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Sweat pours down my face and I relish every drop of it. This is by far my favorite dance class. The instructor is amazing, even if she is five months pregnant.
“Toni?” Wiping my face with my last clean towel, I turn. I need to go to the laundry, but I’m too broke. It’s come to the sad fact that I either have clean clothes or food. So, I guess I’ll be washing my dance clothes in the sink for the second time this week.
“Yes?”
Tilly stands holding her dance bag over her shoulder, smiling at me. “A bunch of us are going across the street for some beers and a burger. Want to come?”
At first, I look around because no one ever invites me out. And then reality slaps me in the face. Even if I could go across the street for a beer, which I can’t because I’m only nineteen, I have no money. Instantly my cheeks, already flushed from jazz class, burn hotter.
I straighten my shoulders. “I can’t,” I snip, then force a smile despite the look of surprise on her face. “I have another class tonight.” I should turn and leave, but I can’t stop from saying more. “Also, I don’t eat meat.” It sounds accusatory, and my stomach rumbles at the lie.
She cocks her head and her eyes travel down my body all the way to my beat-up, barely held together jazz shoes. They’re more duct tape than shoes.
“Are you sure? I’d love to pick your brain on where you studied. You’re an incredible dancer.” She’s being sincere, even nice, which, let’s be honest, is way worse than if she’s a bitch.
“Thank you, but no. I… can’t.” Turning, I walk to my corner and grab my dance bag.
“Wait.”
Straightening, I heave it onto my shoulder and take in her appearance. She’s tall, with firm muscles from years of vigorous dance and dark brown hair and pretty brown eyes.
“I’ll buy.” She smiles again and I notice a diamond stud in her nose.
“I have money. I’m busy, that’s all,” I say, wanting the ground to swallow me up. I love this studio. The woman who owns it used to know my family, so she always lets me dance and take classes for free. My mind races. Will I have to switch back to ballet? It’s a sure way to segregate myself. None of the latest group of dancers I’ve been hanging with would be in ballet.
Ballet. I can barely think about it, much less step foot in a class.
“Okay, maybe next week.” She smiles again.
That feeling—like an elephant is pressing on my chest—makes me ignore her as I look at myself in the large mirror. Big cat eyes blink and stare back at me as I give her a curt nod.
“If you change your mind, we’re across the street.” She motions with her hand.
“I won’t.” It sounds rude and I make it worse when I smooth my tight bun, which is already perfect, and don’t even acknowledge her as she leaves. I let out a sigh. My body does need a cheeseburger or ten. I’m thin, even for a dancer, and that’s saying something. I have to get another job. This is ridiculous. Waiting tables is not cutting it.
I need cash, and I need it fast.
Slipping on my gray sweatshirt in case it’s cold outside, I turn to see if anyone is still around and make my way over to the large board that holds all the pamphlets and cards. Thankfully, the studio is empty, so I can take a good look at everything. Maybe I can find some free dance classes. My eyes scan the many postcards and advertisements for dance apparel and personal coaching.
If only my parents were alive. If only my dad hadn’t done the horror that he did.
In one second, one awful night, my life, career, everything was over and today I’m feeling it.
My eyes take everything in. I stand on my toes to zero in on the one flyer that has been taunting me all day.
Exotic Dancers wanted. Must be serious dancers. Willing and not shy about showing their bodies. Must come prepared to use a pole and have a routine.
Please contact Crystal or Derrick.
213-682-8852 or 818-387-9966
The Pussycat.
Taking a quick look to make sure I’m still alone, I rip the flyer down and stuff it into my bag. I race down the steps and into the night.
I’m kind of excited. Never in a million years did I dream I’d consider doing this. But that was