Bad For You

two

"No one should be awake at this ungodly hour," Hannah gripes as we pull into the school parking lot. "No one."

She shuts off the engine and I climb out, retrieving my duffel bag from the back seat.

"Are you going to the music room to practice?"

"No. I'm going to the library so I can find a quiet corner and sleep until first period," Hannah yawns and starts walking away. "Good luck!" she calls over her shoulder.

Hiking my bag over my shoulder I make my way toward the dance studio. Cold air nips at my skin.. Winters in Michigan were brutal. No matter how many layers I wore, the cold somehow found a way to seep past the cotton and fur, chilling my bones.

As usual the studio is empty when I arrive. Good. One of the main reasons I come this early to practice is because I'm alone. It's easier to dance when nobody's watching, scrutinizing and critiquing your every move. In the dressing room I change into my leotard and tights before putting on my new pointe shoes. Normally I would warm up in my ballet slippers, but I need to break my new shoes in. After tying my hair into a ponytail I grab my phone and make my way back into the studio, connecting my it to  the speakers.

I start by warming up on the barre, performing a series of stretches. Knee bend. High fifth. Rond de jambe. Plié bend and stretch. Raised tuck. I move into a tendu warm up, dégages, and frappes. After I'm warmed up I walk on demi-pointe for awhile, rolling into full pointe. It stings, but like everything else that comes with ballet I'm used to it. I learned a long time that dancing en pointe would never feel truly comfortable.

With a sigh I drop back flat onto my feet and walk over to my phone to change the music. I should practice the routine for my recital. That's what my mother would expect of me. It is what she expects of me.

Yet it's not what I do.

I scroll through my playlist and select Elastic Heart. It's rare that I dance for enjoyment. Dancing lost its shine a long time ago when it became clear it was no longer about fun but perfection. After that, every breath I took, every move I made, was carefully calculated. I became numb to it all. All I knew was that I had to be the best.

There was no room for enjoyment.

But in these private moments, when no is watching, I dance for myself. And it's in these private moments where just for a few minuets ballet is no longer about being the greatest. I can dance freely. There's no pressure on my shoulders, no suffocating fear of letting my mother down or becoming a failure.

There's just me. The music. And dance.

I spin and leap around the room, each movement pushing the boundaries of my muscle strength and flexibility. As the music reaches a crescendo I begin to pirouette, alternating between raising my arms above my head or to my sides. I spin and spin, never stopping until the music ends. Then I collapse in a heap on the floor, breathing heavily.

The sound of someone slow clapping echoes throughout the room.

Startled, I look up. A boy is leaning against the studio doorway, a paintbrush tucked behind his ear. His dark hair falls haphazardly across his face and sticks up in all sorts of directions, like he just woke up and rolled out of bed. He has on black jeans and a black t-shirt that stretches tight across his chest and highlights his tall, lean frame. Swirls of colorful ink adorn both his arms. I lift my eyes up to his face. It's weird to describe a boy as beautiful, but well, he is. It's like someone took the the time to carefully craft his face, from the sharp shape of his jawline, to his nose, chin, and eyes, which are a pale green.