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Chapter 2

"No no no, wait, I'm here!"

"Too late."

My lungs are seizing and burning from running. By the time I reach my motorcycle, he has already put a fine on it. "Come on, man, I'm broke. You're killing me!"

"Sorry. Gotta make my own money."

The cop, barely my age, walks away. And I stop for a second, close my eyes, and try not to freak out. I just paid my last fine yesterday, and it hit my wallet hard. I'm losing track of all my fines. Some are from a year ago, and some keep getting bigger because I can't pay them.

Whatever. Life's kicking me again. That's nothing new.

I sit on the bike and try to start it, although, I ignored the check engine light for too long, and destiny decided this is the perfect moment for my bike—my only way to get to work and class—to give up.

The engine rattles and dies. I try again. And again, but it just rattles down each time. "Fuck!" I slam my hand against the dashboard. People walking past glance at me like I just lost my mind. 

Why does life hate me?

I stop. I run a hand through my hair and take a deep breath. In. And out. Goddammit. What do you even do in a situation like this? Get a loan? Debt counseling? No time. Borrow money? No friends. How do I get a lot of money fast? Maybe...

Ew. Did I seriously just consider prostituting myself? How low have I sunk?

I know that the money would be a big help for me. But of course, I would never admit that. I would never let myself be that vulnerable. I convince myself that I like my life the way it is now. What a joke. The only time I actually like my life is when I'm either drunk enough not to notice how bad my situation is, or...

When I dance.

It's always refreshing to step into the cool hall and let off steam. The room is spacious enough for everything I can't do in my small one-room apartment. And once I enter it, all my problems are erased—the only thing that matters is how I move my body.

I'm the first one here today, improvising a bit or dancing some choreography I already know until more of my students arrive. Some follow my lead while others are actually familiar with the steps. Some just run a few laps to warm up.

Training always makes me feel like I have my life under control. Or at least one part of it. The moments when you give everything, full power, at something you know you're good at—when you walk out of the studio, all sweaty, exhausted, happy, and satisfied, and the cool night air dries your sweat—those are the moments I live for.

Knowing that I make money doing something that brings me so much joy is amazing. Let's ignore the fact that this money isn't even close to enough to live on. I don't think about the fact that tomorrow I'll have to go back to my main job, which isn't necessarily bad but would never make me feel this good. A job that takes away all my time and mental health.

On our way out, Robin, one of my best dancers (also the only girl I know who you can actually be friends with after breaking up) hands me a brochure. She tells me it's about a dance competition in our city, which is so big it's even being broadcasted on TV. The top three groups will receive prize money of at least one thousand pounds. And even if we fail, we could at least expand our reach because it's being broadcasted.

"That's awesome!" I say, excited about the idea. "Where can we register?"

"Here's the problem," Michelle, Robin's best friend, says. "There's a registration fee and the tickets for competitors are really expensive."

"How much?" The two girls look at each other and hesitate. "How much?" I ask again. "Maybe we can gather the money somehow. Everyone can chip in."

"It's a hundred pounds for registration, thirty-five for tickets per person."

"A hundred?" I ask in shock. "Jesus, what the hell?"

"They probably want groups to participate that are already successful and can afford it," Robin says, chewing her fingernails. I suppress the urge to push her hand away. She used to chew until she bled. "Which makes me want to participate even more. Can you imagine how much attention we could get from this competition?"

"What if we split the amount?"

"One ticket per person is already thirty-five. Plus this? We have students in our group."

"We could borrow some money?" Michelle suggests. "We can figure out how to repay it later. And if we win, the problem's solved anyway."

"That would be irresponsible. We can't just assume we'll win," I say.

"Then that's it? We're not competing?"

"When's the deadline?"

"In a week."

"Impossible," Michelle says.

I try to find a way. Honestly, this amount of prize money would save my ass, and not only that—god, how much I want to be seen for what I'm actually good at. Maybe even make a living from it. Our group consists of nine members. A hundred divided by nine plus thirty-five... "Everyone would have to pay forty-six pounds."

"That's absolutely crazy."

For a desperate second, the man I met the other night flashes through my mind again. Two hundred pounds. That's a lot of money. But I'd have to... I shake my head. I wouldn't go that far just for a silly competition. I have more important things to worry about than my dreams. Like surviving.

"It's a shame," Michelle sighs disappointedly. "It sounded really good. I thought this would be our chance to finally get closer to our goal of renting our own studio."

And I could give up my full-time job and only work in the studio... "Yeah, it's disappointing," I sigh into the night. "I'm sorry, girls."