Once More With Feeling

Chapter 5 : Pirouette

It's not a pleasant scenario, but it is a familiar one. Me, doubled over, hugging the toilet like it's my favorite doll, vomiting my guts out.

Inevitable, though. My newest routine has sixteen pirouettes. And I've been dancing since I could walk but I still have a terribly, terribly weak stomach. I wish I didn't have to spin so much, but a ballerina who can't spin is about as much use as a wheelchair with no wheels.

It's hard to remember when and what I've eaten, I realize, flushing down the physical reminder of all my failures and standing up, wiping the sweat off my forehead. I'm run down. I'm hungry. I'm starving.

I rinse my mouth out. I keep gum in my bag and I wash my hands and try to restore some semblance of composure to my appearance. One of the first rules of ballet is that you're not allowed to break down in front of others. You cry into your arms late at night and you scream into your pillow, and you put on enough makeup so no one ever sees anything but the perfect, flawless, paragon of beauty and refinement that you are.

In the bathroom of Studio A, no one sees me cry. No one except, naturally, myself. Staring back at me in the mirror is the most unforgiving judge of all of them. Worse than the panel at competitions. Worse than Miss Suzume. Worse than the other girls I dance with who call me "Prima" behind my back and behind their hands. I'm my own worst critic. My own worst enemy.

The tears come freely when I look at myself underneath the appalling bright fluorescents. I see things about myself I resent. Things I despise. My chest aches from the tape around my breasts to bind them back. When I turn slightly, I can see the vertebrae on the back of my neck, sticking out of my skin. My skin that's too pale, almost white because when do I ever see the sun, when do I ever see anything but the polished hardwood floors and wall-length mirror? There are purple bags under my eyes and when I dance, I sweat, and when I sweat, my makeup comes off and there isn't a foundation that can get deep enough into my pores to hide that. My head throbs, a constant headache with my hair pulled up so tight all the time.

I look at this girl, at this shitshow, and I want to cry, so I cry harder. I have about three minutes here, three minutes left to hate myself before I need to get back out there. Miss Suzume won't wait forever. I need to nail those sixteen pirouettes and work on my arabesque for the finale and...

Two minutes of crying, I allow myself, before I take my hair down. Relish the fleeting moment of relief before I scoop it back up in a bun again, smooth the flyaways down until it's perfect. I splash water on my face and reapply a quick coat of ivory foundation, focusing on the bruises under my eyes. I straighten my cami and dust off my shorts, spit out my gum and smile. Freeze the tears in my eyes and force them back, because tears are weakness and I need to be strong, I need to be perfect.

And perfect is what I am when I leave the bathroom and get back into Studio A. My home away from home.

But lately it feels more like my jail cell.

Back when I was dancing in the dirt-poor studio I was brought up in, me and Ino, the other girls were my dearest friends. We did everything together. We learned. We played. And we loved each other, more than we loved dancing. It was like being brought up with eight sisters. A family.

I don't know why I expected the same thing out of KPAA, but I was sorely mistaken. Because when Ino and I got here, we saw the ugly side to dance. The hideous truth about ballet:

It's competition. 100% of the time, it's unscrupulous, merciless, ruthless, agonizing competition. You can't trust anyone, because they all smile in your face while they vie for your spot. They pretend to care about you, pretend to be your friend, but at this level of dancing, in this elite company, it's every woman for herself. And these girls I dance with would stick a knife in my back if they thought it would up their chances at the next competition.