“I’m in rehearsal thirty-five hours a week. I’m sure I’m fine,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Fine is not the same as perfect.” I can practically see her thickly lined pursed red lips give me the same look reflected back at me my entire childhood. The one I now give myself that grazes purposefully over my body, focusing on any imperfections. “You must push yourself, mon amour.”
My face burns with frustration, but nonetheless, I rake my eyes over my body, noticing the run in my light pink pantyhose. I bite the inside of my cheek because no matter how hard I try, there is always something.
“I really do have to get back to rehearsal. Can I give you a call later?”
I feel the beads of sweat forming between my skin and the fabric stretched taut across my abdomen. I feel the incessant need to scream or throw something that always blazes inside me when I speak to my mother. It’s hard to remember if it was always like this with her. If she always focused so much on how I couldn’t quite meet the expectations she had set for me. The picture of her when my dad was alive is hazy, but I force myself to believe that she wasn’t always like this. That all the things that changed in me the day we lost him also changed in her.
“Oh mon amour, I must go. I'm getting a call. No moresnacking and watch that clip I sent.” The line ends and I close my eyes forcing myself to breathe in my nose and out of my mouth. I take in the scent of the dance studio, focusing on the more sinister undertones—the unwashed costumes hung on a rack to the left, the shredded pointe shoes tossed in the bin by the door.
“You good? Or did you get burned by the she-demon’s wrath?” Jean says, peering in from the door that leads to the hallway.
“Can we just start?” I mutter.
Jean rolls his eyes but says softly, “You deserve better than that Gen.”
And while some part of me knows he’s right, there’s a shadow spilling across it, the one that my mom and Will and all the whispers of “bitch” or “ice queen” continue to cast. No matter how hard I try, I feel like it always creeps back in, engulfing any other possible perception of me.
“So when is baby’s first everbooty call,” Jean changes topics, coming back up to the bar, and the thought of Grant stops the darkness that just took root in me from spreading. Because he wasn’t looking at me the way people usually do—like I’m tainted, like I’m not measuring up, like I’ve either done something wrong or I’m about to. It was like he was looking at me for the first time. Remembering that has me fighting a grin I definitely don’t need Jean seeing.
“He said he’d text me the details,” I say just as my phone lights up with a text message.
From him.
An overly shrill squeal comes from Jean’s body and I lose the fight against my grin. He uses his eyes alone to force me to check the message.
Grant
Friday at 7?
I tilt my phone screen for Jean to see, so grateful I have someone to confide in about this.
“Welovea man who keeps his word!” he says, throwing his head and hands back in excitement. “I told you he’d be perfect.”
Clicking my phone shut, I toss it onto my bag and roll my shoulders back, willing my anticipation to take a backseat.
“Okay, enough procrastinating. We have work to do.”
Six years ago
I pull, once again, at the light pink spandex, trying to get the fabric to stretch up past my shoulders. I feel the start of a cramp as I attempt to free myself from the garment, sweat forming at my hairline as I, again, try to suck my body into itself.
The ballet top from last year’s showcase is my safety net, the one I wear anytime I have my period or eat too much the night before since it’s always slightly loose, but right now, I can barely get it back over my head. Over the past few months, my body has…changed. Like it was fueled by this summer’s intolerable heat, my childlike frame softly started curving its way into womanhood. My jaw grinds as I see the dips and curves in the mirror, the way I’ve seen my mother’s do a thousand times, as if her femininity, the plushness of her body, is a curse to ward off.
The pale skin of my stomach peeks out beneath my uniform and what was a straight line—perfect for ballet—now dips in and out, exposing newly found hips and breasts, a softness that the women around me have fought against ever since I was aware enough to notice. I press my eyes closed, pulling as hard as I can against the garment still clinging to my sweat. Tears prick my eyes as I’m unable to rid myself of the tight fabric, panic and shame gripping me like a vise.
I gently open my door, listening for the pad of footsteps downstairs, and hear nothing. My heart rate steadies slightly, knowing Gary isn’t down there. Gary—my mother’s newest husband, mystepdad. But I’ve had two of those already, so is it really a valuable label? He seems to think so. I can tell it gets under his skin, the way I barely acknowledge his existence. And maybe I would if being in his presence didn’t feel like being stalked by a predator, me the prey.
I pull the top back down to uncover my face, the baby hairs now peeking out from the carefully laid bun that managed to stay in place after my eight-hour studio day. I smooth them down with my fingers, displeased with how disheveled I look.
I make it into the stainless steel kitchen, my steps echoing. Our entire New York City apartment could have fit in this kitchen, and I think I preferred the tiny shoebox with our counter microwave to this monstrosity. I swallow, pushing the thought away as I begin scouring the drawers for something I can use to cut myself out. Finally, out of desperation, I grab a steak knife from the rack above my head. I pull the fabric taut away from my skin, my heart rate returning to normal more and more after each exaggerated tear. Just as I’m about to make the last cut, the door to the garage opens and in comes my mother. Her eyessquint, taking in the situation before her. I feel the lump in my throat form as she stills.
“What are you doing?” Her thick French accent shakes with quiet fury.
“It was too small, maman. I was stuck.” I gesture to the now shredded fabric draped over my exposed midriff, my face burning with embarrassment. She slowly shakes her head, her face morphing into something venomous.
It’s only then that I notice Gary, a leathery hand resting on her shoulder.
