Prologue
“It’s wrong, all wrong! Your turns were sloppy, your jumps were short! Why aren’t you trying harder?” I slide to the floor, my head on my knees trying to breathe. I’ve been at this three hours, I need a break. But you don’t become the best by taking a break as my mother used to say when I complained when I was younger. That lesson has been ingrained in me since I was two. I can’t take a break, no one gets anywhere by slacking off. I climb shakily back to my feet, sweat sliding off my body. My pointe shoes already starting to tear, this’ll be the second pair I’ve gone through this week.
“Again Rosalynn.” My instructor says not caring I can barely stand. The music starts and I start my routine again. I imagine my mother standing there looking at me disapprovingly behind her glasses.
“Rosalynn Milana Evans you are my daughter, you will do better than that sad performance. Do better now.” My mother never let me slack, never take a break. I spin, jump, and twirl through the air and across the floor along with the frenzied pace of the music, my blood pulsing and sweat flying away from me as I go faster and faster. Before I know it the frenzied piano and violin give way to calmness and I finish the dance as the music fades and I spin into the final position.
“Perfect Rosalynn just perfect. You have such a gift, just like your mother.” I flinch at the mention of her but accept the praise, my instructor doesn’t give it out easily. “Take five then come back, there are a few moves we could tighten up.” Even when I’m perfect there’s always something to improve, a pound to be shed, a muscle to work to its limits, and another hour devoted to some type of dancing.
I run to the tiny kitchenette and inhale half a gallon of water before going back into the studio. I go back to drills, routines, and dances again for another three hours. Finally my instructor lets me go. I step out into the cool New York air, thankful because I’m overheated. Xander pulls up a few minutes later at the prescribed time. I climb into the car.
“Hey babe.” He says pulling out a cigarette. I wrinkle my nose, he knows I hate them.
“Roll down your window, those things stink.” He groans and rolls down his window. Sweet maybe we can avoid fighting for the twenty-minute ride home. “Thanks.” Xander nods, and drives me home in silence.
“Bye.” I say as I start to get out of the car.
“Roo come here.” I look over to him. He reaches over and pulls me into a kiss. Nothing, no magical spark, no love, no passion, no lust even, just doing it out of habit. I let his lips touch mine for barely a second before pulling away.
I climb out of the car as Xander drives away and walk into the house. It’s empty as usual. My older brothers, all five of them, Aiden, 28 still in Florida; Carter, 29 in California; Camden, 30 in Maine; Barrett, 31 in Oregon; and Blaze, 32 in New Jersey. Every one of them married with kids, the oldest of my nieces and nephews being only four months younger than me. Usually someone is visiting but since it’s October schools just started up a few months ago, so no one is here. I got to the kitchen and grab an apple, then go back to my extra room which my dad transformed into a dance studio.
I run through my routine again, “No one gets anywhere by never practicing.” Even after six hours of practice in the afternoon and two in the morning it will still never be enough, there will always be someone better at jump, lighter and can be tossed easier. I have to practice more, weigh less than 105, but not succumb to anorexia or bulimia, “Those are disgusting habits that make you a loser. You do this by not eating more than can be exercised off.”
I dance for another hour before exhaustion over takes me. My mother’s training so ingrained into me I can’t imagine not doing this every day. I go through my nightly routine and brush my teeth, pull my long curly hair into a bun, just as my mother used to do until I was old enough to do it, all this my whole schedule my mother set me on when I was born is just second nature now. I can’t imagine not doing it, I don’t know any other way to live.
I go to my room, filled with pictures of famous ballerina and dancer that changed the face of dance, my mother is one of them. Every night I fall asleep seeing how successful some are, they fill my dreams, I will be one of them, no matter what. I turn on my ipod, here’s one kink in my mother’s perfect regimen, I love rock music, well anything that’s not classical or mainstream. I sing (well scream) along loudly to a metal song from the 80’s, and I lay down in bed.
The music turns to calmer music and I start to fall asleep. “Rosalynn.” My father calls as he walks into the house. Damn it’s ten o’ clock, he’s home early, guess he didn’t go to the bar. I climb from bed and walk into the hallway.
