With the help of a smooth-talking cowboy, a broken ballerina battles physical and emotional trauma to get back to the barre, and maybe find love in the process.
No more daily routines.
No more barre warm-ups.
And no more ballet.
After a devastating...
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1,2,3
1...2...3
3:00 a.m.
ADOLPHE ADAM'S SCORE CHIMES TO LIFE from my phone alarm and my mind fills with the mad scene from Giselle.
I yawn as my feet touch the cool wood floor and it whines when my full weight presses down on it. Gliding over to the bathroom, I begin my morning ritual.
1. Brush my teeth for a full minute then whiten them with my homemade remedy.
2. Wash my face and hands with soap.
3. Split my long ebony hair down the middle, French braiding each side and pulling it up into a tight bun with no wisps escaping.
I walk back into my room where there's not a speck of dust anywhere. It's pleasing to see that last week's deep clean is still lasting.
Rocking from heel to toe, I tiptoe to the dresser grabbing my light pink ballet tights. I pull up the thick cotton spandex that clings to my legs with my blistered hammer toes poking out. Slipping on the high neck leotard, the cold air tickles my skin from the open back. As I stretch my body, the skintight wardrobe stretches along with me.
Perfect.
I slide on my flats, pick up my pointe shoes, and head toward the kitchen to make my spinach and kale smoothie. The sound of the blender fills my entire studio apartment as I hum the song from my alarm. Glancing around, the quiet settles into my bones.
I have no family pictures displayed in pretty frames, the bare walls desperately need a touch of Joanna Gaines's magic, and every inch of the space looks as if it's staged for a showing. There's no life, no comfort... no anything.
All I do is wake up, dance, come home, maybe binge-watch something, then sleep.
I pour the unappealing green concoction into my giant cup and head for the door. I wrap myself in my long coat and twist my scarf around my neck three times, then exit checking the brass doorknob three times to make sure it's locked. I jog to the subway, jumping onto the one heading to the street the ballet company is on. Before I do though, I rock back and forth, heel to toe three times.
I've worked tediously my entire life and pushed myself to my limits, and it would seem to onlookers as if my life fits perfectly together. Yet... this seamless world is nothing but crumbs at my broken feet.
All I want is to mean something... to someone.
It isn't long before I am pushing open the creaking doors, the strong lemon-scented cleaning chemicals burning my nose. Something about that lemony acidic smell makes me cringe every time.
Once I am in the rehearsal room, I strip off my coat and scarf. Walking over to the music station, I switch on the same score that had chimed on my phone this morning.
