The Kiss

It.

No doubt you're going to ask me about Chloe. Let me just start by saying she didn't know anything. Zip. Nil. Nada. Maybe I should have told her. Maybe if I had, she would still be my friend. I guess part of me was trying to protect her. But mostly I was just scared. 

We met pretty soon after I got to the ALDC. I got put in tap and hip-hop, like I'd wanted, and Ms. Abby had insisted on ballet too. That's where I met Chloe. She was so pretty. The best in the class. I was all feet and clumsiness in ballet. She always told me I was good, but I knew better. Still, it was nice to be lied to that way.

One day, when I was in my first month at the ALDC, Chloe fell down and skinned her knee. Nothing major, but she cried. I gave her a hug and a tissue from my dance bag. Just like that, we were friends. I miss that friendship more than anything.

Things were normal then, mostly. I was still scared of Ms. Abby, but I learned quick that if I I payed attention and didn't make stupid mistakes, she wasn't so bad. So I bit my lip and concentrated, studying the teachers' feet and doing my best to copy them. 

I really did love to dance. I still do, truly. I love the way my body does crazy things, like aerials and scorpions and all this stuff that humans weren't really designed to do. I love how I can spin and spin until all that exists is me and the stage lights and the one place on the far wall I use for spotting. I love leaving class tired and achy, my muscles wobbly with exhaustion, my hair hanging limp and sweaty on my forehead. It seems like a funny thing to love, but if you're a dancer, you'll know just what I mean. It's probably the same with anything you really love to do. You learn to love every single part of it. 

Well, almost every part. 

I guess you want to know when it changed. I'm not totally sure. I know when it happened, obviously. I just don't know if it was always there in her mind. If it was fate. Was she thinking about it the day I walked into the studio? Was she planning it all along? Maybe by the time I was six, I was just smart enough to start seeing what was already there. But it wasn't really there. That's what made it so hard. It's like a dark spot that flits at the edge of your vision, and when you turn your head to look, it's gone. You could have sworn it was there. But you can't prove it. 

To anyone else, it probably looked normal. Maybe a little more affection than the rest of the girls got. An extra squeeze of my shoulder. An extra word of praise. The mothers began to toss around the word "favoritism," playing with it like a ball you're not allowed to drop on the floor. As soon as one mom let it go, the others started. I still remember the glares. I was always being watched, and hated. 

Luckily my friends didn't seem to care. Not then, at least. 

It happened when I was seven. I was trying on a new costume for Ms. Abby. Her hand...moved. That's all I want to say about that. But it was the start of my own personal hell. I quickly learned that the word "no" was met with a slap and the threat of a broken ankle "so that you'll never dance again." Crying was for my pillow, but she seemed to like the taste of tears. I began to move through the days like a zombie. I begged to leave the studio. 

My mom told Ms. Abby. That was the last time I said anything to anyone. 

By the time the cameras rolled in for Dance Moms, I had changed. I had to, to survive. I believed the things Abby whispered, about how she loved me, how I was special. I learned to stand still. I learned to cry only into my pillow. 

Abby changed too. She got bolder. Meaner. More insistent that I give her what she want. More quick with punishments too. The power of the show went to her head. 

I was terrified. I remember the first day they filmed, I was so upset trying to figure out if the cameramen would discover my secret that I ended up getting sick and bursting into tears. For only the second time in my life, I asked my mom if I could go home. I knew the answer, though.  

Sometimes I wonder just how much my mom knew. I always thought she was just clueless. You know, not the brightest bulb in the box. That sort of thing. But sometimes I wonder. Abby kept getting so much more reckless, like she couldn't be caught. She'd apply makeup on my arms and legs, stroke my hair, sit me on her lap in public. When I look back at those first couple seasons of the show, I can see how pale I was. How sick I felt. How scared. 

I know I said that I've never watched the show. That's a lie. I've watched it over and over again, looking for signs. Wondering when I lost each piece of myself. Innocence. Honesty. Kindness. Strength. 

I sit on the carpet at home, my chin on my knees, staring at the screen as I rewind and fast forward. There was so much there to see. 

Do you see it now?