Just a Kid

Pria went to bed the previous night all dressed up in her ballet outfit, black one-piece and tights with her little slippers, just so she’d be all set for class today, but her dad insisted she has to go to her first day in perfectly clean clothes. So she made him wash them right before they left.

The little, black car pulls up to the monstrous onyx building, and Pria’s heart skips a beat. Though she had only just been there, Pria’s eyes fill with dew and her face fills with a smile as though stepping into a long-awaited dream that’s been waiting in the back of her mind. Pria nudges the car door to shut on its own and waves goodbye to her dad once she slips into the lobby.

The academy looks polar the day of her visitation: students and dancers frolic about, comparing their schedules and tying their shoes for practice. The air is filled with chatter and velvety perfume. Pria shuts her eyes a minute to soak in the moment. It’s arrived.

When her eyes snap open, she propels herself toward the one goal in her mind—and heads unwaveringly toward that destination. Luckily, she doesn’t have to go far, for her quarry is out of his office and standing on the second floor to help the graduate students along. When Pria comes into sight, Mr. Marnet rolls his eyes under his glasses and paints on a patient smile.

“Welcome, Miss Pria. Do you know where your classroom is?”

“No, Mr. Marnet. I’m lost,” Pria returns with flat tone and expression. Even her eyes stand perfectly still and hollow like old soda.

“Well, since I had to make an exception for you, you’re with Miss Posy on the third floor. Make sure you behave in that class, all right? Or else you’ll have to stay in my office.” Mr. Marnet tries to sound threatening, but his best attempt could scarcely shoo a fly off the windowsill let alone concern Pria.

Pria dismisses the juvenile-sounding name of “Miss Posy” from her mind to focus on what else she wanted to ask, but the thought has since escaped her. “OK. I’ll see you later, Mr. Marnet.” With a casual stroll commanding her gait, the little ballerina makes her way up the stairs.

“All right. Have a nice time,” the principal calls back—then a gasp suddenly catches in the back of his throat like a bubble of water, and he worries to himself: Does that mean she means to get into trouble?!

The hallway stretches before Pria like opportunity; though she falters a bit with sudden doubt, a sigh still unearths. The classroom comes into sight, a marvel much like a tableau: ballerinas stretching and testing out the aerodynamics of their frilly skirts. Pria soaks up the artwork before she becomes a part of it. The woodwork surrounds her like a forest, lifting her spirit of calm. She can already envision the cut grass and the little pond where the heron spreads its wings and stands sveltely in arabesque. Her pink duffel slipped from her fingers somewhere between the door and where she currently stands, though she doesn’t miss the weight one bit. It glistened away like her doubts.

The teacher calls everyone to line up, and all the ballerinas immediately scatter and find their places on the barre like a flock of birds searching for a spot on the wire. Pria manages to be sandwiched inbetween the masses—a shadow in the raging sea of pink.

“Point! Point!” the instructor cheers out, like it’s some kind of factory or mining work rather than a dance lesson. And each of the girls, all of their own accord, reach out their left foot to point their toes. Some hesitantly, some confusedly; some painfully rigid, some poised. This continues, through a literal wave of boredom, for five minutes too long for little Pria. Then they switch feet, turning over to the other side like a sunset. Pria can tell by the time they begin to rotate through the positions that this course is going nowhere fast. Plus, it’s only 30 minutes long, a mere inhale in Pria’s time. Impractical as a half a heart beat.

At the end of class, Pria matures herself and musters up the tact to wait until she is alone in the hall to throw her ballet slippers off her feet. She then huffs and slams to the floor beside her tortured shoes and crosses her arms, inflating her face like a balloon. Needless to say, Mr. Marnet is going to hear it today.

Pria elevates herself on tiptoe to spy through the frosted glass into Marnet’s office. Unable to spy any movement, she kneels and puts an ear to the door, listening attentively like a mouse making sure the cat’s gone away. Nothing—not even the soft clicking of the typewriter or an occasional cough amid rusting papers. Just to make certain, though, the little girl kicks down the door. Empty. Now Pria’s visibly upset, which almost never happens, though in a modest sort of way. He’s always supposed to be in his office, she asserts and wonders just where he could be now. Ignoring waiting around as an option, the ballerina picks up her feet and her pink bag and scatters off to search the whole locale for a trace of a hint.

