《I No Longer (Make My Parents Proud)》


 Talk Less, Smile More

    Talk less, smile more.


    I opened my eyes. They had been clenched tightly shut as I took in a deep breath, preparing myself to enter the classroom.


    Talk less, smile more.


    It was a piece of advice I had gotten from a cheesy magazine advertisement. It was for toothpaste or something, who knows. I thought it might help me stop making an ass out of myself and maybe actually get some friends here. Talk less, and stop saying things that nobody gets, stop making references to TV shows and dark and twisty jokes that make everyone think you¡¯re insane, Smile more, and maybe they¡¯ll think you¡¯re actually happy and not broken inside. Maybe.


    Panama was standing beside me. How had I not noticed her approaching? Of course, her ninja-padded dancer¡¯s feet straight from heaven.


    ¡°Are you going in¡­ or what?¡± she asked, in a voice that said she knew exactly what was going on, that she saw me freaking out, saw me preparing myself for opening the door.


    ¡°I was just catching my breath, I was running late so I ran here and didn¡¯t want to go in all, well, you know.¡±


    Talk less.


    ¡°Sure.¡± She said, looking at the doorknob that was in my hand, ¡°maybe you should take up some more cardio.¡±


    Smile more.


    Smile.


    I threw the door open and entered, my face red and pulled tight, my smile was white-hot, my lips pressed together as hard as they could go.


    Good enough.


    She came in after me, as graceful and silent as ever, her footfalls those of a cat in fresh snow. Her long flowing skirt wrapped neatly around her legs as she twisted into her seat, her books neatly met her desk and she pulled her pen from her bun without letting a single hair loose.


    I hated her.


    I forced my face to relax, which is actually really difficult to do, by the way. I consciously undid the tension in my lips and cheeks, forced the crease between my eyebrows to dissipate, and tried to make my heart stop beating so visibly across my collarbone.


    ¡°Thoughts on the reading from Saramago? Anyone have any burning comments for us today?¡± Professor Diana (she preferred first names only in class, she felt it made things flow more smoothly, less stiff and procedural) was standing at the front of the room, holding her mangled, annotated copy of the novel. It would be very difficult to find something to say that she had not already scrawled in the margins.


    8:00 p.m. on the dot, Diana wasn¡¯t wasting any time with throat-clearing, we were on her time now. I flipped my book open to the section we read over the weekend. I hadn¡¯t finished the whole section, but I felt like I had an okay grasp on it, enough to get my one participation requirement out of the way. As long as I acted fast, I could say something before someone else covered everything I knew.


    ¡°Radley, what did you think?¡±


    My response poured from my mouth. I had thought it over way too long, trying to get the words to form perfectly before I got to class. I knew I¡¯d be required to say at least one thing during each class period for the participation portion of our rubric, and I was determined not to make a complete fool of myself.


    ¡°Well, just from a purely craft-driven point, I thought it was interesting that he never gives the characters their names, like he¡¯s taking away that power that a name has, and they¡¯re just archetypes. They¡¯re ¡®the doctor¡¯s wife¡¯ and ¡®the thief,¡¯ but that¡¯s all they get to be.¡±


    ¡°Good observation, yes, do you have anything you¡¯d like to add onto that from a theory perspective? I think we can build on this.¡±


    ¡°Not really, I know there¡¯s something there, but I don¡¯t really have it off the top of my head. I thought I¡¯d bring it up in case someone else had any thoughts.¡± I trailed off, looking around the room. Hopefully that sounded good enough to get her off my back for the rest of the period. A few hands stuck up one at a time. Mine stayed down for the rest of the hour-long discussion.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    Nathan, a political science major, brought up the idea that it could be commentary on communism, which was a continual theme for him. I was looking forward to reading his final analysis of the book when we got around to that.


    Panama was next.


    ¡°I think the reason he doesn¡¯t give them names is that he is playing with structure. He¡¯s breaking down the structure of the book, breaking your expectations and taking away one of your senses, causing instability through his narrative reflective of the instability that the characters have now that they are suddenly blinded. We don¡¯t know these people, we don¡¯t know anything about them except for their occupation, what they offered society before it broke down.¡±


    Diana was nodding, smiling.


