Glitter glistens on the floor, almost covering the entire stage. The spotlights reflect little beams of light from the glitter and the sequins and the pieces of dreams left on the stage floor. The stage is not as picture-perfect or as glamorous as it may appear from far away. Up close, a sweat-caked marley floor sits atop the scratched wood where the county’s middle school plays are held. Bobby pins trail behind the dancer, leading to her spot in the dressing room.
ANNABELLE
She had to fight for that spot by the door closest to the stage. Standing next to her rack of costumes, she slips her arms from her team jacket and tosses it into her bag. The name on her jacket reads Annabelle. She fixes her ballet shoes, tucking the strings under the top of the shoe, and looks up to a room full of competitors, each one stretching their legs up towards the ceiling, pulling at their muscles to make them stretch just a little bit further. She fears they can stretch further than she can. Each one looks as if they are going to snap at any moment.
Her eyes shift back and forth. At first they look intensely focused but eventually they glaze over. She runs through her dance, carving every movement into the air. The air around her functions as a canvas, a place to express her inner self. Suddenly she stops. The girl in the far right corner of the dressing room practices her turns, eight fouettes into a double pirouette. She nails them. She doesn’t bobble one bit. That’s when her eyes glaze. Filled with fear, filled with uncertainty. After a few moments, she snaps out of it. She grabs her phone and headphones and rushes to the hallway. The door she opened looked too heavy for her frail arms. She’s finally alone. No distractions, just her and her movements. The music begins playing in her ears. Her arms make the first gesture. Her fingers carve through the air like a whittler, creating an intricate pattern. It is completely and utterly unique to her body. No one else could make that same pattern. Like a snowflake, she dances through the space surrounding her. The movement takes over her body completely. Her mind continues to spiral. Keep the timing. Point your toes. Push shoulders down. Imagine a string pulling from the top of your head, keeping your posture perfect. Don’t go dead face. Emotions make or break. Don’t fall out of this turn. Your leg isn’t high enough. Suck in your stomach. You shouldn’t have eaten that cookie earlier. Are your hands making the correct shape? Are your movements delicate enough? Hit the accent here. Look like you’re enjoying this. The music ends.
Her body keeps moving, mostly fidgets and a lot of shaking. Her hands unsteady, she picks up her phone off the cold ceramic tile flooring of the hallway. Suddenly she notices how cold the floor is. Until then, she was so distracted by nerves that her senses were delayed. The chill rushes through her entire body and her teeth click together a few times. Only a few times. Then they stop. Her eyes stare down at the crimson and deep blue tile. Perhaps she’s lost in thought, worrying about what will happen when she steps on stage. After a few moments her head snaps up and she walks quickly back to the door of the dressing room. The door seems heavier, like something is weighing her down.
Her costume is simple. A white leotard with a long mesh skirt that flows behind her in a trail whenever she moves. She picks it up and looks at it for a minute. Eventually, the costume envelopes her body. The fabric doesn’t roll on the sides or stretch out too much. She slips a few extra bobby pins around her bun on the back of her head. She sprays one last bit of hairspray, slicking down any imperfections. It’s almost time. She fixes the strings on her ballet shoes that have come untucked. It’s time.
ROSEMARY
Sitting in the corner of the room, Rosemary stretches. No one has seen her leave that spot for about an hour. She switches between her right and left splits like a tic, like some kind of compulsion. Her feet flex then point over and over and over again. Her life moves in a cycle constantly following the same schedule. Her days are filled with routine, plans, and perfection. Reaching step thirty-six of her day, she shifts out of her split for the last time. She peddles her feet, arching one then the other. Her body pulls up straighter than the wall beside her. Her dirty blonde curls lay just below her shoulders. The coils look effortlessly beautiful as does her entire being. Her green eyes with specks of blue around her pupils, her tiny button nose in the center of her face, her high cheekbones, the light smile that lays on her face at all times, her thin figure, the flexibility of her hips, the arches on her feet, all of it adding up to perfection.
Rosemary. Even her name sounds perfect. She steps around her monstrous bag, filled with any essentials she might need, into an open space in the populated dressing room. She runs through her dance. She sees people staring. It looks like they’re staring right through her. The music plays in her head. She knows it like the back of her hand. The turn section. The most gut-wrenching part of her piece. Eight fouettes into a double pirouette. Each turn looks exquisite despite the panic that brews inside of her, the panic that will unleash itself if she bobbles in any way. Still, a light and pleasant smile forms across her face while she turns. Her relevé high, her shoulders down and back, her spot focused on a girl across the room. Judging by the look on her face when she finishes running through the dance, Rosemary didn’t see it as beautiful. The turns were not enough to keep her confidence up. Maybe her leg could be higher, maybe her musicality could use some work, maybe her facial expressions don’t match her dance well enough, maybe another girl turns better than her.
She rummages through her duffel of dreams and pulls out a makeup bag nearly the size of her head. She doesn’t need makeup, but if she wants to continue to stand out and shine like the star people think she is, she has to pile the makeup on top of her perfect skin. Her blush makes her look happy. She drags down a bit of black eyeshadow under her eye, something only seasoned competition kids do. She puts a drop of eyelash glue onto the back of her hand. She grabs a Q-tip and dabs it along the false eyelash. She chose her favorite wispy ones. Her lips purse together to blow on the eyelash making it tacky. She knows this is the best consistency to apply the eyelashes. Her last step is lipstick, but she saves that step for later, knowing that her lipstick has to look perfect.
She pauses to take a sip of water but afterward keeps moving. She seems to always be moving. Her hair still dangling down her back, she scrunches it together, then dutch braids it. She’s far too fancy for a french braid. Hairspray covers her head, but she struggles to keep down one single flyaway on the right side of her head by her ear. She piles more hairspray on until it looks greasy. She looks in the mirror seeing one thing, but the world sees something completely different.
What do they see in you? Why do they think you’re so perfect. Perfect. You hate that word. You can’t stop saying that word. Perfect. Perfection. Perfectionist.
She ignores her thoughts and begins her cardio regiment. Starting to sweat, she takes off her team jacket, revealing her two-piece lavender costume. It complements the green in her eyes. She grabs her phone to check the time then looks up to the schedule she made up weeks prior. The schedule details every dance of hers. The name of the dance, the time, each costume piece, which shoes she needs. She does this for each dance and places each in sequential order. The sheet is taped to the front of her program so that she can see every dance in the competition next to her schedule. The time is 2:17 pm. The call time for her solo is 2:43. She takes a quick peek in the mirror and adjusts the waistband of her skirt. She grabs her turning shoes, looping the elastic around her heel. Her shoes cover the blisters and calluses and bruises on her toes. They cover the imperfection. She looks serene, but her heart is beating through her chest so fast she can’t recite an eight-count without running out of breath.
The curtains backstage crowd around her, she feels them closing in although they barely budge. They’re heavy, the wind from the dancer she watches spinning across the stage won’t move them. The song nears the end. Her time is up. Rosemary lifts her hand trying to hold it steadily but it quivers like a dog in the cold. Please welcome number three hundred sixty-two Miss Rosemary to the stage. She takes one last deep breath, puts a beaming smile on her face, and steps out of the comfort of the curtains. It’s time.
Years of practice have led both dancers to this moment.