where the light is. // l.h. au

. t w o .

"We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to have the life that's waiting for us." - E.M. Foster

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The barre was warm and damp under the touch of my sweaty palm.

"Shoulders relaxed,"

My eyes wandered around the room. Everyone was dressed the same. Black leotards, pink tights, pointe shoes working to suspend our bodies above the ground.

"Minds focused,"

My toes throbbed with the same ache as my weight relied on their power. My right foot shifted uncomfortably for a moment of relief. I hoped it had gone unnoticeable.

"Feet over-arched and on full pointe. Yes, I'm talking to you, Wren."

I let out a quiet huff and resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

"One minute more. We do this balance for five minutes every day! Why does it seem to get worse and worse?" Her voice grinded irritably into my head.

No one answered, the same way no one ever says anything to the rude, annoying, monotonous, rhetorical questions. My eyes darted across the room to the warm, dark brown eyes of Sarah. She was already looking at me.

She huffed, rolling her eyes and fighting back a smirk. Her stare left mine momentarily as the teacher passed her barre, a fake blank expression covering her features. The teacher passed, and Sarah's eyes drew to her small plump figure as she walked away, her mouth silently shaping the word "biiiiiiitch." She looked back at me, her smile no longer being fought on her face.

I tore back a laugh and looked away, glad I had at least one friend here that agreed with me.

The boring music of the piano came to a slow stop.

"Aaaaaaaand come down."

The whole room stifled sighs of relief as we came down from the painful full pointe relevé. My arches instantly cramped up and much like many others in the room I massaged my foot. I rubbed slow circles across the ball, then the heel, and finally the arch through the stiff fabric of my pointe shoes of both feet.

I stood up straight and found myself in the mirror. My slender frame was clad in what you would imagine a ballerina to wear. My long dark hair was tamed into a shiny, slick bun and only a couple swipes of mascara were supporting my lashes. My long feet stuck straight out from my ankles, turned out permanently from the lifestyle I chose.

I drew a breath and savored this short time of quietness in the room. There was no music; the only small noise being little small talk across the barres. My eyes dropped closed at the thought of the early hour it was and I leaned a little against the wooden barre.

"Listen up."

The stern voice once again filled my ears, and my eyes shot open.

"We will be having..." My instructors voice sounded actually a little happy for once, "a guest choreographer coming in tomorrow."

My eyes widened, my heart rate quickened, and my thought raced. A guest choreographer only meant one thing to a dancer: a new casting opportunity.

In the world of professional dance, it's literally make or break. You don't bring in much cash from not being cast in anything; heck, before you make a company, you have to pay to audition. The only way to make a living as a dancer is to be in productions. Our studio does them every once in awhile, but since we're automatically cast into them we don't get paid as much. Guest choreographers are our chance at getting noticed for something even bigger, and also our chance at making decent money for all the hard work that the majority of us have been doing for as long as we could walk.