    ¡°Even more than that, I think it dehumanizes them. In the same way that they are being treated as subhuman in the facility because of their sudden condition, they are being stripped of name and reduced to an object.¡±


    ¡°Nice work. I feel like we¡¯re really getting somewhere now.¡± Diana said, ready to take over the discussion and lead us into the next topic. She came over to Panama and gave her a high five. I fought the scoff that was bubbling to the surface.


    By the end of class, I was so tired of hearing her voice I wanted to scream.


    I grabbed my bag and made a beeline for the dance studio. I needed to blow off some steam and I didn¡¯t particularly care that it was after-hours and I wasn¡¯t supposed to be there alone. If I didn¡¯t dance, I was going to punch something.


    How is everything she does right? How does she keep it together? It¡¯s not enough that she¡¯s good at dance, she has to beat me at everything.


    I walked down the dimly lit corridor towards the dance studios. After-hours the studios were supposed to be reserved for upperclassmen only. They were seen as more responsible, less likely to sneak in for a quick fuck, or break a mirror for fun, and they needed the extra time to work on their thesis performances. As long as nobody saw me, which they usually didn¡¯t, I¡¯d be fine.


    One of the rooms had been spoken for within the next hour, there was a sign-up board in the hallway for reserving specific time blocks to practice. I made sure to tuck into a room all the way down the hall, to lessen the chance that they would pass by and see that I was not one of their classmates.


    I removed my boots and stretched out to prepare to practice some choreography from class. As I got warmed up, I removed my sweater and enjoyed the freedom of movement that reducing down to a cami and leggings offered.


    I played the track very quietly from my cell phone, a new smartphone that I¡¯d received just before moving out to college on my own. My parents wanted to be able to reach me at any given moment, and my previous flip-phone was cracked and unreliable. The phone had more perks than I¡¯d realized, and I really enjoyed being able to pull up my music like this on the go.


    I caught my reflection in the mirror. I had been scrunching up my face in concentration.


    Well that¡¯s not pretty. Smile more.


    I forced a smile.


    Not that much.


    I sighed.


    There was a section of the routine that was tripping me up. I couldn¡¯t nail it in class, no matter how many times the instructor would personally reposition my legs and pull my arm straight. But not too straight, you must look effortless, elegant! His voice echoed through my head as I tried again and again, no longer hearing the music, just focusing on this one movement that was the source of so much trouble. Over and over and over.


    I finally gave up, feeling exhaustion sink in from doing the same motion so many times in a row. My phone was playing a completely different song at this point and I realized I had been tuning the world out.


    I let go again, but this time, I didn¡¯t give a fuck about the choreography. I just wanted to move. I came here to move, to be free, to feel the air move around my body and to close my eyes and just be. I could feel tears coming to my eyes, but I didn¡¯t care. I leapt into the air, spinning, landing in a tumble and letting my legs sweep in front of me in the beginnings of a floor routine. My professors would refer to it as ¡®stripper tactics¡¯ but I liked the acrobatics of it, the control it takes to move slowly, then quickly, smooth.I found my way to my knees, ready to pop up into standing as soon as the beat dropped. Hair whipped across my back as I flipped my head back up, arms raised. My eyes opened to see myself in the mirror, smiling for real this time.


    The door creaked open and I fell back to the floor in a heap, red blush flushing my cheeks, and looked to see who had found me.


    ¡°You know, you¡¯d do so much better in class if you showed that kind of passion during our routines.¡±


    It was one of my dance instructors. Which means, he was fully aware I wasn¡¯t allowed to be here.


    Great.


    ¡°I¡¯ll try. Um, see you tomorrow.¡±


    I gathered my stuff quickly, making sure that I hadn¡¯t left any kind of scuffs on the floor, or anything, and left. He watched to make sure I made it out of the building before locking the doors to the studios. I hadn¡¯t realized that I had been there so long that even after-hours were over.


