Chapter 2: The Life I was already building.
529 Words
Elena POV
The studio is stiflingly odorous with rosin and sweat and old wood--old enough to make me relax as soon as I enter.
I’m early.
I’m always early.
The mirrors are all around the wall and I am caught at different angles when I stretch at the barre. Hair pulled tight. Leotard smooth. Legs already hot because of the running in the campus. I waddle through my ankles, one, two, as Coach Larkin pounded me back in my youth.
You will have grooves in the floor if you continue that, Maya, says, and she places her bag next to me.
I smile at her without even glancing at her. “Then they’ll remember me.”
She laughs, tying her ribbons. “You’re impossible.”
Framing the piano keys go clack with a warming up of Mr. Hensley. The sound lies down in my chest like a heartbeat. They whisper and extend around me, Tights, and the dancers re-count under their breath.
The winter showcase flyer is nailed to the bulletin board near the door in a rather lopsided manner.
White tutus. Blue backdrop. December.
I look at it longer than I wish to.
“Your mom coming tonight?” Maya asks.
“Of course,” I say. She has already inquired of me what time I can dance.
“And your dad?”
He feigns ignorance of ballet, I answer. “But he’ll cry anyway.”
Maya grins. “As he should.”
The music starts. We move.
Barre first. Then centre. The habit is inculcated in my muscles, each movement and posture coming to rest at the correct point. When I turn, the mirrors blur. As I jump, the air fills me right.
This is mine.
I unconsciously check my phone during one of my water breaks.
No messages yet.
I tell myself I don’t care.
A single, stinging clap is given by coach Larkin. “Elena. Front.”
I step forward immediately.
She stands back and sees me play the combination one more time, and all is absorbed. When I finish, she nods.
“You’re ready,” she says.
The phrases descend upon me, comfortable, cosy.
On rehearsing, I lie on the floor shoe lacing my shoes when my phone rings.
Daniel: Still on?
I hesitate, then type back.
Me: Just finished.
The three dots appear.
Daniel: Coffee?
I glance around the studio. At the mirrors. At the flyer. At the life which was calculated in counts and calendars and meticulous planning.
Then I grab my jacket.
The night air is crisp and clear outside. I move quicker and faster than normal, heart pounding too noisy, ballet bag banging on my hip.
I tell myself it’s just coffee.
Just an hour.
Just something new.
I don’t see the choice yet.
I cannot imagine how easily a life goes to begin sorting itself out--not at once, but in little, sensible bits that do not seem to hurt at the time.
Before I arrive at the café, Daniel is at the windows leaning like he is part of it.
He smiles when he sees me.
And I do not feel that I am running late to my life.
- Writer
