1
“Stop freaking out. You’ve got this, Aisha.”
Michaela’s voice cuts through the jittery, jumbled thoughts that have me pinned in place in front of my dresser mirror. When I glance at her across my tiny dorm room, her dark eyes are fixed on me, daring me to disagree.
Inhaling deeply, I sink to the floor. The faint chemical musk of carpet cleaner fills my nose. My heartbeat starts to slow down as I contort myself into a split, pressing down hard on my calves.
“You’re right. I worked my ass off last week.”
“Exactly.” Michaela’s still focused on me, looking as effortlessly confident as always. “Warner had to have noticed. You’re definitely scoring an apprenticeship spot.”
“We’ll see. Wish me luck.”
Jumping up, I cross my room in a few steps. I tap my chest once before tapping hers. My fingers glide off the glossy magazine poster of Michaela DePrince tacked to the wall above my desk next to my Misty Copeland and Raven Wilkinson posters. I tap Misty and Raven next.
Michaela’s airborne form, poised gracefully in a grand jeté, is physics-defying. A pattern of tiny vitiligo spots is a beautiful explosion of sparks across her deep brown skin. My own skin is a similar shade but slightly darker.
“Sweetie, remember what I said about staying out of the sun!” My mom calls out as I skip into the kitchen from the backyard. My shoulders stiffen, but I pretend not to hear her as I twirl my iridescent pink Sailor Moon wand, watching it glimmer in the sunlight.
Snapping out of the memory, I find myself still staring at the poster. Looking away, my face grows warm like someone is witnessing this, even though I’m alone.
It’s pretty sad that I’ve had a variation of this same fake conversation every morning for the last three years. But being almost friendless forces you to get creative.
I would definitely be completely friendless if Neil knew about my little morning ritual.
“I get that you love Michaela. But it’s just a stupid poster, Ish.” I can almost hear his snorting laugh.
I’m somehow annoyed even imagining Neil saying that. Which is dumb. I should stick to being annoyed with him about something he actually did—missing our weekly virtual dance party last night. I stayed up way too late waiting for him to call, but he must have fallen asleep early.
All right, here we go. Time to stop zoning out and talking to myself like a freak.
I grab my hoodie off the back of my desk chair and wrap it securely around my waist over my leotard. Straightening my spine, I perfect my posture, arranging my face in a placid expression fit for public consumption. Wouldn’t want to scare anyone faint of heart with my natural resting bitch face.
Taking a final deep breath, I step out of the warmth of my room into the cool, hushed hallway. The rubber soles of my knitted boots squeak against the sparkling floor.
I squint my eyes almost shut. The rising sun peeking out from the towering crop of evergreens behind the dorms is way too bright through the empty hall’s floor-to-ceiling windows.
A door clicks open behind me, and I quickly rummage around in my dance bag for my headphones. Tchaikovsky drifts gently into my ears, and I focus on mentally running through today’s choreo. I visualize myself doing my chaîné turns effortlessly, my turnout flawless as the music swells.
I’m brought back to the present by someone shouldering past me, bumping me off balance from behind. Gritting my teeth for a moment, I force my face back into its unbothered position as I look up from my phone. It’s Stephanie, not even stopping to apologize as she books it toward the washroom, her toiletry basket swinging wildly behind her.
Oh, no worries, Steph. I’m all good. Containing a sharp glare, I keep moving toward the studio.
Almost everyone is gathered by the windows when I get there. Taking my usual spot close to the door, I don’t look up from my phone even as I feel their eyes on me.
There’s some faint whispering, followed by the familiar sharp peal of laughter from Noelle. It always reminds me of the sound a cat would make if someone mistakenly stepped on its tail. There are some quieter giggles from her friends, and I turn my music up, a fury of strings drowning them out. I concentrate on changing into my pointe shoes.
Usually, summer vacation is a much-needed break from Noelle and the rest of the girls but not this year. Everyone else in our level is gone for the summer; there are just ten of us here for the final intensive.
Only five of us are going to move forward to the apprenticeship program at the Western Canadian Ballet, the major company that’s partnered with my school. The program starts next week, once the school year is back in session. We’ve been in the studio all of August—today’s our very last day.
