turn out and my feet stop just before they reach 180 degrees.
Everything
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