Finally, her resolve pays off. Giselle wafts from the main stage, and Pria paws open the door a crack to inspect. A mystique song swirls its way around the dancers, making them appear like phantoms as they glide and wave about mysteriously. Pria is engulfed by the moment, fully entranced as usual. Though, a touch of a frown hits her face when the song bounces off of her, rejecting her vessel.

“OK! It’s that time again, everyone! Please pack up and get ready for the next class!”

Pria flinches and escapes from her trance. All this time, her quarry was waiting before her, and she didn’t even notice. Mr. Marnet stands in front of the stage, looking even shorter than usual as the palatial platform with its erudite columns shimmering in captured sunlight looms over him like a cathedral. Pria almost can’t believe it, for his mousy voice sounds so strained and different when he shouts. Command with the modesty of age. But now, she lingers.

Mr. Marnet brushes his face vigorously with a towel, mumbling under his breath that the heat that’s evaporated in this room is terrible. The girls scatter to the dressing rooms to set aside their muses, and the sound system up above pops once the music fades, as though letting out a sorrowful sigh for its lost love. Props are pushed away, and lights are extinguished like candles. Then, in small groups, the girls and few boys escape to their normal lives, disappearing through the hidden wall beside the stage. Pria smiles to herself, cherishing her new knowledge of the secret passage that only the adults know.

Then, there is only silence. Even the vapor of the warm essence of the living begins to fade away to the chill of the air conditioning. With tiny staccato footsteps that get absorbed by the velvet seats, Pria hops her way up to the platform and lingers there, searching the view from Mr. Marnet’s eyes. With a subdued sigh, she shuffles to the stairs; muffled creaks follow her across the wood, and her eyes scan the stage as though to find the shadows and footprints left behind by the dancers. She inhales the spirit they left behind.

With arms outstretched, she lets the moment take her as it wishes; the song wafts its way back into her heart, though now only a fading melody that is patched together by vague memories. Pria steps about, tracing the footprints of the dancers; her arms wave in echo of their phantoms. Pria wanders around a bit more, skipping from tiptoe to tiptoe. But then she stops. No one stands beside her. The warmth evaporates with a burst of chilling air. Lowering her arms, her head follows, and soon her whole body is limp. It’s just not the same.

For the first time in her life, little Pria can sense the wide distance between her and the older classmates. Between her and the advanced. But is that really her own fault?

With a sigh, she retrieves her bag at the entrance and turns back, waiting for the lights to die out and leave her sulking in the shadows. But they never do.

The Advanced Class

Pria mopes the morning away, burying her face in her fluffy pillow until her foster dad becomes unable to hold in his concern any longer.

“Pria? Did something happen?” he asks, creaking the door open.

The little girl does not respond at all; her body doesn’t even move an inch, like she’s become a life-sized doll.

“How did ballet go yesterday? I thought for sure you’d be happy!” he tries to cheer her up, but to no avail.

A few seconds of clock’s ticking passes. Pria suddenly bursts from her stasis, yelling out her complaints wildly like a toy that’s just been switched on. “Mr. Marnet lied to me, and I’m in the course with all the babies!” Then her pillow is smacked by her face again, its fluffy contours masking her entire face—and especially her tears.

Asher sighs heavily, like a tree moaning in the wind. “You want me to talk to him?”

“No,” the muffled reply comes. “I’m going to yell at him later.”

“Well, I know you’re annoyed, but don’t yell. Adults need to learn that it’s wrong to yell at everyone,” Asher instructs, letting his strange daughter alone. He’s had enough experience with her to know she’s just being stubborn and will soon get over it. After all, she’s not that privy and comfortable with her emotions, so they are a constant burden to her when they happen to trace ripples along her still surface.

