Bruised Ego (boyxboy)

Bruised Ego

I was clumsy as a little boy, falling off chairs, down the stairs, over my own two feet - into the path of oncoming traffic. I was always the one with the largest pile of bump notes to take home in the infants; had my own stash of plasters at hand by the end of the first term. By age five, when I still couldn't master thirty steps without a tumble, my mother took me to the doctors.

'It could be serious,' she'd say to persuade her husband that I needed to be checked out. Dad would just roll his eyes, continuing his crossword puzzle. 'What if he's got permanent damage?' She'd push. 'From when you dropped him as a baby?' This seemed to get his permission for a head scan, heaven forbid he was the cause of such clumsiness.

I remember the appointment vaguely, sitting at the edge of a padded bench covered with a roll of blue paper towels. My legs couldn't reach the ground, and I sat swinging them, hands on knobbly knees, as my mum explained to the doctor about my 'alarming incoordination and balance'. There were some toys in the corner; a lone car, plastic phone, and an abacus I was itching to get my hands on. I wanted to play with them but had been told to sit down, so instead gazed at the posters on the wall. One had a picture of ducks, yellow and smiling, and it reminded me of a song we used to sing in nursery about them all swimming away. I started to hum the tune.

'Right then,' the doctor spoke, slapping his thighs as he pushed himself up. 'Finnegan, can you show me how you walk, please.' It was an odd request for me, who didn't really see the need to show a strange man how I moved about, but I did it anyway, trudging the width of the room a couple of times. 'Okay,' he says as I finish. 'I don't think it's really anything to worry about too much, all his scans came back normal, it just appears that his coordination needs a little bit more development.'

I wasn't paying much interest in the conversation until something caught my attention. 'So, how do you think is best to help him?' My mother asked.

The doctor scrubbed a hand along his beard, thinking for a moment. 'Dance could be an excellent way to improve his balance.' He said at last. 'Maybe you should enrol him in a class, ballet would be the most beneficial.'

***
To my five-year-old self, I couldn't think of anything worse than being told I had to do ballet. I was a boy for crying out loud. 'I should be doing boy things!' I'd declared the next evening, as my mum took me along to watch my older sisters recital.

'Don't be silly, Finny' she'd sighed. 'Boys dance too.' She hadn't taken an eye off of my sister as she spoke, watching as Allison twirled a single strand of hair around her finger and giggled to a boy on the front row with her friends.

'No they don't!' I whined. 'There are no boys here.' It was true. In the crowded room, the only boys attending were the ones like me, dragged along to support their sisters.

'Honestly, Finnegan, just sit still. The performance is about to start.' Mother reprimanded. 'You should just watch it and see what you think.' So I quietened down as the lights dimmed and waited for what I was sure to be a boring two hours.

***

I was surprised to realise that I felt a curl of disappointed once the lights reappeared for the final time. 'How did you find it, Finny?' My mum asked once the applause had died down.

A grunt was my only response - but the next week, I managed to drag mother out of the house 20 minutes earlier than Allison's scheduled pick up time, and stood on tiptoes to watch through the window. This time, I did spot a boy, straying near the back, pirouetting again and again with a grace I wish I possessed.

Mother placed a hand on my shoulder, causing me to flatten my feet back to the ground. 'Shall we see if there's room for one more?'