Getting Back into the Act

I walked into the dance room and instantly felt like I was making a mistake. I hadn't had been in a dance room since the accident.
"Welcome! My name is Lola! I'll be the instructor for today's limited mobility Zumba class. What's your name?"
"Zoë. Zoë is my name," I said softly before I lost all my confidence.
"Hi Zoë, your ballet teacher told me you might be coming by. I'm so sorry about your leg. I hope it isn't bothering you too much," Lola said while glancing down at my leg that was completely covered in yoga pants.
She was probably looking for the nasty scars.
"It's not hurting too much anymore," I lied, "I'm just hoping to get back into the act of dancing."
"Very well, we'll wait for the few latecomers and then start the class.
I started stretching as the latecomers arrived. The more people that showed up, the stupider I felt for wearing long pants. Everyone else was wearing short shorts or Capri leggings.
I tried not to look into the mirror at the front of the room, or the barres pushed to the side walls. It was all too much for me. A strong sense of déjà vu brought me back to the Dance Academy's year two dance room.
. . .
"Zoë! Check your lines!" Mrs. Miller yelled at me. "Back on arabesque."
I heard the girl behind me snicker, her perfume so strong it was giving me a headache. 'Wannabe' I thought to my self.
I prepared my self again, standing with my supporting leg under me, foot turned out. Arms out balancing me, fingers correctly positioned. I lifted my left leg, as far as it could go, directly behind me.
Once I was at the perfect 180 degree angle, Mrs. Miller said, "Good, Zoë. Now en pointe."
Taking a deep breath, I prepared my toes for the pressure. Bending my knee the slightest bit, I lifted myself onto the toe of my shoe.
Except I didn't straiten my knee.
. . .
Cringing at the memory, I caved and looked into the mirror.
My curly brown hair tied up into a perfect ballerina bun. My purple leotard, covered by my long yours pants. Me feet covered by Nikes.
That's what everyone else sees. They don't see the scar that runs from the top on my knee to my ankle caused by the surgery. They don't see the blisters acne crocked toes. No one sees my hard work.
"Okay class! Let's get started!" Lola yelled step in to the front of the room, blocking my reflection.

The doctor walking into the room with my newest x-Rays. He held the up to the light board on the wall so everyone in the room could see.
"See here how the bone and cartilage are in line?" He asked while looking to me.
I was sitting on the table/bed thing that all the parents get to sit on. It was uncomfortable, and the paper made loud noises whenever I moved.
"That's exactly what we want." The doctor said while moving his gaze to my parents and ballet teacher sitting on the comfy, black leather couch.
"That's good!" My mom said in a hopeful, high pitched voice.
"Yes," the doctor chuckled.
"Good, good. When can she start dancing again?" Mrs. Miller asked, her voice showing no emotion, as usual.
"Zoë's physical trainer will be able to tell up a more accurate estimation, but I say with in the next month or two."
My dad nodded in approval. My mom clapped. Mrs. Miller's lips straitened into a line.
"You will be able to dance again, Zoë."

. . .
THE END