that single moment of blistering pain in my chest to mess me up.
I stumble and fall. Again.
Loud, bitchy teenage laughter rings throughout the studio, bouncing off the walls when I land on my knee, hard.
“You lack concentration and passion. Don’t even get me started with your lack of form and balance. It’s like watching an overcooked noodle try to dance. It’s disgusting!”
The girls laugh. I look down at my feet, feeling tired and beaten down, but I don’t say anything because I know she’s right.
Swallowing the embarrassment, I get back on my feet but keep my head held high. If pride’s the only thing that’s keeping me sane these days, then it’s pride that I’ll hold on to.
“We spent months working on this routine. You were near perfect, now this?”
“Ms. V., I…”
“You were always a star, but now you show up late to my class. Your head isn’t in this studio. You’re sloppy and careless,” she says each word with emphasis, her voice loud deliberately. I know she wants the other girls to hear her knocking me off my throne.
She circles me, then she comes to a stop behind me. Our gazes clash and hold in the large mirror ahead. Then she leans in and whispers in my ear.
“I can’t believe all of Nancy Montague’s talent, finesse and rare set of skills were wasted on you.”
Everything in me hardens.
It’s not the first time I’ve heard someone say that. My mother is a true ballerina at heart. She’s taller, lithe, not at all as curvy or as short as I am. She was elegant and graceful. I’ve tried all my life, but I haven’t achieved that level of perfection.
But that doesn’t mean someone gets to tell me I’m not like my mother.
In that moment, anger and frustration rises in me, making my insides knot up with tension. I narrow my eyes at her.
“I’m not a waste.” I start, keeping my eyes directly on her. “I’m the best dancer in this class, hell, in this state and you know it, or else you would’ve booted me off a long time ago.”
“Mia—”
“I’m not a waste,” I repeat. “Respectfully, Ms. V.”
She’s silent for a beat.
“Maybe,” she starts, her voice low, a frown marring her facial features like she’s constipated. “Or maybe it’s just your lack of discipline and the fact that you’re so entitled, with that golden spoon in your mouth that makes you say that.”
I keep my mouth shut even though I have an impressive word vomit ready to dirty her up. I hold my tongue only because Ms. V. is regarded as one of the best ballet instructors ever.
She even comes with my mother’s rare stamp of begrudgingly given approval. But I’ve since discovered that Ms. Voldemort once upon a wrinkle-less time, wanted to be like my mother, but she was never quite as good, age difference being irrelevant. I think the fact that she’s constantly reminded of her failures makes her a bitter old hag with wrinkles on her saggy senior citizen face.
“I have discipline,” I argue silently, pushing away the images of me coming undone in Julian’s arms.
“No, you think you’re God’s perfect gift to classical ballet,” she says. “You think you can take on any challenge and pull it off. You have no respect for the graceful artform that thousands of girls all over the world only dream of being part of. You have no discipline. I suggest you take this weekend to go find it.”
Like I said, bitter old hag. I turn around and face her head on.
“With all due respect, I think you should lay off me. I have respect for ballet. I work harder than anyone else in this class and I even have a resume to show for it,” I seethe, keeping my voice low. “If I wasn’t, your school wouldn’t be open right now.”
I regret the words as soon as they fly right out of my mouth. Being mean isn’t exactly something I like doing, it actually makes me sick. But like a wounded animal with nowhere else to run to, I use my automatic assault riffle-tongue to fire shots.
“What you are, Mia, is a disgrace to your mother,” she counters, her voice loud.
There’s an audible gasp that moves through the room. All eyes turn to me, all of them waiting to see what I’m going to say to that, but this time, all my bravado dissipates like mist.
Mute and unblinking, I stare at her feeling dejected because it’s true. I am a disgrace