Letters from Anonymous

Lazy, Lazy, Lazy

I slowly make my way down the stairs and see my mom give me a concerned smile.

"You feeling alright this morning?"

I nod. "Yea. Just a little sleepy, that's all."

She's eyeing me carefully, so I go along with my usual routine and pour myself a bowl gluten free cereal with soy milk, sitting down at the head of the table. I take small bites, chewing thoroughly to please her. She worries about me a lot more than she should.

In all honesty, I'm like just about every other 17, soon to be 18, year old girl. Looking at colleges, dreaming about the perfect life, and chasing the ideal career. I want to be a famous dancer, and although I hate to brag, I can say that I'm good. Actually, better than good. Some say I'm brilliant, but like I said, I don't like to brag.

I've been dancing since age five and I love it even more than I did then. It's like having a sibling in a way. You learn to love and appreciate it more as you get used to it. Eventually, it becomes a part of you, living in your very soul. It's suddenly in the way you speak, the way you move, in the way you think, and the way you act. It shapes you.

Now, don't get me wrong. I do love dancing more than anything else. But sometimes it can be exhausting. Three days a week, five hours each can really put a number on you when you're as sleepy as me. I can do all the things, but lately I've been feeling... more off than usual. So I get tired quicker.

I don't know. Probably just stress.

My mom looks at me with a big smile on her face. I love it when she smiles. She lights up the world like nobody else, (1D reference, ooooooooohhhhhhhhh), and the crinkles by her eyes, (ohhhhh two in one) dance endlessly.

"Sweetie, I have to go to work soon and I'll need the car. So if you want, you could walk to the studio, get a ride, or I could drop you off half an hour early."

I raise an eyebrow. When my dad died, we were left with two cars. I guess we've gotten so used to it over the last eight years that since it broke down, we haven't been living the usual way. A lot of carpooling, crazy walking, and more stress.

Also another reason why I could be so tired.

I pour myself a glass of orange juice and take a tiny sip. "I can call Jane, she can give me a ride."

My mom says, nodding, "Sounds like a plan, Stan."

I grin and finish my cereal hastily before rinsing out my bowl at the kitchen sink. I urgently text Jane to ask for a ride, to which she repiles, 'Of course.'

I rush to get ready, brushing my teeth roughly and putting up my hair in a sleek, mousse-covered bun. I slip on my dance clothes with lightening speed and pull a summer dress over my head.

Pause.

I suppose that before I get into more detail, I should tell you a few more things about myself. Number one: I'm a directioner, which is mainly all I write about in my stories. Number two, and most important: my name is Trina. And third, I absolutely love mousse. I'm not sure whether it's the smell, the texture, the handiness, or the way you can squirt it out of the can, the fact is, it's my best friend.

Continue.

I suddenly hear Jane, who also happens to be my best friend, lean into the horn in her car.

Shoot, I think to myself. We're going to be late.

I practically skip 50% of the steps on the staircase, and run out the door barefoot, ballet shoes in hand. Jane is tapping her wrist urgently and rolling her eyes at me.

As I open the door she stares at me, waiting for an apology. I, being as flustered as I am, don't catch on for a couple seconds. She motions for me to go on.

"Well?!"

Finally, I snap myself out of it. "Oh! Sorry, babe. I'm just... really tired."

She sighs. "I get it. We all have those days."

I lean back in the passenger's seat and instantly doze off, but it's not before long that Jane shakes me awake.

"Hey! Sleeping Beauty! Wakey wakey!"

My eyes flutter open. "What? Huh?"

"Come on, we're late!"

The studio holds ten teenage girls, including Jane and I, and one other boy, named Leeroy. I'm almost positive he's gay, and he's not a very good dancer either. I don't mind the gay part, but he's always in the way.

When we started our warm ups, I knew something was off right away. And before I realize it, I'm crashing to the hardwood floor, all eyes on me. The last image I see, is the eyes of every dancer in the room, watching me in fright, and my teacher swooping over me, like a fly on day old garbage.