I’m trying not to freak out about it too much, but this is the biggest opportunity I’ve had since Neil and I placed in the Youth American Grand Prix.
But that was almost exactly three years ago—basically a lifetime in ballet. This apprenticeship is my last chance to get back on track with potentially scoring a contract with a respected company.
The Western Canadian Ballet is as good as it’ll get for me now. I try not to think too much about what could have been—what should have been. I try not to picture what it would have been like if Neil and I won YAGP scholarships to the School of American Ballet, the number one ballet school in North America. SAB is where we always planned to go when we were kids. We worked endless hours preparing for that before—
Squeezing my eyes closed, I shake my head. I can’t do anything about the past now. All I can do is focus on nailing today.
Madame Warner enters, and everyone scrambles to their feet to take their places at the barre. Stephanie bolts in a second afterward and takes her spot, flanking Noelle. Warner puckers her wrinkled face, and Stephanie mutters an apology.
Warner turns on the music, and we begin warming up at the barre, starting with our pliés. I settle into my usual rhythm, studying my form carefully in the mirror as I move through the positions, bending my knees so they’re exactly over my toes. Warner’s voice slowly transforms into the voice of my first dance teacher, Madame Dmitriyev. That always happens when I’m in the zone; her deep, throaty voice keeping me in perfect time, yelling out the eight-count in Russian.
Close to the end of class, I feel eyes on me again, and I realize Warner has paused right in front of me. Which she’s never done before.
She claps twice, and we all freeze. Her gaze remains fixed on me, and my stomach drops straight to my bowels.
Biting the inside of my cheek, I prepare myself to be reamed out for my form.
Tuck your zadnitsa! Madame D.’s voice reverberates in my brain from beyond the grave. I can almost feel the light tap of her cane on my butt, and I resist the urge to flinch.
“Let’s see you solo,” Warner says, and I blink at her. It takes me a moment to register the meaning of her words.
Earth to Aisha. This is it. This is your shot.
I manage a nod and force my shaking legs to move toward the front of the room. Sweat drips down the back of my neck.
I start, keeping my arms graceful and light as I lift them into my first position. I kick my front foot forward and up, my extended toe soaring toward the ceiling.
There’s no way in hell I’m going to mess this up—not after everything. I’ve imagined this moment thousands of times. And now my daydreams are somehow bleeding into reality.
Letting go, my body fully awakens, and muscle memory sets in. My chaîné turns are perfectly executed as I float across the room in perfect time with the music. For a moment, I wonder if this is just another vivid fantasy, but when the music and my body stop as one, my heart rams against my ribcage so hard I know I can’t be making this up.
Warner’s studying me. The room is so silent I can hear birds trilling to each other from the woods outside the window.
Turning to the rest of the class, she lifts a finger in my direction. “That’s what I want to see.”
I can’t help the grin that takes over my face. She’s been stingy with praise all summer. Warner turns and faces me again; her eyes run the length of my body. She takes in my pink tights and pointe shoes—a stark contrast to my deep complexion. She says nothing to me, but her thoughts are as clear as day in her eyes.
What a shame.
The realization hits me with a sickening thud, leaving me breathless. It doesn’t matter how closely I followed the choreo. Even though my movements were cuttingly precise, even though my figure—besides my overgrown legs and hips—matches the rest of the girls, my skin never will.
Warner looks away and swivels on her heel as she heads toward the door. “The apprenticeship list is posted in the locker room.”
I walk back to my spot by the door with my head held high, consciously keeping my face as expressionless as possible as the other girls shoot me side-eyed glances. I swallow down the acidic rage sprouting within me.
Stay cool. Just stay cool. Grabbing my headphones, I switch from calming Tchaikovsky to my loudest playlist, electric guitars wailing in relentless riffs. I shut my eyes and make myself focus on some winding down stretches.
When everyone else has headed into the locker room, I slowly get to my feet. The sickly-sweet strawberry flavored meal replacement shake I forced down first thing this morning sloshes violently in my stomach.