“Yessir?” I mutter sleepily. I need to straighten up, for all I know he is drunk.
“We’re moving next week. I want you packed up by the end of the week.” He turns and walks into his office. I wipe the sleep from my eyes and finally compherend what my father said.
“We’re moving?!?!”
“Again Rosalynn.” My instructor says not caring I can barely stand. The music starts and I start my routine again. I imagine my mother standing there looking at me disapprovingly behind her glasses.
“Rosalynn Milana Evans you are my daughter, you will do better than that sad performance. Do better now.” My mother never let me slack, never take a break. I spin, jump, and twirl through the air and across the floor along with the frenzied pace of the music, my blood pulsing and sweat flying away from me as I go faster and faster. Before I know it the frenzied piano and violin give way to calmness and I finish the dance as the music fades and I spin into the final position.
“Perfect Rosalynn just perfect. You have such a gift, just like your mother.” I flinch at the mention of her but accept the praise, my instructor doesn’t give it out easily. “Take five then come back, there are a few moves we could tighten up.” Even when I’m perfect there’s always something to improve, a pound to be shed, a muscle to work to its limits, and another hour devoted to some type of dancing.
I run to the tiny kitchenette and inhale half a gallon of water before going back into the studio. I go back to drills, routines, and dances again for another three hours. Finally my instructor lets me go. I step out into the cool New York air, thankful because I’m overheated. Xander pulls up a few minutes later at the prescribed time. I climb into the car.
“Hey babe.” He says pulling out a cigarette. I wrinkle my nose, he knows I hate them.
“Roll down your window, those things stink.” He groans and rolls down his window. Sweet maybe we can avoid fighting for the twenty-minute ride home. “Thanks.” Xander nods, and drives me home in silence.
“Bye.” I say as I start to get out of the car.
“Roo come here.” I look over to him. He reaches over and pulls me into a kiss. Nothing, no magical spark, no love, no passion, no lust even, just doing it out of habit. I let his lips touch mine for barely a second before pulling away.
I climb out of the car as Xander drives away and walk into the house. It’s empty as usual. My older brothers, all five of them, Aiden, 28 still in Florida; Carter, 29 in California; Camden, 30 in Maine; Barrett, 31 in Oregon; and Blaze, 32 in New Jersey. Every one of them married with kids, the oldest of my nieces and nephews being only four months younger than me. Usually someone is visiting but since it’s October schools just started up a few months ago, so no one is here. I got to the kitchen and grab an apple, then go back to my extra room which my dad transformed into a dance studio.
I run through my routine again, “No one gets anywhere by never practicing.” Even after six hours of practice in the afternoon and two in the morning it will still never be enough, there will always be someone better at jump, lighter and can be tossed easier. I have to practice more, weigh less than 105, but not succumb to anorexia or bulimia, “Those are disgusting habits that make you a loser. You do this by not eating more than can be exercised off.”
I dance for another hour before exhaustion over takes me. My mother’s training so ingrained into me I can’t imagine not doing this every day. I go through my nightly routine and brush my teeth, pull my long curly hair into a bun, just as my mother used to do until I was old enough to do it, all this my whole schedule my mother set me on when I was born is just second nature now. I can’t imagine not doing it, I don’t know any other way to live.
I go to my room, filled with pictures of famous ballerina and dancer that changed the face of dance, my mother is one of them. Every night I fall asleep seeing how successful some are, they fill my dreams, I will be one of them, no matter what. I turn on my ipod, here’s one kink in my mother’s perfect regimen, I love rock music, well anything that’s not classical or mainstream. I sing (well scream) along loudly to a metal song from the 80’s, and I lay down in bed.
The music turns to calmer music and I start to fall asleep. “Rosalynn.” My father calls as he walks into the house. Damn it’s ten o’ clock, he’s home early, guess he didn’t go to the bar. I climb from bed and walk into the hallway.
“Yessir?” I mutter sleepily. I need to straighten up, for all I know he is drunk.
“We’re moving next week. I want you packed up by the end of the week.” He turns and walks into his office. I wipe the sleep from my eyes and finally compherend what my father said.
“We’re moving?!?!”