    How embarrassing.

 Stages of Grief

    ¡°Could you call me back, it¡¯s about a job.¡±


    I deleted the voicemail. It was one of many calls I¡¯d received for the number¡¯s previous owner since getting my new phone. This mysterious previous owner was developing quite the interesting backstory as I pieced together all of the things I¡¯d learned about them. I had absolutely no idea how to make the messages stop.


    ¡°You could just call them back,¡± my boyfriend, Colt offered, staring up at the ceiling of the dorm room, bored. ¡°Tell them you¡¯re not the person they¡¯re trying to call.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I could. But I¡¯d have to call about 50 people at this point. This person was very popular.¡±


    ¡°I wonder who it was.¡±


    ¡°I wonder how none of these people know her number changed by now. It¡¯s been months.¡±


    ¡°Maybe she¡¯s dead.¡±


    I sighed.


    He continued, ¡°Maybe¡­ she disappeared and nobody reported it and she just stopped paying her bills so they put the number back into circulation.¡±


    ¡°Or maybe she¡¯s in jail,¡± I said, playing along.


    ¡°Dude, you¡¯ve got a dead girl¡¯s phone.¡±


    ¡°No, her kids are still going to school. I get the automated announcement calls every day at six. They go to my old middle school. My number is on record as their emergency contact still...¡±


    ¡°And you haven¡¯t cancelled those yet?¡±


    ¡°I shrugged.  It¡¯s not that annoying. It¡¯s kind of cute to know when they have snow days and stuff. I don¡¯t know, I just don¡¯t want to call that place. It wasn¡¯t exactly a great memory.¡±


    ¡°You need to get over yourself. It¡¯s just a phone call.¡±


    ¡°I will. Geez. Get off my back.¡±


    He rolled his eyes.


    ¡°You can¡¯t just put off everything that¡¯s uncomfortable.¡±


    ¡°I can too.¡± I stuck out my tongue just as my roommate came through our door.


    Her eyes bounced between the two of us and she walked to her desk, switching her books out for her next class.


    ¡°Oh!¡± I gasped. I had lost track of time while Colt and I were sitting around. ¡°My shift is about to start. Will you walk with me?¡±


    He winced.


    I instantly regretted asking in front of Hailey. I started gathering my bag and jacket so that I could be out the door before it got too painfully awkward. He got up to follow me outside, but I knew he wasn¡¯t going to escort me all the way across campus to the coffee shop where I worked a couple days a week. I could tell from his expression he was looking for a way out of it.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, Radley. It doesn¡¯t really make sense for me to walk all the way over there in the snow just to walk back.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, no I get it.¡± I shut the door behind us, and kept walking down the dormitory hallway. I was so embarrassed I didn¡¯t care if he was still following me out of the building or not. It was stupid to ask.This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    <hr>


    I traded a couple hours of productivity for a scant jar of tips as I wound up having an overly busy shift at the coffee shop, only getting a few pages of reading done between customers. The serenity I felt hearing the milk froth, counting down the 25 seconds to the perfect espresso shot, smelling the freshly ground coffee beans, and zoning out while washing the latte mugs was worth it.


    I loved the escape of the cafe, playing a character, an NPC for everyone else to interact with with those set lines, set roles, expectations exactly in place. It made up for all of the stress and uncertainty that the rest of the day brought.


    All of that was over, though, and I needed to go back to my dorm to finish an assignment for that was giving me trouble. I sighed and passed my apron to Georgia, who was just coming in for her shift.


    As I was walking back across campus, though, I found my feet leading me back towards the dance studios. Crunch after crunch sounded underfoot as my boots sunk into the iced-over snowfall. I was only halfway there when my phone pinged.


    I fished it out of my duffel bag and saw that it was an email from the school.


    Uh-oh. Did Mr. D''Angelo report me for using the studio? He didn¡¯t seem angry¡­ but I did break the rules¡­


    I read the subject line: Notice of Program Ineligibility


    That¡­ doesn¡¯t sound good.


    Notice of Program Ineligibility.


