Author's Note:
**DISCLAIMER: I MEAN NO OFFENCE TO ANY GAY PEOPLE READING THIS. RICARDO'S GAYNESS IS EXTREMELY EXAGGERATED; AGAIN I MEAN NO OFFENSE.**
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“Come on in girlies! Go ahead and warm up!” A gay sounding voice called.
“Ricardo? Ricky Bear?” I exclaimed, shocked to see my old teacher.
“Kitty Coo!” He ran over to me and planted two air kisses on both sides of my face. “Long time no see!”
“Long time no see to you too!” I laughed, patting him on the cheek.
“Girl, where. Have. You. Been?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Around I guess.” I shrugged.
“How come you’re here?” I questioned.
“Um, excuse me, I work here.” He said sassily and then laughed. Well, giggled would be the correct term. “But in all seriousness, I’ve been working here since you left my out of school classes in hopes you’d maybe come back.”
I was touched by what he’d done, and appalled at my how dense I was. After three years of him working here I never noticed? I thought I knew every teacher.
“They never bothered to put me on the faculty list. Lazy pricks.” He said, reading my mind.
I laughed, and something clicked into place. “So you’re telling me when I was walking in the hallway all those times, thinking I was hallucinating, it was really you there saying ‘Come back to dance, I have cupcakes’?”
“You know it, girl.”
I laughed for the third time and sighed. I missed dance so much. After I’d quit, I watched Dance Moms and ate ice cream on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, the day’s in which I would normally have dance practice.
“Why did you quit! We missed you!” He asked concernedly. I dreaded the day I’d have to answer this question, but I knew it was inevitable.
Three years ago, nine months post friendship.
“Katrina, you’ve missed eleven practices, a recital, finished seven gallons of ice cream gained about twenty pounds, and have watched one too many seasons of Dance Moms!” Gram argued, snatching the remote out of my hand and switching off the TV.
I didn’t answer and just stared at the blank screen, taking bite after bite of ice cream.
“Wait. Are you pregnant?”
That’s when I lost it. My eyes widened in shock and terror. “No!” I squeaked, my voice raising several pitches.
“Who’s the father? Who’s the father? It’s Cameron isn’t it? I know you like him!”
“First off, no the father isn’t Cameron, Second, I am not preggo, third, how did you know I like--” I blush and pause. “Or may not like Cameron.”
I glare at Gram’s ‘I-know-you-like-him-spill-the-deets-girl’ look and turn away.
“Besides, I know he’ll never like me back.”
“He will, he must, or I’ll make him. KAMRINA IS REAL!”
I roll my eyes and smile as Gram starts doing a weird dance/jig/thing.
“See! You smiled!”
I rolled my eyes again and turned away.
“Where’s that gratitude attitude?” Gram scolded playfully.
I bury my face in the nearest pillow and cringe as she sings the ‘Gratitude Attitude’ song.
“Please stop, my ears are burning.” I complain into the pillow.
“What was that?” She asked innocently, singing louder.
“MY. EARS. ARE. BURNING.” I screamed.
She stop singing and chuckled. “Get dressed, we need to go somewhere.” She gave me a little nudge.
I was used to her saying this randomly, because she would sometimes have an emergency interview, or a new client, so I thought nothing of it at the time.
I lug myself off the couch and stretch. “Only if you promise not to sing that godforsaken song in the car.”
“No promises.” She said with a wink.
I shudder and go upstairs to change and get ready.
*****
“Where are we going.”
“You’ll see when we get there.” Gram says. She then locks my seatbelt so I can’t get out.
“Why did you lock my seatbelt? Are you trying to kill me? ARE YOU SECRETLY A PEDOPHILE!?!?” I clutch the door and move away from her.
“Yes. I am a pedophile.” She says drily.
“Hey, where’s that gratitude attitude.” I chide her, waggling my index finger back and forth.
She laughs and shakes her head. “Katrina Marie Shaymin what am I going to do with you.”