You don’t know for sure what Warner was thinking. You can’t know for sure. You’re being paranoid.
I push open the locker room door and glance at the list on the bulletin board. My name isn’t there.
Okay. So I definitely read Warner’s face correctly.
A squeezing knot forms in my throat. I manage to take in a full breath, tinged with the classic locker room mix of mildew and body odor.
I want to throw myself on the floor and scream, but I keep perfectly still. This was my very last chance; this was the only way I would ever be able to get anywhere decent with my ballet career—
Keep it together.
I collapse onto a bench near my locker, facing away from the other girls. With a flick of my wrist, I sweep some stray braids back into my bun and start untying my pointe shoes.
The tip of my left shoe is a deep crimson. When I get it off, the bandage on my big toe is soaked through. I grab a new bandage and unwrap the old one, discovering what’s left of my toenail barely hanging on. Bracing myself, I rip it off.
I think of pain in levels since I’m always in it, my muscles perpetually aching. Losing a toenail usually cuts through the background pain for a sharp moment, but the wince that crosses my face is only a reflex.
I feel absolutely nothing.
My pulse speeds up to a vibrating hum, and the fluorescent overhead lights start to weave and bob erratically. All sensation in my feet fades, but it’s not like normal pins and needles. It’s like my nerve endings have all been snipped at once.
A locker door slams, and the room comes back into focus. I run a hand over my sweaty face and rewrap my toe as tightly as I can, fresh blood seeping through the new dressing.
The girls’ voices fade and then they’re gone, leaving me alone in the locker room. The bone-deep numbness in my feet spreads up my ankles and then my legs before it races through me. Erasing me.
I untether from myself like a ghostly apparition. Somehow, I’m now staring into my own dark eyes, as lifeless as a propped-up doll’s.
The utter strangeness of this jars me back into my body again. I bite my tongue to keep from yelling out.
What the hell is happening to me?
Trembling, I get to my feet and throw on my hoodie before I grab my bag. When I get out into the hallway, it’s empty. Searing midday sun is unabashedly streaming in through the windows now. I should head to the cafeteria to grab lunch, but as if of their own accord, my feet move toward the dorms.
I stare at my phone’s lock screen. It’s a picture of me and Neil—we’re both laughing so hard our faces are contorted, our grins slightly blurred as we throw our heads back. For the life of me, I can’t remember what was so funny. It could’ve been anything. He never fails to crack me up with the dumbest shit.
Since I didn’t get the apprenticeship, maybe I could visit Neil before the school year starts up again next week? Dad should be okay with it; he let me visit him last summer.
The cool surface of my phone is pressed up against my ear, and I become aware of it ringing.
When I hear Neil’s voice, I let out a breath of relief.
“You know what to do.”
“What?” There’s a blaring beep, and I register it’s just his voicemail.
This is the first time he hasn’t picked up my call. Ever. I stare at my phone in disbelief for a moment before hanging up and calling my dad instead.
“Hey, honey. What’s up?” he says through a yawn. “It’s late over here.”
I wince at myself for blanking on the fact that Tokyo is sixteen hours ahead. “Oh yeah, sorry.”
“No worries. What’s going on? Did you get into the program?” he asks, his voice perking up. “Congrats!”
I step back into my room. Now that I’m alone, I let my face fall and my shoulders droop.
“I didn’t get in.” I keep my voice as light as I can manage. “No big deal, though,” I add quickly.
I really don’t want him to start worrying about me again. Like when he sent me to that horrible clinic before I moved here. Shaking my head, I envision holding a match to the memory and setting it ablaze.
But whatever just happened in the locker room, it wasn’t like before. As spaced out as I used to get sometimes, floating out of my own body is a brand-new development in terms of my general screwed-up-ness.
“I know how much this meant to you, honey. I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”
I kick off my boots and plop down on my bed, stomach first.
“I’ll be okay. I can go to a dance college instead when I graduate.” I say this like it’s a perfectly feasible second option instead of the complete failure that it truly is. The most prestigious ballet companies in the world choose their new dancers through apprenticeships, not college programs.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” His voice gets all syrupy with concern. ...
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