From the age of four, I’ve been wearing custom shoes and hand-stitched shirts and vests, all while gliding along a polished hardwood floor for a table of judges. It’s not just in my blood, it’s seared into my soul. How do you let something go after nearly nineteen years? The short answer is: You don’t.
Pushing the blankets off my damp body, I get out of bed and head for the railing of my second-level bedroom. My loft is an open concept with no interior walls, the twenty-foot height split by a raised sleeping area accessed by a set of metal stairs. My hands grasp the cool railing as I stare straight ahead at the window, showcasing the first snowfall since I’ve been here.
New York is vastly different from Los Angeles this time of the year, and as far away as I could be from my family without leaving the country. My father, Emilio Sanchez, will never forgive me for what I did, and I’ll forever be the son who found solace in pills and cocaine. So much so I nearly died for them. No matter how much I’ve changed, that’s how he’ll judge me, even though my longing for them died the moment I was robbed of my future because of them.
Stretching my arms over my head and shaking out my hands, I try to chase away the lingering effects of my nightmare as my body aches with pains I’ll never fully be rid of. They remind me every day of the life I let slip away, of the release I so desperately need back. I hiss out a breath as my feet hit the cold metal of the stairs and make my way down toward the only room in this place with a door. My bathroom.
I despised this apartment at first. The industrial feel of it and the lack of interior walls made me feel so inconsequential in the large space, but now, after months of solidarity inside of its walls, I love it. The two parallel walls are red brick, giving the place a rustic vibe, leading to the single window on the adjacent wall, one large enough to fill the entire space with sunlight or starlight. Floor-to-ceiling panes reveal a New York landscape, and being on the top floor, I get a beautiful view of the skyline and not the buildings beside mine. My father may hate me for what I’ve done, but my mother will always have a tender spot in her heart for me. When he demanded I be sent across the country, away from my friends and the life I worked so hard for, my mother made sure I had a beautiful place to live in. She may not have had a say about my punishment, but she eased the sting of it by picking this apartment.
At first, being away from home and my family was agony. I’ve never lived on my own, nor have I been alone with my own thoughts for long, extended periods of time. I was too used to filling those spaces with the noise of parties or the blissful silence of drugs. Now, I’ve come to like sitting in silence and self-reflection.
Leaning over the large vanity counter, I turn on the facet and splash my heated face with cold water. Looking up, I watch in the mirror as each drop of water drips from my jaw, the beads taking the remnants of my nightmare with them. My forced exhale clouds the mirror, but my light brown eyes shine through with a sadness I could never mask. I fear I’ll always feel like my soul is cleaved in half, the other piece floating somewhere in Florida. The place where I swallowed my last fatal pill at the American Dancesport Festival.
Brushing back my unruly black hair, I grab the towel hanging from the bar and dry off my face. My skin has grown too ashen, my body too lean, and my face gaunt. All because I’ve been shutaway from the world, left without a purpose, as my fractured soul drifts through each day, waiting for death to provide a reprieve.
I throw the towel onto the counter with a sigh, my morbid thoughts doing nothing for the depression that’s encompassed me. Even though I’ve brought shame on the Sanchez family, my mother insists I go to meetings weekly, but I can’t take any prescribed medicine to chase away the clouds hanging over my head. Liliana Sanchez, my mother and internationally acclaimed prima ballerina, says I have to learn to heal myself to prove I no longer want a chemical high. I’m struggling to make it through the day, but I agree with her. I’ve proven to be weak when it comes to drugs, especially those obtained through a prescription. All it took was one small back injury, providing a prescription to my addiction.
My bare feet pad along the heated floor of my loft as I head toward the kitchen, needing a drink to soothe my parched throat. The light from inside the stainless steel fridge makes me squint as I reach in and grab a bottle of water, the cool plastic like a balm over my palm. I unscrew the cap and turn to face the window, tipping the bottle back and drinking half of it in one go.
The snow falls harder, blocking out the light of the moon and creating shadows along my light hardwood floors. Placing the bottle on the dark granite countertop, I make my way to the tan leather couch. Curling up on the cold cushions, I grab the red fleece throw blanket from the back and drape it over my body. There’s no way I’ll fall back asleep tonight, and even though I’ll pay for it in the morning, I don’t bother to head back to bed. I’ll only toss and turn until the sun rises and my day begins. It’ll be an even longer day because I have a Narcotics Anonymous meeting after school as well.
