Iwas four years old when my mother sent me to the hospital with an open wound in my head.
Yeah, ouch.
To be fair, my memories from that day are foggy at best—an empty bottle of whiskey on the floor, a sharp coffee table corner, the sound of my mother’s drunken screams.
Then, nothing.
If I had to guess why I was the lucky winner of such a fun childhood, I would tell you some people are just born with it. Bad luck, I mean.
Hazel eyes stare back at me in the mirror before I slide my gaze away from the scar marring the right side of my hairline. I have much bigger and more pressing issues to worry about now than a past I can’t fix.
Kyle presses play for the fourth time in a row, and Tchaikovsky’s harmonic notes fill the room. My friend’s voice drifts over to me. “Let’s do it one more time for good measure.”
He doesn’t bother asking if I’m ready to go because he already knows the answer is always a “hell yes.”
As the music flows within me, I tune out everything else; Kyle dancing behind me on the barre, the bustling Norcastle streets below the high-rise studio, the curious stares from the office building across the street. I had the choreography—the whole six minutes—memorized on the first day, and now the movements are second nature.
Adagio, turns, plié, tendu, rond de jambe, petit allegro, grand allegro, repeat.
I feel free, reborn in my dark-blue leotard and pink tights, as I always do in the studio.
My wings aren’t on my back—they are on my feet.
The music ends, and another Tchaikovsky classic begins, an extra pas de deux I’ll be filming with Kyle for his own audition, and I ignore the way my leg whines in discomfort.
One day. Just one more day of practicing, and then I can finally rest.
When we’re done, he lets out a breathless sound that resembles a choke more than an actual word. “Okay,” he says, wiping the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand and looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. “You want to go again, don’t you?”
I shrug because the truth is I could. I want to and I could, but Kyle has been dancing with me for hours. He looks a second away from passing out and not waking up for three months straight. So I smile at him and say, “I’m cool. I think we’re ready for tomorrow.”
“Damn right we are.” He claps me on the shoulder as he passes by to retrieve his phone from the plug-in speaker he brought to the studio.
He’s right—I was born for this, and so was he. There is no doubt in my mind we’ll nail the audition tape tomorrow. And when we get called in for the in-person audition next month—not if, when—we’ll nail it again. Because that’s what we do.
Dancing is all I was ever born to do.
“I rented studio fifty-four at ten in the morning tomorrow, remember that,” he tells me again, as if I’d ever forget.
He gets an eye roll for that. “I’ll be there at nine thirty. Don’t forget your leg warmers.” I point to the ground before he rushes to put them inside his bag. “Bring me a snack tomorrow, pretty please? One of those peanut butter bars you make.” I give him the puppy-dog eyes that always work on my brother.
“Sure,” he says. But he’s too busy browsing through his daily twenty-something chat requests to look my way. All from a new dating app he swore he would never sign up for, the liar. I smirk on the inside. “See you tomorrow, Mads. Love you!”
“Love you too.” I blow him a kiss, but the heathen doesn’t spare me a second glance as he waves goodbye, his eyes glued to a six-pack on his phone I can see all the way from here.
Whatever. Kyle has been one of my best friends for the past four years, and I couldn’t love him more. Which is a good thing because I’ll be seeing more of him from now on.
A few days before we graduated from The Norcastle School of Dance, we got an email from The Norcastle Ballet with exclusive invites to an audition.
A freaking audition for one of the most prestigious ballet companies in the whole country.
Pinch. Me.
I did nothing but stare at the white wall of my studio apartment after reading the email, wondering if this was yet another joke from Mr. Universe himself. It had to be.
How else could I, the little girl with the neglectful mother and absentee father, even be considered to join the ballet company of my dreams? Me, who only made it through childhood unscathed thanks to her much older brother, who raised me when it wasn’t his job?
For some reason, I caught the eye of a recruiter, and they wanted me. Me, who danced because it’s always been the only way I could see the light. The only way I could breathe.
But the minutes passed by, and nobody jumped out of my closet, laughing and pointing a mocking finger at me while yelling, “Hidden camera!” so eventually I came to terms with my new reality.