Pria senses the door is still open, leading her secrets to the outside world. She wipes her face with a fist and steps to the doorway, peeking out to see if there’s room for her. A voice bounces along the walls, the words getting left behind. Pria pouts. With an initial stomp, she retrieves her pocket purse and swipes on her ballet slippers. With a quick swish, she binds her short, black hair into a tiny ponytail.

She heads determinatively toward the door like a speeding train.

“Hey, I called him, so he said he can talk with you when you get to school tomorrow.”

Pria says nothing, her hand clutching the golden doorknob.

“Well?”

“I’m on my way,” she mutters, shoving off outside to begin making her own strides to pave the path of her future.

Pria hops on her cobalt bike and sets a mental course for downtown. It’s not too far from the suburbs, but it’s still quite a journey. The roads are all familiar to her now, though all the signs and zig-zags of the city blocks become fuzzy to her once she’s surrounded by them. So then she follows the invisible line her dad showed her which is aided by the red lines to the metro.

Marshmallow clouds sail across the sky today, and the sunlight darts in and out of sight as it hops about in the sky. Shimmering buildings absorbing the blue sky keep watch of Pria as she glides along. Restaurants are filled with people, and shops buzz along with action; all windows are crystal clear like dollhouses where one can observe everyone’s actions and smile upon them in favor, wondering what they’ll do and where they’ll go next. Pria likes that.

The city blocks form a wind tunnel from the breeze and the nearby lake, and Pria darts away, upset that she didn’t bring a jacket to accompany her ever-faithful black leotard. She parks her bike at the bike rack at the head of the street, leaving it to its own. Pria much prefers walking, though it bugs her that she can’t possibly walk to and from the ballet academy and home without wasting tons of time. And her dad doesn’t want her taking the train or bus by herself just yet, so she has to zoom around on her old bike.

But walking is her favorite, because it allows her to set herself free. The ledges along the sidewalk wait for her patiently. With uninhibited stance, she hops upon the elevated bump, and the soles of her feet flatten like pages. Steadily, she sets one foot in front of the other, gliding her way across the beam; her arms reach for the sky then slowly pour about her back, finding a final resting place huddled at her low back. This journey always leaves her mesmerized. Sometimes, she closes her eyes and pretends she’s an airplane jetting off through the sky or a traveler riding an elephant, unable to deviate from the animal’s focus. She doesn’t understand why no one else uses the ledges instead of the plain, old walkway. It always leads toward the same place.

A heavy shadow cloaks her path, and Pria stops in her tracks. She doesn’t even have to look up; it’s the ballet academy. She recognizes the violent crack in the concrete that’s injured her path. Pria lets go of a sigh. Truthfully, she’s wary of getting angry at Mr. Marnet, for it’s gotten her in grave trouble before with her teachers, and that’s why Asher had to homeschool her. Pria’s little chest clutches with fear—what if he kicks her out, too?

Still, the ballerina heads toward the door, pushing against it with meekness first then with all her might. Frustrated, she plants her feet to the ground and pulls the door mightily, grunting and lifting until she loses her grip. It’s closed! Pria stomps her foot. How could they possibly be closed? She doesn’t understand it. After all, it’s her second home now; she makes a mental note to ask Mr. Marnet for a copy of all the keys. Luckily for Pria, a shadow bubbles behind the frosted glass and makes quick work of unlocking the door for her.

Mr. Marnet appears. “Hello, Miss Pria. You can come in.”

Erasing her shocked expression, Pria passes through to the lobby.

Everything is dead silent again—just like when she first visited. It likens the building’s ambiance to a home or a sacred treasure that no one else experiences. Pria almost prefers it that way.

Instead of racing herself up the stairs, Pria lingers beside “grandpa,” making sure he’s all right. His chiseled, gargoyle-like smile is beginning to concern her. Maybe he’s going to lock me away? The thought crosses her mind, but she gulps away her worry and shakes the notion out of her head.