    Program Ineligibility.


    Fuck.


    I stopped dead in my tracks and the damp chill of the snow I¡¯d been crunching underfoot began to seep into my boots. I shivered, both from the cold and the dread I felt reading those words. I tugged my gloves off so that I could swipe the email notification open to read the full notice.


    Maybe it doesn¡¯t mean what you think it means.


    Denial. First stage of grief.


    No, fuck. Shut up. Just read.


    I skimmed over the opening paragraph three times before any of it sunk in.


    Dear Radley Tabor,


    Due to your GPA as of the mid-term period, we regret to inform you that you are at risk of losing your eligibility to remain in the Bachelor of Arts Contemporary Dance program at our institution.


    If your GPA does not rise above 3.0 by the end of the semester, you will be removed from the program and must enter a non-honors program on a probationary term. We advise that you meet with your program counselor as soon as possible to discuss your options.


    You will be able to audition for placement in the program at a later date if your academic standing improves.


    Marjorie Sullivan


    Performance Arts Chair


    It was exactly what I was afraid it was.


    Oh man.


    My stomach felt suddenly empty and my limbs were reduced to a wobbly gelatinous mess. I knew I should have dropped that math course, there was no way I could make up enough ground in the class to have any hope of passing it, and now it was too late to withdraw and save the impending hit to my already very very sad grade point average.


    Another notification pinged through.


    A text message.


    My mother.


    Call me.


    Of course she¡¯s already read it. She snoops through my email more regularly than I do.


    Enter anger. Second stage.


    I can buckle down. Find a tutor. I can salvage this.


    Aaaand bargaining. We¡¯re speeding right through this.


    Wait, if it¡¯s grief does that mean I¡¯ve already decided it¡¯s a lost cause? That dance is over, that I¡¯m going home? That I can¡¯t do it? That they were right?


    Depression. Stage four. At least it¡¯s almost over.


    Tears pricked my cheeks, feeling like ice on my skin. I sank down into a seated position right there in the middle of the walkway. My leggings did nothing to protect me from the snow-to-ass contact, but there was just no way I was going to stay standing while I processed all of these feelings.


    I didn¡¯t care if anyone saw me here. What did it matter if I¡¯d be leaving school anyway? I wasn¡¯t going to stay here without dance, and they weren¡¯t going to let me dance. It was the only thing holding me together before, and now I just can¡¯t see a path back.


    I can¡¯t call her like this.


    I needed to compose myself before taking any further damage.


    I made my way back to my dorm room. I¡¯d change, get dinner at the cafeteria if they were still open, and then I¡¯d call my mother.


    Acceptance.


    All five stages, but the grief wasn¡¯t over. What a crock of shit.

 Parental Guidance

    Warm, dry clothes and stomach full of a well-balanced cafeteria buffet did help stabilize me a bit as I sank down into my dorm-standard desk chair and tried to psych myself up to make the call.


    The simple powerplay of her making me call her¡ªto have me schedule my own lecture¡ªwas not lost on me. She knew that I knew what we needed to talk about. The email. We both saw it. One of the conditions for letting me leave for another city across the state to go to school was that she would have full access to my university email address. She would need to be able to see every notice I received, and know what was going on on campus. It had seemed like a very small price to pay back then, but it was surprisingly intrusive in practice.


    Okay. Just do it.


    Hailey would be in class for another hour. If I wanted privacy, it had to be right now. No more putting it off.


    I opened my contacts and scrolled down to Mom. Her posed smile, not intended for anyone specific, grinned back at me. A cold, professional smile. A carefully crafted exterior. I pushed the call button and held my breath, my fingers clenching the edge of my desk.


    ¡°Hello?¡± she answered, as though she was unaware as to who was calling her¡ªor, if she didn¡¯t know it was her daughter, why she was being called. As though I would be calling over anything else.


    ¡°Hey mom. I got your message to call about the email from school. I know it sounds bad, but I can work on it. It¡¯s just a warning, not like a final notice, they didn¡¯t kick me out of the program, I just have to work harder.¡± I was rambling, trying desperately to take control of the narrative, explain myself before she could eek out an ¡®I told you so¡¯.


