🌹Rosalie🌹

The first time I stepped foot in a dance studio I knew I found the only place that would ever make me feel alive. It's as though nothing else in this world exists when I hit the floor or when I slip my feet into my pointe shoes. It's liberating, a feeling of complete freedom.

My surroundings disappear, my heart beats in cadence to my steps, my arms flow with strength yet grace. Everything sewn together with precision and intricacy that weaves a quilted masterpiece. I know where to be, which spot to hit, which cue to spin, to leap, to change direction. The ebb and flow so seemingly effortless.

That's the thing, though. There is effort behind each and every flex of muscle, every bend and extension. Everything is timed to an exact count. But the flow in which my body moves, the way in which it becomes a part of the music makes it feel like it's the very air I need to breathe. And some days I think it truly is.

"That's it," the instructor, Sierra, proclaims from the back of the room, analyzing every step. Coming to this dance studio wasn't my first choice. If it were up to me, I'd be driving two hours south to the real ballet dance academy I researched before we got here. But without a car or any means of actually getting there and back on a daily basis, the small family owned Monroe Dance Studio was my only choice. "Breathe. Extend," she instructs.

I figured coming here—sight unseen and unwarranted judgment fully at play—that I would just be using the space. I made the assumption that a small town like Blueridge wouldn't have anyone nearly skilled or trained enough to have an eye for the minor tweaks in technique that I need.

But I was wrong. And I'm willing to admit that. After meeting Sierra, I found out that she actually danced for San Francisco Ballet for three years until an injury took her out. She discovered Blueridge while on a road trip and decided this is where she wanted to put down roots. Her and her mom opened this small dance studio ten years ago and never looked back.

As I hit the last step, I take a deep breath, before spinning toward her. "I can do better. One more time."

She smiles before she lifts her phone to check the time. "I think we're done for today. That was nearly perfect. You just need to even your breaths. Let your chest expand and fall in cadence to the rhythm. Your body flows so naturally with every step, we need to get every piece of you working together, melting into the music, feeling it."

"Okay. Yeah. One more time."

Her smile widens. "You've got heart. That will get you far. But you also need to give your body the rest it needs so you don't burn out. Trust me, it's not worth a blown out knee or ankle."

I want to push, to fight her on this one. I don't want to leave without it being perfect. But that stern look in her eyes tells me I'm not winning this battle, so I relent...for now.

As I walk to the front to grab my bag, I glance over at her. "So, do you really think it's good enough for the audition tape?"

She eyes me as I reach for my things. "I think you've captured more technique in one routine than I've seen in a long time, if ever."

"And that's good, right?"

She studies me for a moment. "It's good, yes. But there's more to dance than technique, Rosie. You have the heart, you have the moves, it's about finding the balance between the two."

"And I don't have that?"

"You have glimpses of it. But I can see you thinking. You're so focused on nailing everything to perfection, that you're not allowing yourself to just dance. To reveal your heart."

"I don't think the National Ballet Academy is going to deduct points for being too technical."

She shrugs, her brows raising. "Maybe not. But if everyone sends in their audition tape with a technically flawless routine, what is it about you that will have them remembering this routine?"

Her words rest against me, holding tight until I finally breathe in. I've thought beyond the steps, the right angles and proper extension.

"I'm not trying to worry you," she quickly jumps back in. "You truly are the most beautiful dancer I have ever worked with. And I'm counting my time in San Francisco when I say that. Rosie, your technique...the National Ballet would be absolute idiots if you don't make it. But dance...ballet...it tells a story, it strings together the most intricate parts of your soul and paints it on display. Every move, from small to extravagant, tells a story. You have so much more to say than straight lines. I want to challenge you to bring out that part of you. To drop your walls and let yourself be consumed by the dance."

I've been told a lot of things over the years. Criticized, coached, trained, yelled at, everything you can possibly imagine has been thrown my way. There were days I thought I'd never make it, never be good enough. And there were times I believed my dreams were in reach. But never, not once, have I been told that my technique was not the sole anchor to my goal. And hearing it now...there's a big part of me that wants to brush it off, to hang on to my roots and intense training from the very school I came from, the school with a pipeline to the National Ballet Academy.

But there's something behind Sierra's words. Something in the way they come directly from her heart. It's the first time I've felt I'm not a pawn in a never ending game. A small factory piece in the assembly line. Pumping out one dancer after the next for the sole purpose of continued success under the name of a school. I'm not a gear in the machine to Sierra. I've known her for all of one week and I can already see that in her eyes, I am the machine.

"Okay. From the top," I say again.

She laughs. "I'm calling it a night, Rosie. We'll resume tomorrow, and I promise, when that audition comes, you will have the best dance they have ever seen. But you need energy to do that. Your health comes first, okay?"

I want to fight her on it, but I know I'm not winning today. "Okay."

"Now, go home and get a good meal. You've burned far too many calories today and your body needs the fuel."

I know how many calories I've burned. It's something I've learned to keep track of. How many hours I need to exert my heart rate in order to get rid of half a protein bar. How much sweat I need to lose in order to drop the sips of water I intake during practice.

"Yeah," I reply, already calculating my calories for the day. "I will."

"Perfect. See you tomorrow."

