On Sturdy Legs

Down and Dancing

As I had agreed, I did go to this therapy group. Molly was quite eager to take me as party of motherly duties I guessed. Even still, I was able to wave her away well enough. The dance studio it took place at was the same one that Elle had her ballet class at. I had no problem finding it and was actually glad to enter it.

Since dance was apparently more of a nine to five commitment, the place was pretty empty after hours with the exception of a janitor who was waxing the floor in one of the rooms and politely motioned me to the room at the end of the hall when I stuck my head in. It would have been a very dirty lie if I had the words to invent a story about how eager I was--terrified may have been a better word. Therapy was therapy and I would walk in to find people more fucked up than me or less fucked up than me; either way, it could be disastrous. And at a dance studio, there was no way in hell that I would believe there wasn't some dance involved. And I couldn't dance. That ability was limited to waltzing around the dance floor at the base ball and doing that jumpy hand holding thing with the boys I went to school dates with. Maybe that had something to do with why those relationships went nowhere. I was content in my ability not to dance.

I supposed that I could have left and made some excuse about being lost and walked around until it was the proper time to return. I also supposed that that would be terribly chicken of me and as a girl who was ready--no, determined--to eventually face heavy fire overseas, a therapy dance group couldn't be too bad. I was brave enough for that. And if I discovered that I wasn't, most terrorist deals worked out only because the negotiator was faking it. I could just fake it as well.

I glanced through the glass rectangle in the door to see that there were indeed people in the room; not the matching ballerinas either which was comforting. More sure that I was in the right place and not too much out of place, I opened the door--a door that needed oiling and desperately. And all eyes were on me in an instant.

"Is this the therapy group?" I felt compelled to ask since that was the sort of thing that people did.

The first person to speak and the first person to rise was a skinny boy with chunky glasses, tight black pants like leggings and an equally tight white shirt that was actually tucked into those leggings. He ran over to me like an excited puppy and had no qualms about throwing both arms around my middle and hugging me. He came up somewhere around my collar bone since he was so small.

"I'm Scott," he introduced himself when he decided that was enough hugging and danced back with a little hopping movement that made me think of chihuahuas. "Welcome to group."

"Ari," I introduced myself with uncertainly so audible in my voice that it hurt. The room had four other people in it, none of whom I recognized. That was clearly about to change; Scott was taking on the initiative in introducing us all.

"Stretching by the mirror is Annie," he indicated a painfully thin girl with skin that looked like it had never seen sun.

I wanted to flinch at the sharp angles of her face that had no smoothness and even more violent reveal of her ribs, collar bones, and hips that stood out so much that they resembled can openers. She was wearing a full ballerina outfit with a baby blue leotard, white tights, the weird pink shoes, and a sweater with a tie in the front to keep her warm--she didn't have enough fat to do that. At the mention of her name, she looked like a deer in the headlights for the briefest second but dropped that and waved me me with one skeletal hand. I waved back.

"Displaying the PDA is Jemisha and Kendyll," he indicated a pair of girls that were so close they were in danger of merging into one person.

The girl on the floor with the other in her lap dark skin and straightened black hair at least down to her hips which contained a streak of red. She was beautiful; her probably girlfriend had good taste. I assumed she was Kendyll, wearing a pair of camouflage sweats with the tight legs and baggy crotch--the kind I really didn't understand; the big, chunky sneakers of a vicious red that had no signs of previous use on them; and a cropped hoodie that was hitched a little higher considering that she had the big boob problem. I couldn't quite make out this slogan on the hoodie but judging by the bright neon, it was something sassy.