"You're going on soon, dear, extend through the arabesques, don't forget to spot. Don't."
She kissed my forehead as I rolled through my feet in my stiff, new pointe shoes, hearing the applause from the previous performance right before mine, ringing around the cold, tall walls backstage. The lights from onstage are blindingly bright, but backstage still seems to be very, very dark, despite the light seeping its way through the enormous velvet curtains. It's also dark, considering that you would be seen by the audience if you approached the light too closely.
My heart was racing, these performances were for the American Institute of Rising Ballet, which is basically an organization that scholarships and hires young, upcoming dancers to companies, whether in the U.S. or abroad. Although I do many of these competitions throughout the year, this may be my chance. It depends on how perfectly my performance goes.
As I prepare to go onstage, I run through the entire dance on superspeed in my head. Then I close my eyes, and breathe to wring out my lungs. Whoo. Checking my tiara and white tutu, I reassure myself once again. I'm already sweating, I'm ready to go. Adrenaline pounds. My mind clears as the wood from my boxes "bok, bok, bok." quietly as I ballet-run on. I strike my first pose, with my stage smile on at the judges. Here we go.
All a flash, I bow, extending through my right leg tendu, hopefully convincing the judges even more of my performance being superior. I run gracefully off, again hearing "bok, bok" and the deafening applause. Feeling my ribcage cave in everytime I gasped for a new breath, I ran from backstage through the halls to meet my instructor Victor and my mother.
"You remembered to spot! Good good! Okay, okay, okay, just bevel more in back attitude, just remember that." My mother spat all this out anxiously as I sprinted up to her. Victor was waiting there with a clean black button-up shirt, slicked back raven hair, and massive arms that were crossed sternly. I prepared myself for some ritual after-performance criticism.
"Just as we rehearsed, nice job, nice job. Don't forget about your face, smile. emote. During the fouttes, EXTEND! Do that all next time. Good." He patted my fragile, sweaty back on my way back to the dressing room to get my dance bag. Yanking my ribbons and shoes off, stuffing my bobby pins back in my bag, and shaking out my wavy, auburn hair, I observe all the proud parents embracing their little ballerinas and ballet danseurs as soon as they leave backstage. It made me smile.
"Chop chop! We have to go back so you can sleep for tomorrow! For review!" My mother always forces me to continue the training week after a performance or competition, no matter what the day. Victor clapped his strong hands to aid my mother in their attempt to rush me out the door. Leaving the room filled with settled hairspray fragrance, and running outside to the windy night and feeling chill, I ran ahead of my mother and Victor because of my sheer adrenaline. But in all honesty, I was ready to plop onto my bed and pass out.
As we get home, my mother plopped the keys onto the marble kitchen counter, and I just settle into a wooden chair. I don't feel like moving, despite the sticky makeup and annoying fake eyelashes I still have on.
"Tired?" She asked.
"Very much."
"Don't forget to stretch tonight."
"I just want to sleep."
"No. Arya, you must stretch. I won't let you sleep until you stretch."
"Mother, what about just one night? Please, I'm very tired,and-"
"Arya, no. You must not fall out of the routine; you skip one night, you start saying that more and more. The next thing you know, you aren't stretching anymore!"
"Yes, mother."
She never wants me to break routine, she worries that I'll just forget everything. I don't complain, it keeps her happy and me more flexible to get better. But she does certainly worry a great deal if I fall out of my routine; maybe she is worried for some reason for me, or maybe it is just for herself that she wants routine. I don't know.
After I showered, I grabbed my theraband and trudged into the kitchen. She was filling out bills to pay Victor for private lessons. I kissed her on her brown-gray hair, pulled neatly into a bun.
"Goodnight, mother."
She continued with her work.
