⎼⎼⎼ 𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖋𝖊𝖈𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓 ➵ 𝑏.𝑓.

047

mikki

i hate this.

i actually despise my solo.

have you ever tried to carry a vintage camera? it's so heavy, you could use it to lift weights. the solo wasn't competitive, the choreography was rushed, too quick. maybe it was just me, because everyone else seemed to love it. then there were the imaginary people. if i had to motion one more person into frame, i was going to scream. and the film! abby had a 'genius idea' for me to use a roll of film as a ribbon at the very end. the thing about that is that plastic doesn't flutter like a ribbon. it doesn't work.

the gym mat squeaked under my leg as i shifted my weight, burying my face in my head. a headache was pulling its way through my brain. i felt the foam press down next to me and saw brady sit next to me.

"you ok?"

i just stared at him. he gave me a look of understanding and sighed deeply.

"are you ok?"

"i'm dancing blindfolded."

"at least you have a dance."

"what do you mean?"

"my solo's awful."

"no, it's not."

"it's so rushed, it's not thought through. i can't even do half the steps in time."

"shut up, your dance is amazing. it's very competitive," brady said, rubbing his arms.

"i'm competing against pressley, who has great character, and you, who has amazing technical ability and you don't have to worry about expression. what chance do i have at dancing at nationals? don't answer, i have none."

"mikki." he glared at me. the ferocity almost made me shift away, but i stared back. "you are such a good dancer, but you don't give yourself enough credit."

"i was talking to connor the other day-"

"oh."

"-he said the same thing."

"did he."

"he also said to say hi to you."

"tell him i say hi."

we sat in a slightly stony silence. one of the producers sneezed loudly outside, and something fell over with a resounding crash.

⤎⎼༌·⋱🩰⋰⋆༌⎼⤏

paris was having difficulty keeping up again. it didn't help that this dance was so technically heavy and fast paced. we all were a bit of a mess. arms were everywhere, legs at different angles. we needed to get it together, or we'd all be ashes.

"alright, we're at a competition in pittsburgh this weekend," abby reminded us, yet again, "so you have to win."

we climbed onto the bus in slightly cold silence. none of us were really prepared.

⤎⎼༌·⋱🩰⋰⋆༌⎼⤏

"sarah!" hannah had pressed her face against the window, her face a picture of shock.

"what?" several other people peered out the glass. and there she was, holding a fluffy brown jacket, her blonde hair shining. we couldn't get off the bus fast enough. everyone piled on top of her, screaming and smiling and laughing.

our moms had to ruin the moment. ashley sniped at michelle as we headed into the building. it continued in the dressing room.

"i'm going to worry about the soloists," abby said as she came in. "you are vying for the win. you are vying for a solo at nationals."

as if that wasn't abundantly clear.

"brady, you have a disadvantage. not only are you blindfolded, but you don't get to make the connection with the judges that pressley and mikki get to make. it could be epic if you nail it, but you have to nail the dancing. this routine could challenge lilliana's straitjacket number.

"pressley, what's your routine about?"

"i'm a peaceful protester that's protesting for women's rights."

"mikki."

i looked at her.

"what am i expecting from you?"

i swallowed, the word stuck in my throat. it had been hanging over my head, whispering in my ear, piercing every flaw i had.

"perfection."

"that's right. this is the week before nationals. i'm only planning on doing two solos, one of them is lilliana. the second spot is up for grabs. you've been on a stage before, you've told a story before, you've done all different types of dance. make this one count. make it matter. be amazing."

⤎⎼༌·⋱🩰⋰⋆༌⎼⤏

"this is number 903, eyes on me."

brady was incredible. he had us all on the edge of our seats, breathless and wanting more. the way he danced was fluid, strong. but he lacked connection. i felt like we were watching him in from the outside, rather than being inside the experience.

"this is number 901, flowerchild."

pressley was incredible. she danced with a sweetness and soulful confidence i had never seen before. all she did was raw, beautiful and direct. true, she didn't have brady's technical ability, but she had reached out to us and given us her all.

"this is number 877, the moment."

i was not so incredible. i tried to forget, tried to lose myself, tried to stop thinking about perfection. but there it was, haunting me through the dance on the faces of invisible bodies. in the flash of the camera and rolls and rolls of empty film.

and when i looked at the judges, i had only one thought in my mind.

please. let me win. i need this.

the music ended and the cheering began.