“Love me because I’m adorable.” I bat my eyelashes and pull my best baby face.
She snorted when she glanced at me in her mirror. “Dream on.”
I laughed and checked my phone for any new texts from Cameron or Sarai. But mostly Cameron.
“We’re here.” Gram announced.
I looked up, and my heart dropped to my stomach. Studio 7 Dance, the horrible neon lights flashed, blinding the reader temporarily.
All traces of the previous bubbly mood had been washed down the drain. The car was filled with a tense silence, and I gripped my phone tighter.
“Please no.” I whimpered.
“You wanted to quit. You have missed dance for a little over two weeks and I’m sure they’re worried since you haven’t formally quit or sent anything explaining your absence.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I can’t, I just, I--” I started hyperventilating. Even more so when I snuck a glance at the glowing sign.
“Go inside and say you quit.”
“I CAN’T!” I cried, sobbing ungracefully. “THEY’LL HATE ME AND THINK I’M WEAK AND PATHETIC.”
“Then don’t quit.” She said softly.
I sniffled and shook my head, thinking of the torture of seeing Colette in dance. For the seven times I went to dance this month, Colette purposely stepped on my feel, shoved me and sneered every time I messed up a move.
I could stand teasing at school, but at dance also? It was too much. I shook my head again. “No. I quit. I quit. I quit.”
“Then go inside and say you quit.”
“Please dont make me.” I murmur, looking at her with a look of desperation.
She scrutinizes me, looking at my puffy, red face, my tear-stained cheeks, my runny nose and the pleading look in my eyes.
“Fine.” She shrugs disappointedly and opens her door, grabbing her Chanel purse on the way out. “but I have a feeling this is about more than ‘focusing oh school’. You are an exceptional student, even with dance in your life.”
She shuts the door and and walks inside, and I feel so alone. I look through the window at the animated conversation they are having, and I see Ricardo and many of the girls have melancholy looks on their faces.
Colette was smirking at me through window and I pressed my back into the leather seat. Amindeera, a girl who always hated me and glared at me wore a triumphant look on her face.
Suddenly, Gram points to me through the window and all the girls turn to look at me. Some had disappointed looks, some had sad smiles, and Ricardo had a mix of both. Everyone except Amindeera and Colette. I shrank down in my seat, humiliated beyond words.
Soon all the girls turned away, unable to bear looking at me any more. After a few more minutes, Gram reappeared and opened her door. “It’s done.”
That was when it hit me; this was it. My final farewell. I’d never come back to this studio. Never do the secret handshake with the team. Never dance at a competition. Never call Ricardo ‘Ricky bear’. Never get another dance trophy. Never get a swell of pride as I was congratulated. Never dance with the girls on my dance team. Never get the exhilarating feeling I’d get when I dance. Never. Never. Never. I would never dance again.
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Author's Note:
**MY CAMP NANOWRIMO ACCOUNT IS @wanderlustdreamer**
This was actually supposed to be WAY longer. Like over two thousand words. But it's going to be twelve in an hour and I can't finish by then, so I split this. The next chapter and A/N will be pre-written. Sorry this was an UNINTENTIONAL filler. It was supposed to be so much better, but alas, I cannot type fast enough to finish everything I want to say in less than an hour. At least it was 1,247 words, right? This is unedited, by the way (obviously, lol). My eyes are too tired from looking at a screen for eight hours straight (literally, I skipped dinner. But obviously I didn't spend all my time at the computer writing. That would be sad if I couldn't write two thousand words in eight hours) for me to make this A/N longer.
Comment what your reaction would be to Gram's news,
Vote if you think Gram is funny; she's supposed to be the comic relief in this,
and Follow to fantasize about Unicornitopia with me!
- Elle ♥
P.S. EYES. HURTING. SO. MUCH.
P.P.S. I'm getting glasses soon O-O. So now I'll be a brace-face AND a four eyes. Great.
f a c t o f t h e c h a p t e r: I did not plan on this chapter mostly being a flashback.
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