As I glare into the long full length crystal clear studio mirrors, all that’s noticeable is how everyone looks the same except for me. They’re all tall and skinny with long toned muscular legs and short torsos, naturally turned out feet, perfect hair with black leos and pink tights that fit like they were made for them. Then there’s myself. Short legs, moderately sized torso, a bit heavier set, untamable hair and worse of all I am pigeon toed so my feet naturally turn inwards.
I’ve always known I don’t fit the “dancer look” they all have that’s lacking in myself, but it never seemed to matter until I’ve started competing and auditioning. It should be judged on your talent and not how you look but it tends to never go that way, you need both in order to be successful. Every time I get my score sheets back there’s always comments on it about that.

I quickly snap out of my thoughts and realize we’re doing Pas de bourrees at the barre. This is my forte. Skill wise I’m definitely the best dancer here, look wise the worse. We finish our last set as the calm, peaceful ballet music slowly fades away to a finish.

“Class is dismissed!” Our teacher Molly announces,

“Change the padding in your pointe shoe’s before the next class!”













*

*

*



Class has ended so I head to the bathroom before I leave for home, I’m the only one in it. It’s late Thursday night so there’s only a few classes still in practice and rehearsal. I walk into a stall and sit down. My legs are uncontrollably shaking from the last few hours of practice. I run ideas through my mind about ways I can fix my image, and change it to the way I want it. The easiest is yet the worse. I start to make myself throw up. This is not the option I should have chosen and I will soon find that out…










*

3 Months Later
*


Its showcase day, the day where all the competition groups show their dances that they will be competing the next weekend while the others watch. My group is practicing in our costumes for the first time yet, I’m worried because I’ve lost so much weight since we were fitted months ago for them and mine is hanging on me. Our teacher molly walks into the dressing room, she tells us,



“Line up in the back.”


She walks by each one of us sticking pins in the sides, gathering seems and writing in her notebook who needs what fixed. She stops at me.
“Blayne, Go and change back into practice clothes and stop into see me before you leave.”


The whole night all I have worried about what molly is going to say. It can’t be good. I walk up to the front desk where she sits and wait for her to start talking,


“Blayne, I’m sorry but the only way we could fix your costume is to order another size and it would take until the season is over for it to be completed. I’m sorry but you will have to be cut from the group dance.”


“It’s okay, I understand.” I quietly reply.


I leave the studio as fast as I can and start on my way home. I went from one extreme to the next and ruined a dream of mine and there’s no way I can fix it now.