And then I cried. God, I cried so much. It wouldn’t have surprised me if my family had heard me all the way from Warlington, the city I grew up in, hundreds of miles away.
When we video chatted after I had calmed down, my eleven-year-old niece, Lila, cried with me until we both had no more tears to shed. My brother called us dramatic, but I saw that sneaky tear roll down his cheek too.
A day later, I found out Kyle had been invited as well, and we got our heads right into it, coming up with different routines and moves we could film for our tapes. Tomorrow is the big recording day, and although I could perform our choreography in my sleep, I won’t risk it.
So, instead of leaving with Kyle, as I probably should after hours of rehearsing nonstop, I get my phone out of my bag and press play.
Sure, auditioning doesn’t mean I’m going to join the company, but it means everything to me that I even get the opportunity to prove once and for all that I can make something last.
As the music starts, I rub my right leg, ignoring how it’s starting to feel a bit sore, and go once more. It’s nothing a hot shower and massage won’t fix later.
Ballet has been a constant in my life since I was a little girl. I took my first lesson when I was four, and since then, I’ve been working toward my ultimate dream—get a BA in ballet, join a company, and make a career out of my passion.
Seventeen years ago, I made a promise to my first ballet teacher, Grace—who is now my sister-in-law—that I wouldn’t stop dancing for as long as it made me happy. For as long as it made my heart feel lighter. I’ve kept that promise all this time.
I won’t stop, not ever. And if rehearsing for twelve hours a day is the price I need to pay to live my dream, so be it.
The music ends and starts again.
Adagio, turns, plié, tendu, rond de jambe, petit allegro, grand allegro, repeat.
I’m not going to fail because I didn’t practice enough. I’m not going to miss this boat. I’ve been lucky enough to be offered my dream career at twenty-one on a silver platter, and I’m not going to waste it.
Hanging out with my friends can wait. Seeing my family can wait too.
My phone pings, but I ignore it. It’s probably one of my brother’s daily reminders.
“Slow and steady wins the race,” he says, always the wise man who, like me, had to grow up too fast. “We all believe you can do it. I believe in you more than anything, you know that. You got this, princess. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”
“I know, Sammy,” I tell him every time, hating but loving the protective side of him I grew up nestled in.
I promised to visit them in Warlington after graduation, but then the audition happened. They understand, always the supportive family, and I try not to focus too much on how guilty I feel every time I go back home. I don’t want to make myself their problem again. I don’t need them to—
Not now, Maddie. Stop that thought before it even starts. Concentrate.
Adagio, turns, plié, tendu, rond de jambe, petit allegro, grand allegro.
Yet that gaping hole inside my chest opens a little wider anyway.
I’m loved. I’m appreciated. I grew up with a roof over my head, food on the table, a family that wasn’t made up of a mom and a dad but of two people who fought tooth and nail to make sure I was cared for.
My brother loves me. Grace loves me. My niece loves me.
I have money in my bank account.
I have friends and a college degree.
I have everything I could ever ask for and then some more.
And that is the problem, isn’t it? That is the damn problem.
One moment I’m trapped inside my head, counting my blessings so I don’t get lost in my nightmares.
And the next, my future is gone.
A sharp pain pierces through my leg, and my ankle gives in.
I fall like my limbs don’t belong to me, like I’m no longer in control of the body that has given me so much.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck,” I hiss, breathless, as I wrap my fingers around my right ankle and yell in pain.
This isn’t right. This isn’t supposed to be happening.
No, no, no…
I wait, hoping to wake up from a bad dream, but the pain radiating through my leg tells me what I refuse to acknowledge. I’m not asleep.
Tears fall to my feet, and grief crashes into me at once, like a brutal tidal wave.
I try to move, but it feels like someone is slicing my ankle with a sharp knife.
I cry and scream for the light that gradually extinguishes until I’m left in total darkness.
I cry for the little girl who wanted nothing but to believe something in her life would last, something she could build and cultivate for herself.
And I scream.
And scream.
And then I feel nothing at all.