They traverse the halls in silence, reaching the office sooner than expected beneath all the tense atmosphere. Pria freezes at the door as Mr. Marnet wanders to his desk and swings in his chair. Fluffing up a few papers, he shimmies his glasses and waves Pria in—this time with a softer smile.

Pria takes that as her cue and steps into the sky-bathed office. Breathing sighs, she sulks into the armchair and twiddles her fingers, looking down like she’s done something truly inhumane.

“Did you want to ask me something, Miss Pria? Your father called me earlier and said something was weighing heavily on your mind,” Mr. Marnet questions, oddly cheerfully, his voice carrying like a kind and wise cartoon owl offering advice to an Alice-like character.

“No,” Pria mutters, still haunted by the vision of the teacher’s crimson face.

Mr. Marnet about falls off his chair. “No?!” he blurts out, surprised. “Y-you’re fine with the introductory class?”

Pria’s eyes scan the principal’s sprawled-out surprised look (he almost looks like a bug about to be squashed) for a second, then her gaze returns to her feet. Her sight wanders about the plush carpet, inching up the wood desk like a caterpillar. But then the professor comes into view again, and her focus retreats back to the floor.

“Well, maybe a little bit, Mr. Marnet,” she mutters.

“A little what?”

Pria huffs out all abandon, puffing out air like a steam train arriving to the station. With a stomp, she shakes the floor. “I don’t like the beginner’s course! I know all this stuff already!” she shouts. Relieved of her guilt, she shuffles back into her seat, offering herself a protective embrace and a guard with her skinny arms. Though to some, it may look like she’s trying to figure out how to cross her arms. Her face relaxes into a subservient, slightly-upset kind of melancholy.

“Oh, is that all?” Mr. Marnet breathes a sigh of relief, glad she didn’t start throwing a tantrum. “Well, I didn’t want to bother you with this, Miss Pria, but I believed it would be better to be with kids your own age, so I didn’t tell you.”

The prima ballerina keeps to herself, her expression growing a bit more frustrated.

Mr. Marnet sighs and collects some papers in a pile. “There is an advanced class, but the kids there will be a little older than you, Miss Pria. I was afraid you’d be picked on or ridiculed if I put you in that class, do you understand?”

Pria’s eyes illuminate. “How old are they?”

“Well, the advanced ballet is for students 10 to 12-years-old, but I’m not sure if that’s a good choice for you, Miss Pria.”

“Why not?”

The principal sighs, knowing that her mind’s probably already made up by this point. He taps the papers on his desk impatiently. “I just don’t want you getting mixed up with the older kids. They all believe they’re teenagers already.”

Pria’s eyes, wide as a puppy’s, stare right into his heart, transfixed.

Mr. Marnet shudders. “Well, if you don’t mind it, I could let you try it. I mean, I agree that you’re much more advanced than the beginner’s ballet.”

Pria cups her cheeks in her hands and leans on his desk with a look of endearment traced in her eyes. “You know, Mr. Marnet, you’re not so bad, after all.”

“I-I’ll take that as a compliment, Miss Pria,” he mutters, feeling his allergies coming on again. “But please do let me know if they bother you, because I’ll speak to them myself, all right?”

“Oh, don’t worry, Mr. Marnet. I don’t care about other kids, anyway. It’ll be like they’re not even there.”

The principal sighs under his breath. “I see,” he mutters, shuffling together a stack of papers to cement the transfer. “Oh! That reminds me, actually. Another young man and his mother came by a while ago—at the start of the new semester. He wanted to join the class, too, and his parents were very firm about his decision. He was about your age, too.”

Pria’s eyes dance like candlelight, tracing her imagination. “Really? So I wouldn’t be the only one?”

“No, not as I thought. And he seems to be doing fine. Maybe the two of you will get along.”

Pria rests her face upon her hands again, her eyes searching the ceiling as though to find the distant, cut-off stars of possibility. “Maybe…” she wonders aloud dreamily.

With that, the official stamp seals the documents and sets Pria’s future in stone. Her real journey to adulthood is on its way.

Next Chapter: Sweet Preteen