My mom is waiting outside when I exit the studio, her smile brighter than the full moon lighting up the street.

"How was class?" she asks as I slide into the front seat.

"Good. Thanks for picking me up."

"Of course. We did it," she says, and my brows are practically touching in confusion as I look back at her. She pulls out of the parking spot before she smiles over at me. "We completed our first week in Blueridge without needing an escape route."

I smile, letting my head fall back against the seat. "We did."

"I have more good news," she adds. I sit up to look back at her, waiting for her to continue. "I got a job. It's just answering the phone at the local salon but it's a job."

"Mom, that's amazing."

"Thank you. So, in honor of my new job, your new cheer position–"

"Mom," I stop her. "Can we not make a big deal about cheer? I told you–"

"Yes, I know. It's for your application, but it's still something worth celebrating. It's an accomplishment, Rosie. One you should be proud of. So, as I was saying, we're celebrating tonight."

"We are?"

"Yes. Darren and Nolan are out, so it's just you and me. I made lasagna, your favorite, and I even picked up some rocky road ice cream for dessert. I'm thinking facials and a movie?"

She's beaming. Girls' night was our thing even before my dad's downfall. Thing is, even when my mom was married to him, he was never home. He always put work first. For as long as I can remember, it's always been me and mom. She's the one to take me to dance, to attend every single recital and competition. Friday nights were reserved for relaxation and indulging in a ridiculous amount of junk food. That is until I realized my waist size was bigger than the rest of the girls in my class, when the size of my chest inevitably made the rest of my frame appear three times larger.

When I first brought it up to my mom, she helped me form a plan. She even took me to a nutritionist to find the best foods to eat and support her in what to buy, what to cook. No more lasagna or ice cream. No more bread or added sugars.

But it was never enough. No matter how I ate or how many calories I burned, it never worked. Until the calories burned far surpassed the calories eaten did I start to see a change.

"I know you're watching your calories again," she says. "But it's been awhile since we had a real splurge night. What do you say?"

There's a sparkle behind her eyes. I know with the audition tape coming up, and this new detail about feeling the dance, that the last thing I need is a mountain of calories. But I also see the excitement in my mom's eyes. It's been a whole week in Blueridge. I don't know how many of these moments I'll get with my mom anymore. The ones where it's just me and her. I know our life is changing, that soon she'll actually walk down the aisle. And when that time comes, I might not get another one of these moments with just the two of us.

"Okay," I say. "Let's do it."

***

The sound of the water rushes into the sink, echoing across the bathroom. Its numbing sound buzzes across my head as I reach for the toilet paper and bring a wadded pile to my lips. I pull the handle of the toilet, and close the lid as the contents disappear.

Tonight was good. Being with my mom, laughing, having the house completely to ourselves. It felt like nothing heavy was lingering over us. Like there's actually a shot for us to live a life again. One where we're not scraping by or afraid to leave the lights on too long or the water running. Every utility I once took for granted suddenly came with a price tag. But we're breathing again.

And then I laid my head on my pillow, the dark of my room swallowing that very air I took peace in. The voices so damn loud in my head as my stomach expanded from mounds of pasta and creamy chocolate ice cream.

I don't want to look up as I let the cool water from the sink wash over my hands. I don't want to see the disappointment within my own eyes, the defeat, the hate.

I let the suds build over my hands as I swirl them together.

Don't look up.

They build into a good lather before I watch them disappear beneath the water. The heat of one stray tear rolls down my cheek, slow and purposeful. The streak it leaves behind is cold, like ice. The burn etched into my skin.

Don't look.

I dry my hands, scrubbing away the drops of water. I keep scrubbing. Clawing at the rag to get rid of every piece. I want it gone.

Don't look up.

I keep scrubbing. Running the rag along my arms. The water is gone, but I keep going, keep scraping.

And then I look up.

I look up.

A set of greenish eyes stare back at me, the distance between them too far apart, the roundness of them too wide. The nose too pointed, too small beside a set of lips far too plump. Freckles scatter my cheeks, too splotchy and noticeable. My hair is a mess atop my head, the strands of red too red. 

My shirt lays loose from my body. I reach for it, pulling the hem up slowly before revealing the pale skin beneath. Stretching and arching to the side, I look for my rib cage, cringing at how difficult it is to find. Quickly, I drop my shirt and turn off the sink. I grab the same towel I used to scrub my hands and scrape away the dry remnants of the rogue tear.

I take a breath and spin away from my reflection. When I throw the door open, I realize I'm not alone in the dark hallway, my tall brooding soon-to-be stepbrother is standing in the doorway, his eyes set directly on mine.

My heart stops, my breaths caught deep within my chest as I jump.

"Sorry," he says, and his eyes scan my face. I'm suddenly very aware of every single flaw he's absorbing right now. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"You didn't," I quickly brush off as I walk past him. My shoulder brushes his chest and my heart squeezes.

"Hey, Red," he says quietly.

I stop. Scared to look back. The hall is quiet as I wait for what he has to say.

How long has he been standing there?

Did he hear...

"Have a good night," he says.

I don't turn to acknowledge his comment, I don't let the twirling fears go any further, and I don't hesitate or show any signs of question. Instead, I continue down the hall and let my door close firmly behind me.