Karma

Gas

A birds nest of light brown hair, highlighted by the sun but darkened by grease, hazel eyes with very visible bags, little plump lips chapped beyond repair.

This is the appearance of a girl trying to get through one of the best dance colleges there is while working three jobs and side gigs in a crappy old apartment shes about 5 weeks overdue rent on thanks to a new pair of pointe shoes and the Smiths getting a new babysitter.

I sighed dramatically as I got in the shower for the first time in an embarrassing length of time. I wish I felt the embarrassment, judged myself a little, cared even a tiny bit, but I am truly past the point. I'm getting clean now what's the difference.

I scrubbed my tired and aching body. My arms from pouring drinks, my legs from serving tables, my feet from the heels, my back from lifting boxes. And the whole damn lot from dancing.

That being said I would have to drive, no will to get up and travel from job to job by subway with stuffy air and creepy men without it. The only hope in my mind was dance, so I pushed myself harder.

I stepped out and caught my reflection once more. Improved, but still not ideal. I raked a comb through my irritatingly thick hair before tying it up off my face. I applied about six layers of lip balm and washed my face twice. I felt somewhat more alive and finally went to sleep. I rolled over to check my alarm was still on. Hmm. 2:37. I'd be awake again in 4 hours and 23 minutes to start again.

I arrived at the studio at 8:15 feeling relatively fresh after a coffee that wasn't as stale and cold as usual. "Dylan! You're late! Again!" I scrambled to finish the tie on my pointe shoe. "It's 8:15 Miss Kate!" My fingers slipped over the ribbons as I felt myself rush even more. "Exactly Dylan! We start at 8:15 and you were not here 41 seconds ago! Get to the bar!"

I fought the eye roll because Miss Kate was my best chance at ever getting out of this life, I scuttled as gracefully as possible to the bar with the other girls. "Nice of you to show up." I heard Nancy say with a grin and a wink at me as Miss Kate lectured a girl near the front for her subpar bun. Nancy was the kind of ballerina you immediately associate with the word. She had a thin face, sharp cheekbones and piercing blue eyes. A tall stick thin body including a flat chest and blond hair, straight as a pin. With the waves in my hair, the curves on my body and my lack of height next to her I felt a little out of place.

Despite not really having the classic figure for ballet like Nancy did, I still excelled as a child, my further strengths lying in other genres of dance of course. Ballet was good for me, my posture my legs my flexibility my feet all of which I had ballet to thank for.

Not that it was an easy journey, starting at the tender age of three, my mother put me in classes as a rebellious young toddler, hoping they would sophisticate me and make me appropriate to present the the outside world.

She was no saint, my mother, no warm cuddly woman that made soft chocolate cookies and full proof promises. But she was my mother and she raised me to be strong and to depend only on myself.

I certainly couldn't count on her as the priest buried her behind the village church.

I almost cringed at myself for the cliche I sounded like in my head, moaning on about my mother when she died twelve years ago. I shook off my persisting thoughts and focussed on the exercise at the bar, my ankles pushing over the pointe shoe that wasn't broken in yet, my upper thighs shaking as they struggled to maintain my turnout at a continued, my core tensed as I balanced.

For other people home is the place they grew up, or the place they share with a loved one, or maybe a person, or a city. But this, for me, the pain as my muscles adapt to my movement in the familiar stretch and ache, this is home . Constant, comforting and consistent in existence.

Emotions aside, ballet exercises get tedious remarkably quickly, I found myself aching for contemporary or modern or even musical theatre. I didn't particularly like the style but at least I didn't have to wear a leotard and that's a win.

I wolfed down a sandwich from the cafeteria almost immediately after the downed and discarded bottle of water. "Oh before you leave Dylan, will I see you for Mr. Jays class tomorrow?" Nancys question was good natured, she didn't know why I wasn't going to that class and she had simply been wandering. This is what I had to repeat in my head to avoid getting irritated and short.

"Oh, no, I can't. See you on Friday for contemporary Nancy."

I was out of there clutching my dance bag tightly before I could wait for a reply from Nancy. Probably a sweet "oh why not?" Or an angelic "See you then!"

I had work. I checked the time, 10:30. My shift started at 11. I felt my legs pick up the pace as I navigated through the busy street and briefcases hitting against my legs, the owners engaged in their phone with stern looks and deep frown lines. I couldn't go to Mr. Jays class, there was no way I would ever go and I wasn't going to pretend for a second that I could.

That unravelled a neat package from my past i would like to remain firmly sealed.

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Cam xoxo