a fragment from a piece i started a while back
thinking of continuing it maybe. we'll see where it goes.
gracelynn.
I think every piano sounds a little bit different. That each note is just a tiny bit chalkier, or, perhaps, more resonant. Sometimes the sound is fuller, grander, and sometimes it’s horribly out of tune, like the one in this practice studio.
Still, my feet hit the ground in almost perfect rhythm, the drumming of blood in my ears keeping me in rhythm. This all came naturally to me. It should’ve. I’d been dancing since I’d been standing. Toes pointed, chest lifting, wrists extending. I was born for the ballet.
I think I’ve been trying to live up to name since before birth. Gracelynn. Germanic. Meaning: as graceful as a waterfall, quiet, and shy. I had been all those things. The quiet dancer, who even with perfect form, did not gloat or attract attention to herself. The dancer who was content to dance in the ensembles, in the back row, smiling at the hundreds or people who couldn’t see her. Gracelynn Eve Aarons. Waterfall.
A shooting pain ran up my leg, toes slipping under me. The last turn, the pivotal moment, and I screwed it up. My knees hit the floor hard but nothing hurts more than my pride. I had an audition in two days, and I was still just background dancer material.
I thanked the pianist for his time and pounded my aching feet down the three flights of stairs and out the front door of the practice studio, my self-loathing so rudely interrupted by the sound of my buzzing phone in my coat pocket. My breath fogged the screen in the form of my exhausted sigh. It was Evan, and god love him, I so didn’t want to talk him right now.
“Hey, Evan.”
“Gracie, you’ve been practicing for this audition for weeks. I haven’t seen you in like twelve days. Remedy this now please.”
I couldn’t help but snort into the receiver. At least someone wanted me.
“I’m sorry Evan.” I squished the phone between my ear and shoulder, swiping my metro-card through the slot and pushing through the terminal. “Things have been crazy, and you know how important this is to me.”
“Gracie I know that voice. That’s your ‘I’m about to turn you down for some practical reason’ voice. Lucky for you, I’m already in O’Brians. See you in five, chica.”
I lurched forward as the train started to move, fingers sweating against the pole.
“Evan ––” I began.
But he’d already hung up.
alicia.
I dance the way my father drank – recklessly, unforgivingly, but absolutely perfectly.
I didn’t take normal lessons until I was fifteen, and by then every other little eight-year-old at my level could do triple fouettés down the floor and land in a split. I had never felt more out of place in my life. The only reason I kept going to those stupid classes was because they were effectively a way out of myself. I could forget the booze on my father’s breath every time his rough skin touched mine, or how my mother, the plainest jane you’ve ever met, learned to masterfully cover any wound with a bit of Clinique concealer. When my feet hit that floor, muscles and bones and ligaments screaming in unstretched leather shoes that were a size too small, nothing had to feel real anymore. I felt like I was flying, even if in actuality I was only flopping around on hard linoleum floors attempting to look the way everyone said I should. I learned not to care. I would listen to the sharp notes of the piano from the speakers hung limply around the room and dance. That’s all I ever wanted, no fancy costumes or expensive shoes. No fame. No glory. Just dance.
My current teacher, Madame Ivankov, loved to tell me everything wrong with me. Since she bore a Russian surname, she believed it gave her the excuse to be the rigid bitch instructor. My legs were sloppy, arms were far too weak to be those of a dancer. One week I was too skinny, the next too fat. I wear too much make-up. I’m unapologetic. I’m messy. I’m irritable. I’m the most imperfect dancer she’s ever seen in her life.
At first, her words cut into me like blades, the slightest mark of tears not safe from her critique, “nobody likes an attention-whore for a dancer.” But I’d later learned to revel in it, to use her utter disappointment as fuel to life my legs higher off the ground, to push harder into the floor, to tighten my spin and fly while she sat wallowing in the misery of my inherent imperfection. Every sigh she loudly expelled was fire under me. I loved it. I craved it. I was addicted.