"Okay, great. Let me just run up and grab a change of clothes. I smell like grease."
"Did you at least eat something when you got off work?"
This time, I do actually sigh. At least I mentally sigh. "Yes, Mother. I ate. A sandwich."
I should tell her that I had a half—okay a quarter of—a turkey club sandwich, but I'm sick of accounting for my food. Her worry is not without good cause. I don't know if she'll ever believe that I've moved on from that stage in my life.
On the other hand, now that I'm not dancing as much, I can't afford to eat as many calories in a day. It's a delicate balance.
After packing a quick bag and leaving a note for Imani, I rush back down the stairs to find my parents waiting in a rental car. I slide wordlessly into the back seat and begin counting. I only make it to fourteen before the onslaught begins.
"Do you want to explain what you've been doing with yourself?" My mom doesn't say "young lady," but her tone implies it. I catch my dad's concerned gaze in the rearview mirror.
Sometimes he's my ally. I'm not sure if this is one of those times.
"Oh you know, taking classes. Working. Living the dream. Same old, same old."
"Really? Because you're no longer listed on the Five Boroughs Ballet Company website."
Whomp, there it is.
I sit in the back seat of the car, looking at my hands in my lap. Shame flames my cheeks. It's bad enough to have been fired. It's worse to know I disappointed my parents.
Again.
I twist my fingers, picking at the errant cuticle on my index finger. "Yes, well, you know I was only promoted to corps because of that accident." I shrug, even though they can't see it. "Everyone's better now. They didn't need me."
My mom whips around, her pale fingers gripping the back of the seat. "But you were supposed to use that opportunity to prove yourself!"
My voice rises to meet hers. "I tried, Mom. I really did. I was there day in and day out. Longer than was required. I danced until my feet bled, and then I danced some more. But let's face it, I'm not good."
Against my will—as are so many things in my life right now—the tears I've been attempting to suppress escape and run down my cheeks. My parents hate it when I cry. I hate it when I cry. It's like announcing to the world that I'm a baby who can't deal with anything.
"There's no need to cry. And you know you're good. I don't know why you would say you're not."
With the back of my hand, I slash the tears away from my face. "Well, of course, I'm good. I wouldn't have made it this far if I wasn't. I'm just not good enough to be a professional ballerina."
The statistics don't lie. Only about two percent of training ballerinas make it into a top professional company. I'm in the other 98thpercent. Realistically, I was probably in the top four percent. It was close, but not close enough.
My mom takes a deep breath in. My dad still says nothing. This is pretty standard for them. He may be big and strong, but when it comes to parenting and emotions and, well, anything difficult, Mom does all the heavy lifting.
"Do you think it's because of …" she trails off, tipping her head toward Dad.
"No, I don't. Not here at least." Her concern is valid. It was definitely an issue in Ohio, but not at FBBC. New York is more progressive than the Midwest. "I think it's because I'm not as technically skilled. You know my posture's always been an issue. I'm not a great turner. My jumps are too athletic-looking."
My stature, at 5'6", is more like the compact muscular builds of gymnasts than the long, lean, waif structure normally associated with ballerinas. And then there's my full D's. No matter what, they bounce when I dance. I'm a great jumper though, with solid thigh muscles.
That's not what the traditional ballet world wants to see.
As the car pulls into the harshly-lit parking garage, I can see how crestfallen my mother is.
I see her disappointment and raise her one.
We get out of the car and my dad slings his big arm over my shoulders. "Tough break, kiddo. No worries, though. We'll make sure your room's ready as soon as you can get out of your lease."
I stop walking. "Wait, what?"
My mom turns around, adjusting her large pink purse on her shoulder. "What?"