    ¡°Yes, the email.¡± She let the words drift out slowly, like cigarette smoke from barely parted lips. It was as if she hadn¡¯t heard anything I said.


    ¡°It¡¯s really not as bad as they made it sound, it¡¯s just a warning. It¡¯s automated. I bet a lot of people got them because the mid-term grades just came in.¡±


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t sound very good. It sounds like you¡¯re failing, or near failing most of your courses. How hard could Contemporary Literature be? Really, Radley, it¡¯s just reading the kinds of books all the kids have these days, right? Twilight? The other one? All those books with films. What could possibly be going wrong with that?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not Twilight¡­¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not the point.¡±


    ¡°And it¡¯s more than just reading books. We¡¯re doing Jose Saramago right now, Blindness. It¡¯s pretty difficult, you know, draining, emotionally. And you have to analyse them, think about historical context, allegories, implications, it¡¯s not just reading.¡±


    I hadn¡¯t even realized how much respect I had for that course until I had to defend it. I really should have been trying harder. I should have let myself feel that passionate about it the whole time. Why was I hiding? Why was I half-assing everything? Why was I afraid to care?


    ¡°Blindness¡­ that one has a movie, right. With¡­ oh what¡¯s his name? Ruffalo?¡±


    ¡°The movie is different. It doesn¡¯t have any of the narrative extras or the moral questions,¡± I could feel her rolling her eyes. It was no use. ¡°They know if you just watch the movie, mom. Then you fail.¡±


    ¡°Is that what you did? Is that why you¡¯re failing?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    There was a long pause where neither of us seemed to know how to proceed.


    ¡°Are you planning on coming home, then?¡± she asked, as if it were a new conversation entirely.


    ¡°Maybe for Thanksgiving.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not what I meant.¡±Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!


    ¡°I know. No, I¡¯m planning on staying here and doing what I was chosen to do. Dance.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no point in paying all that money for school if the only thing you¡¯re getting out of it is dancing around. You can dance without a degree, and you can get a degree in something that will get a job that pays actual money.¡±


    ¡°I have a job.¡±


    ¡°A real job, not that coffee place. And I¡¯m talking about your future. You know dad and I won¡¯t be around forever. You need to get yourself set up to take care of yourself. I just want you to be stable, to have a good life, and worry about having fun when that¡¯s taken care of.¡±


    I froze. I couldn¡¯t catch my breath even though I was sitting still. I knew she came from a good place. I knew she wanted what was best for me. I felt guilty every time I thought about how much this place costs and every time I got that feeling that I wasn¡¯t good enough to be here, I thought about how that money must be being wasted on me. I focused all of my energy on not crying during this damned phone call.


    When she realized I wasn¡¯t going to respond, she continued, ¡°I know dance is important to you. I really want to support you, but it just doesn¡¯t seem like it¡¯s going to happen honey. Not many people get to follow their dreams. I¡­¡± she hesitated. I thought I heard a sniffle. ¡°I wanted to give you the best chance to be one of those people, but if it isn¡¯t going to happen, it just isn¡¯t going to happen. Your father and I were talking and I think you should come home.¡±


    Come home.


    Images of the small town came to mind: isolated from all sense of hope and progress, filled to the brim with churches and farmland, and a dying elderly population that just didn¡¯t ever assimilate to the real world. The place didn¡¯t even have a grocery store, they celebrated for years that they finally got a tiny little convenience store on the corner. Now they wouldn¡¯t have to drive twenty minutes to get a bag of potato chips or a can of soup. That was their idea of progress.


    I couldn¡¯t go back.


    If I ever hoped to make a career out of dancing at all, I could not do it from there.


    ¡°Can you give me until the end of the semester? The email said that I had until then to pull up my grades and stay in the program. Dancers from our program go on to work on great projects. It¡¯s a respected program, it could open a lot of doors for me.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll see you at Thanksgiving.¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡±


    I bit my lip. I was shaking all over.