I’m trying to follow all the rules, trying my best to prove that my recovery will stick, but it’s gotten me nowhere. My parentsare still adamant I don’t dance, still strict about knowing my daily routines, and even though they’re on the other side of the country, I’m watched like a hawk. I have a driver to take me from home to school, to meetings, to appointments, then straight back home. I have a cleaning lady who comes into my loft twice a week, not to just clean, but to search through every drawer and cabinet, reporting back to my father. Even the doorman downstairs calls him a few times a week to tell him how I’m looking and acting.
I miss dancing, I miss the feel of my feet as they kiss the ballroom floor, and I miss the sweat of pushing my body to painful limits. Despite it being a year since I’ve danced, I can still close my eyes and imagine the steps for the Foxtrot, Jive, and Viennese Waltz. My hips also remember the sway of the Rumba, Samba, and Cha-cha.
My earlier search for dance studios near me yielded two, but only one has former world champions as owners. Greyson Ford is an exceptional dancer in his own right, but Vaeda Lewis was well-known during my time competing in the Youth and Under 21 divisions. She and her dance partner, Gerardo Martinez, were like royalty in the circuit. As soon as I saw her name, my stomach flipped and my hands grew damp. This was the one, the studio I needed to join.Fusion Core Dance Studio. Just the name sends a shiver down my spine, a feeling of fate coming over me. I want so badly to dance, and if I can be instructed by some of the best, I know I could make a comeback.
My hands shook as I filled out the form online, my heart pounding out a rhythm of fear. If my parents found out I applied to join an advanced dancing class with the potential to compete again, they would drag me back home and lock me in a room for the rest of my life.
Now, I would just have to figure out a way around my family.
Slipping into the back of the Range Rover, my eyes meet Roger’s in the rearview mirror. “Hello, Roger,” I murmur as I put on my seat belt.
“Good morning, Mateo,” he replies, his eyes still scanning my face. “Everything okay?” He no doubt sees the exhaustion in my features, the bags cushioning my eyes, and the change in my body from when I first came here to now.
“Yes,” I reply, keeping my answer short. I like Roger; he’s a good man who cares about me like a second father, but his loyalty will always be to my parents.
“I can bring you Theresa’s chicken soup if you’re not feeling well.” His hazel eyes focus back on the road as he pulls away from the curb, the traffic already bumper-to-bumper at 7:30 in the morning. His wife, Theresa, is a chef here in New York and owns a restaurant. Her food is to die for.
“I’m not sick, but if you’re offering Theresa’s food, I won’t say no.” I grin at him as he laughs, the sound reverberating inside the SUV.
“She and Sara have been asking for you. You should come over for dinner sometime soon.” I bow my head at his suggestion, my chest tightening. It’s not that I don’t enjoy his family’s company, I just don’t have it in me to be social. Sara is just turning nineteen, and even though we are only four years apart in age, I feel so much older than her. There’s no other explanation, I’m dead inside. It’s the reason why I found relief at the bottom of a pill bottle; it made mefeelsomething.
There was a time when dance wasn’t enough, when winning trophies and thousands of dollars held no appeal, and when the chemical high gave me the euphoric chase, I was hunting. I’man addict, it’s clear I always have been, and it’s not for drugs. It’s for the adrenaline and excitement in pretty much anything. Once dancing became routine and my days mindless, I sought out more.
There will always be a risk, a constant threat, that I will succumb again, but I fight it with every fiber of my being. Like these past few months as each day grows more and more bleak. I’ve been filling my time with more NA meetings and school, but nothing will ever beat the rush of dancing.
Silence falls over the vehicle as I rest my forehead against the window, the flurries lightly descending from the sky as the snow tapers off, leaving behind a thin layer that’ll melt away by this afternoon.
“I miss dancing,” I confess when the silence becomes deafening. “I don’t know what to do with myself.” I surprise myself with the admission, but I realize I need to say it out loud.
His exhale sounds around me as he stops at a red light. “Your parents are worried about you and dancing, Mateo. I can’t even imagine what they went through when they found out what happened. If Sara had been through the same…” he trails off and clears his throat. “Find yourself another passion. Put that energy into your schooling.”
“I’m majoring in Economics, Roger,” I huff and lift my head from the window to meet his eyes in the rearview mirror. “No amount of passion will make it interesting.”
“I’m sorry, Mateo.” He needn’t apologize, none of this is his fault, and there’s nothing he could do to change the situation.
Fifteen minutes later, he pulls up to NYU and turns in the seat to watch me grab my bag and remove my seat belt. “Thank you, Roger.” I try to give him a sincere smile, but from the look on his face, I don’t think I succeeded.
