Almost Friends

Chapter 13- Kyle

Chapter Thirteen

Kyle

Meagan's Advice

I'm an overachiever. That's how I became the dancer that I am today. It had nothing to do with natural talent and everything to do with striving for perfection.

Now, as a bead of sweat inches down my neck, I watch E strive for perfection and hit the nail on the head. She assumes a flawless side straddle split stretch.

"Good job, E!" Ms. Thomas, our dance teacher, calls as she paces the studio, observing us. "Keep holding that position, ladies! Fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen ..."

E's entire body forms a lowercase l, her legs on either side of her in a perfectly straight line. She leans right, stretches her left arm high above her head, and lets her fingertips touch her right ankle. E's only taken dance since her freshman year, but she's already better than me. It's like her body was created for this kind of torture.

I, meanwhile, exhale and lean into my stretch while my forearms tremble and my thigh muscles ache. I practiced with Ms. Thomas all summer, but I still can't relate to the effortlessness with which E moves. If I didn't know she lived in a trailer park with a stripper mother and convict father, I'd be completely jealous of her.

"Kyle, full attention on your movements please." Ms. Thomas' voice snaps me out of my thoughts and I turn away from E to focus on our warm-up.

"... and twenty. Nice job, ladies. Move it to the center now," Ms. Thomas says. Relieved, I take a deep breath and, like all twelve of the other dancers in my class, arch my back as I stretch forward. But my body is in protest-mode; my heart pounds and I can hardly breathe.

"Nice. Hold it for twenty. And one, two ..."

Sweat pours from my forehead and Ms. Thomas' counting seems to go on forever. I hate feeling like this—so out of control. It's as if my body's decided to rebel against the very notion of functioning properly. Eating something would probably help, but I can't. Yesterday I had those crackers and I have no intention of making a repetition of that today.

"... and twenty. Very Good." Ms. Thomas claps her hands. "Let's get to our feet."

A hand over my racing heart, I push myself up from the floor.

"That felt so good! I'm just now realizing how much I missed dance over the summer," a girl behind me whispers.

"I know, right?" E quietly replies.

Annoyed with their happy-go-lucky tones (and with myself for being too weak to feel anything even remotely related to happy-go-lucky) I roll my eyes and wipe the sweat from my brow. With this, I turn my attention to Ms. Thomas. Her thin arms are at her side and her posture is perfect as her dark eyes sweep the classroom before settling on me. She frowns. "Where's Mia?"

"I don't know." I shrug. "I haven't seen her all day."

"Can you text her to see if she's coming?" Ms. Thomas asks.

"I just sent her a text a few minutes before class," I say. "She didn't answer."

Ms. Thomas shakes her head and lifts both of her hands in a rather elegant gesture of helplessness. Anyone else who did this would look overdramatic, but not Ms. Thomas. Every movement she makes is graceful. Rail-thin and tall, at about 5'8", with short burgundy hair that's shaped into a small fro, Ms. Thomas is the most elegant teacher at South Louisiana High. Today, she wears gold leggings with a bright red and gold halter top that shows off her toned six-pack. The only way she can get away with wearing something so revealing is because dance is considered an after-school extracurricular activity. I glance at her perfectly toned abs and run a hand over my own stomach.