    ¡°Goodbye, I love you.¡±


    ¡°Love you.¡±


    <hr>


    Grabbing my notebook and flipping it to a random empty page, I started scrawling stream-of-consciousness to reign myself in. A list.


    Lists were one of my vices, a way to drown myself in everything I need to do, want to do, what order to do them, how to do them, and really just a way to put things off. This time, I needed something to channel all of this nervous energy into or I was going to explode. It was stacking up as more of a pros and cons list of what was about to happen than a to-do list.


    I no longer make my parents proud.


    It was the first thing I wrote. I didn¡¯t even think it before it came out of me. I didn¡¯t let the shock of seeing it spelled out like that slow me down, though. I knew I was looking like one hell of a failure right now. I had seemed like I was on the way to being a broadway star or something, selected out of hundreds of auditions to join the ranks in this dance program, and now¡­ I was about to be kicked out like none of it ever mattered.


    I don¡¯t have any friends.


    Yikes, yes.


    I had Colt, but my relationships with everyone else on campus were superficial at best. I had people I say hello to, sure. People I liked. But I didn¡¯t have anyone to sit and watch a movie with, talk about the nonsense that pops into heads without concern over how it¡¯ll be interpreted. I didn¡¯t have someone to be free with. If there was a positive to going home, I guess it would be that I wouldn¡¯t be losing a network of friends by leaving the city.


    Dancing hurts.


    I crossed it out as soon as it was on the paper. Yes, dancing hurt, it was excruciating to repeat the same motions over and over, pushing my body to its limits to reach the perfect shapes, perfect timing, perfect extensions.


    But it was a different kind of hurt, an expression of hurt. It was how I got through the other pains in my life. Dancing stays. Whether I was at school or at home, I¡¯d find a way to dance. It didn¡¯t go in either column. Or it wouldn¡¯t if I was actually letting myself slow down long enough to organize this into an actual pros and cons list instead of a slew of word vomit across the page.


    No matter what I wrote on this list, it didn¡¯t matter. I just plain couldn¡¯t visualize any scenario where I could go back home. I had to find a way, somehow to stay here. To keep dancing. To prove to myself and to everyone back home that there is room for me to do what I love, that you don¡¯t have to just grow up to be a nurse, teacher, or farmer to make a living.

 On a Mission

    It became my one mission in life: keep my spot in the program. I quit my job at the coffee shop and spent that time at the library instead. This whole time, I had been avoiding the discomfort of not instantly being good at every subject instead of buckling down and figuring it out. It was stupid, it was an absolutely nonsensical approach and I was paying the consequences for it now.


    I sat in the cubby desk that I had selected, far in the back of the library where it was just cold enough to help you stay focused, awake, conscious, and far enough from any group projects that I wouldn¡¯t be disturbed by laughter. I had learned over the past few days of this forcibly increased productivity that I needed to bring snacks with me to optimize my time here. Instead of packing all of my stuff up and leaving to get lunch, I could just bring it with me and live in this cubby if that¡¯s what it would take to get my grades up.


    I had Saramago to read, a research paper on medieval texts and the concept of chivalry and that was on top of figuring out how to get myself out of this mess of a math class that I¡¯d pretty much chalked up as a total loss. That one was the biggest scare among all of my courses. I was almost certain to fail it based on all the grades that had already come in and I didn¡¯t feel much confidence about the final exam. That exam would be the make it or break it for my GPA. Even if I did well in everything else, it seemed that that would be what my entire dance career would hinge on.


    Should have dropped it when you had the chance.


    Can¡¯t keep beating yourself up over it now. Gotta fix it. Forget about what you should¡¯ve done and focus on the end goal.


    I chewed another handful of trail mix and kept powering through the exercises that I¡¯d pulled up from our course guide. They were supposed to be study aides to really hammer home the concepts from class. Instead, they were hammering home how screwed I was.


    My phone buzzed.


    Colt.


    I ignored it. I didn¡¯t have time to hang out and talk about nothing all day. I was on a mission.


