Light

The soft shuffle of feet on wood surrounds me as I go through the familiar motions of my daily routine. I carefully lean down to stretch, then reach back up towards the high, domed ceiling of the studio. Light pours into the room from the wide windows above me.

Sometimes I like to imagine I could reach out into those dusty beams and wrap the light around my hand and weave it into a new skin for myself. That I could be golden and shining and needed like the sun.

I notice my instructor staring at me and realize I have paused for a few moments too long as I stare up at the windows. I put my hands down, and curl my fingers up to my palms, carefully placing each finger so I can just barley feel soft flesh there, the light touches grounding in their simplicity. I wonder what the instructor thinks of me. I always wonder what other people are seeing when they look at me. If they see the same thing I do.

Madame DuBosque's light, accented voice calls across the room, addressing myself and the other girls.

"Positions!"

We rush over to line up like we have taught, starting the very first ballet lesson. I was only eight when I started, and now I can fall into the music and movement of my routine so easily it feels almost like I can become everything I have always been told I should be.

After so many hours, I want nothing more than to go home, where I can hide away from prying eyes. But first comes the in-between.

At the end of the session, Madame DuBosque had us line up to compare us and see if we could best the other girls in perfect form, balance, and grace. Emily against Allison, Katarina against Silvia, so on and so forth.

I was confident as I danced alongside Helena, but at the last second I turned and saw the vague outline of my mother in the dark doorway like an apparition. I stumbled, but quickly caught myself, finishing the dance and shuffling over to change to regular clothing. At first I hoped that my mother had not seen, but as she stepped further into the light, I could guess she had from the tight press of her lips.

The pinch of her face disappeared as soon as she noticed me looking, and it stretched into a plastic imitation of a smile which seemed more like a grimace. She strode over to Madam DuBosque, lightly touching her shoulder in a friendly gesture, asking how I had done.

I turned my attention away, unable to bear the pleasantries and deciding I would know whether I had done well later. If I hadn't, surely my mother and I would have a talk. If there was nothing, I would know I had done well.

As we walked towards the car, Madame DuBosque lifted a single hand high into the air in farewell, a cheerful "Au revoir!" ringing out across the lot.

I waved back and directed a half smile towards where she stood in a pool of light under one of the streetlamps. I wished I could muster the cheer to respond properly, but as I turned away and listened to the sharp clack of my mother's heels on the pavement, I knew that she probably could not see me where I was standing in the shadows, anyways.

Now my mother and I sit in silence, and I watch how the streetlights draw fleeting patterns on my skirt as we drive, the streaks of light mesmerizing me. When I look over, my mother is staring stiffly ahead, obviously pondering on how best to bring up my earlier failure. I quickly duck my head back down.

Then suddenly, she speaks, breaking the tense silence between us.

"You danced well, against that girl."

I glance up carefully. "Helena. She's good."

My mother nods tightly. "You almost fell."

It sounds like the words are being dragged from her throat. My heart stuttered, and I looked back at the jagged lines of darkness traced onto my clothing. I nod.