White Dress- A LGBTQ Song Fic

White Dress

It's Monday.

Mondays can burn for all I care.

But I know it's just a day that eventually ends and six other, better days later I'm back to another Monday.

Mondays aren't good days for me. Sure, everybody dislikes them, but I reserve a special hatred for them. I'm sleep deprived every day of the week except for the weekends, but Monday it's the worst because I've had enough sleep for the previous two days and suddenly my body has to go back to running on six hours. Of course coffee exists, but I hate the taste and I can't drive to Starbucks because I'm fourteen. I also probably shouldn't be allowed to have a car when I'm sixteen anyway, since I'd drive far away and start a brand new life in California.

I want to, even need to get away. My parents, bless them, don't know my toxic secret and I couldn't imagine if they found out. They want grandchildren, not the aromantic/asexual child that they gave birth to. I'm proud to be me, but I hide. My father and his "Jewish values" state that I must use my body to create another life form I don't want to care for and I don't even want to have sex in the first place. My mother, my clueless mother, thinking I'm fine, everything is going smoothly. The school homecoming dance is in two weeks and all she does is ask when I'm going to get a boy to bring me on his arm to the stupid dance. I don't want one, don't need one. I'd rather go with friends.

But it's Monday, and I can reflect on my sexuality later. I have bigger problems, after all. I pull on my tights that are such a light pink they might as well be white. The contast of the black leotard that goes on would look amazing, if I loved the way it hugged my body. Dancers are supposed to be rail-thin, graceful and perfect. Somehow, when people ask about my hobbies I still use that word- dancer- to describe myself, when I'm not any of those adjectives. But I can shy away from the mirror, grab my bag, and head down the to car and head to class.

I'm self-conscious standing at the barre, making small talk with someone who I don't even think I could call a friend. Everyone around me is so beautiful. Yes, I'm not attracted to anyone but I can still appreciate the simple grace of a human body. I'm confident in my sexuality, and that's about it.

"Straighten your knees!"

"Turn out your feet!"

"Beat beat out, now that's the rhythm for a fouette turn!"

The instructor is just doing her job, but each time she let's out a barking correction it hurts. I want to dance, just not like this. I want it to be free, and empowering but the commands rip me from that reality I want to grasp. But no matter how it shouldn't, it hurts.

My mother must be pissed, but even if she wanted to say something as I stepped into her car she couldn't. Earbuds in, you can't talk to me. She left a pair of heels in the space between my seat and the dashboard, along with some weird black thing that looks like those paper fans I made as a kid. The solid gray seat, covered in general dark soot is great to somewhat sink into and pray for her to just hit the pedal and get me home. I need out of this tight leotard, out of these tights, and out of this constricting image I built around myself.

The car ride is silent. The Horrible Kids EP is blasting in my ears simply to block out any noise, but I'm not paying attention. I'm just trying to sit through the ten minute drive so I can get home, dim my lights, and pretend today never happened. School was fine, but stressful nonetheless. I walk around with a brick wall built around myself so nobody has a reason to stare. But against my wishes, there's the pain in the back of my throat that I get when I'm trying not to cry.

My father's football is playing on the television as I walk in. The score is 0-0 so I leave without a second glance. Why I thought it paint my walls yellow when I was five I would like to know, but hey, it's my room. My bag slides down my shoulder like a waterfall to the ground and I strip. Taking off a leotard without noticing your body is like trying to shave without looking. It works, but it sure is awkward. My arms look too large for the delicate garment so I'm happy to replace the skin tight ensemble for a comfy tank top, pajama pants and a marching band hoodie- black of course. I've developed the skill of being able to change clothes with earbuds in and I'm proud of it.