    <hr>


    The next morning, I had my favorite class of the week: Contemporary Dance. The namesake of my major, the program that was set to propel me straight into a bright and prosperous future in the world of dance. I had let up on my extra practice hours after class so that I could focus more attention on my ¡®academic¡¯ courses, so I savored every step I could take across the dance floor, every smile towards my crystalline audience: the full-length mirror. Every moment of stretching, of choreography, of corrections, of repetition, I sucked it up like lifeblood to a vampire.Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!


    My body was running on pure adrenaline and love for the craft. I missed dinner last night trying to get through all of my chapters before the library closed and had to settle for microwave shells and cheese and a beef jerky stick before climbing into bed at midnight. It¡¯s hard to tell if it was my looming existential dread over possibly having to move back home a failure or if it was the salty processed meat and cheese abomination that caused the nightmares, but either way I didn¡¯t get much sleep at all. I was afraid everyone could tell that I had bags under my eyes, that I was having a bit of trouble focusing whenever I wasn¡¯t moving, starting to doze off if I stood still too long. As long as we were moving, I would be fine. I could suck all the energy I needed out of dance.


    Panama was in this class. She seemed to haunt me throughout campus. Every time I failed, she succeeded; every time I succeeded, she was the star. In the case of dance, she harnessed all of her grace, elegance, and poise and combined that with practiced lean muscle and a perfectionist¡¯s eye for copying shape and extension. If we weren¡¯t competing against one another in the same field, I would admire her. In any other case, we would probably have been friends, bonding over a shared love. But this was a cutthroat business and if you¡¯re not the best dancer, you¡¯re waiting for the best dancer to fuck up so you can take her place.


    We finished our warmups and ran through last week¡¯s choreography additions so that Mr. D¡¯Angelo could be absolutely certain we all had the basics locked in before moving on.


    ¡°If you¡¯ve been following the syllabus, you¡¯ll know that today we start partner work.¡± he began, pacing in a slow prance before us as we tried to stay nimble during this hiatus. We wriggled feet and plied, stretching to stay ready. He paid it no mind, unphased. ¡°I¡¯ve selected partners based on areas you each need to work on, as well as considerations like height and ability. Things you¡¯ll be paired on in any professional capacity so get used to it.¡±


    He smiled.


    A few of us laughed nervously. It was true that a dancer was always being judged, measured, compared to one another. We should get used to it, but it was still unsettling to wonder what other people saw when they measured our worth. To want to know and simultaneously fear the answer.


    There were mostly women in the class, so it was inevitable that most of us would be paired with each other.


    If I was paired with Panama, would that mean we were the two best? Would it mean I had a lot to learn from her? Would it mean we just had similar bodies that looked nice together? You never really knew.


    I held my breath. I felt a little dizzy with the anticipation. I both desired and dreaded being matched against her, no, partnered with her. To be able to show my ability right beside her. For the opportunity to maybe stand out with her. I could do this, I could finally prove that I was meant to be here, that I belong in this program just like all the rest of these dancers. That¡ª


    Everything went black.

 Sacrifices

    I woke up to Mr. D¡¯Angelo knelt down next to me, probably checking my temperature with the backs of his hands. I had only blacked out for a second, but it was long enough to fully fall over myself onto the ground. I reached up and rubbed the back of my head.


    ¡°Are you alright Radley?¡± he asked, ¡°Are you sick? Have you eaten today?¡±


    ¡°Hmmm?¡± I couldn¡¯t quite bring myself to think of words yet.


    I heard the faint whispering of someone in the group, ¡°Eating disorder?¡±


    ¡°Do you need me to call someone?¡±


    ¡°No!¡± I gasped, mind flooding with thoughts of the phone call with my mother, random sentences in her voice filling the room with everything she would say about hearing that I¡¯m blacking out in dance class. ¡°I-I just didn¡¯t sleep well last night. Sorry. I thought I was fine.¡±


    ¡°Okay. I don¡¯t think you should dance today, though. Your partner will dance with me and you can watch me to learn the moves. Get more rest before next class, though, Blake shouldn¡¯t have to suffer from having an absent partner.¡±


    ¡°Right. I will.¡±


    Shit. There goes dance.


    And Blake? My partner is Blake?


    I looked at him. I couldn¡¯t remember any remarkable performances by him. He certainly wasn¡¯t to Panama¡¯s caliber. Which means¡­ I wasn¡¯t. Or D¡¯Angelo didn¡¯t think I was.


    <hr>


    Later on at the library, I chugged down a disgustingly metallic energy drink, eyeing up the cold frappuccino drink I brought for later. I had to knock as much work as possible out today so that I could get a full night¡¯s sleep before my next dance lesson. I would not have a repeat performance of that fall.


    I was fairly deep in editing my chivalry paper when my stomach growled, loudly. My head flew up to look around the quiet corner of the library to see if anyone else noticed it. Yep. They had. I looked at the empty drinks and snacks scattered across my cubby desk and sighed. I was out of packaged junk food, and I had been sitting there long enough to need another meal.


    I packed my books back into my backpack and shoved my trash in with them, then made my way through the maze of shelves that would lead me back outside. A good meal at the cafeteria should help me feel a little better, anyway. I wouldn¡¯t be able to live on artificial energy and chocolate for too long without crashing again.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    The buffet today had all sorts of taco fixings alongside the usual salads and soups. My mouth watered, I was so ready to stuff my face full of fresh veggies and warm tortillas, sour cream, salsa. I loaded my plate up and found a table by the windows to chow down. I was so lost in my dinner that I didn¡¯t see Colt coming up until he was right on top of me.


    ¡°Where the hell have you been?¡±


    A glob of sour cream and guacamole flopped out of the bottom of my taco as I glanced up at him.


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been texting you for three days without an answer. Are you ghosting me? You don¡¯t have the nerve to actually break up with me?¡±


    ¡°Three days?¡± Oh shit. It has been days. I never responded to any of his messages. ¡°Oh shit, I¡¯m sorry Colt. I didn¡¯t even realize. I¡¯ve been so busy trying to get my grades up, you know, after the email I got.¡±


    ¡°Too busy sucking the teachers¡¯ dicks? Can¡¯t make time for your boyfriend because you¡¯re groveling for better grades?¡±


    I squeezed the taco involuntarily, spurting more filling onto my plate before letting it go.


    ¡°Most of my teachers don¡¯t even have dicks for your information.¡±


    Geeze, I was tired. That was so not the route I was aiming to take in my argument.


    ¡°Well then who is it that you¡¯re spending all this fucking time with!? Why are you freezing me out?¡± he was getting louder, drawing attention our way.


    Let¡¯s try that again...


    ¡°I was in the library. By myself. Writing my essays, studying for my math exam.¡±


    ¡°For three days? Yeah. Sure.¡±


    Fuck it.


    I stood, grabbing my backpack and pouring out its contents all over the table. Books, notes, snack wrappers, workout clothes, all of it.


    ¡°Which one of these are you jealous of? Because I¡¯ve been spending every waking moment with the contents of this bag and I am fucking tired of every single one of them. I have to make this work. I have to get my grades up by the end of the semester or I¡¯m done here and then we won¡¯t be spending any time together, ever. It really is that bad, Colt.¡±


    He sat down across from me, hand propping his head up. He looked stressed out.


    ¡°I just need you to answer my texts, okay? You can¡¯t keep me on read like that. You know how I get, I just come up with the worst case scenario.¡±


    ¡°Well, reign it in. I don¡¯t have time to soothe your ego. I¡¯ve got my own shit to solve right now and not much time to do it.¡±


    I became aware of how sharp my tone was. Maybe he was right, I was being frigid.


    ¡°Sorry, Colt. I just can¡¯t seem to do this without sacrificing something.¡±


    ¡°And you chose to sacrifice me?¡±


    ¡°No, just¡­ I can¡¯t be around as much while I¡¯m fixing my grades. And I need you to understand that, just for a while.¡±


    He pouted, but shrugged.


    I continued eating with my stuff strewn across the table.