Sweet Preteen

Just as the other night, our little ballerina didn’t get much sleep for this morning—but the reason is because, of course, she spent all night dancing and imagining what her new class will be like. The unconscious mind’s frivolous fancies were pale in comparison to the scenarios she projected herself into, so she denied the presence of sleep’s form of dreams until the stars crinkled away by dawn’s light. Her father, of course, chastised her for this behavior, but Pria insisted she was perfectly awake. She even took her time eating breakfast and even stayed at the table—not once moving from her seat.

So it’s no surprise then that little Pria is the first to arrive for her new class: “Advanced Ballet Studies.” Sitting on the bench, kicking her feet, she repeats the words to herself a few times, feeling proud of herself.

The teacher, a male much younger than Mr. Marnet, soon arrives, and Pria hops from her seat in the hall and rushes through the door as soon as it’s opened, startling her new teacher a bit as though she were a mouse that had just scurried by. Though the ballet studio is the exact same room she was placed in earlier, Pria views the outlet with new eyes, seeing it fitting as a castle or perhaps even a yard where the horses and knights go to practice their routines. Flitting about and spinning around, she gets used to the wide space and savors its comfort, not having to worry about knocking her head into bookshelves or to restrict her steps so she doesn’t knock over lamps or figurines.

The instructor, one young lad named Mr. Jules Marson, looks on Pria’s jubilance with a smile and gets to work setting up the sound system, which wakes up with a pop. Satisfied with her surveying of the atmosphere, Pria plops on the ground to start her stretches. At her impact however, she notices something strange. The floor bounces back at her! How odd, she thinks to herself, and realizes that this room isn’t the same, after all. Up on her flat feet, Pria bounces at the ground, increasing her impact with each jump. It’s almost like she’s on a trampoline, for the floor won’t budge, instead offering a cushiony resistance like a mattress.

“It’s a springboard floor,” Mr. Marson explains. “It’s nice, isn’t it?”

Pria doesn’t respond with words, allowing her glossy eyes to express the besotted reaction for her. If she had been told in addition that these are the typical floors for professionals, she would have flopped upon the ground and rolled in bliss, spreading her arms as though making snow angels.

It’s not long until other students flood through the doors. Pria’s heart constricts and throat clutches as the room’s capacity increases to ten then fifteen then finally twenty-two, including her. She’d never been sardined in a room with this many kids before. Not only that, but the kids tower over her like skyscrapers, some girls’ shadows stretching taller than two Prias. Pria draws a thick breath, slipping quietly to the corner of the room. Her magnificent field has become a mountain range with nowhere to skip freely.

Claiming the corner as her own, she sets up her own cave and resumes her stretches. It has been a couple days since she has stretched, so she struggles a little with tight calves. Though, don’t be fooled by her annoyance; she’s more limber than putty.

Among the plethora of kids, there are only two males besides the teacher—one boy who looks considerably young for his age and another who sports intricately hazel eyes. Pria is interested by him the most. She immediately senses he must be the other kid that’s her age. With his harvest-colored hair like soft milled wheat in addition to his topaz eyes, Pria envisions him as a scarecrow. But a friendly and cute scarecrow at that. Pria then turns her thoughts inward, musing upon her strangely crow-like appearance, with her stark raven hair and thickly black eyes like smoke. Pria mutters to herself, suggesting perhaps it’s fine because the rest of her is like a porcelain statue, almost too inanimate to be real. Besides, she smiles to herself, her coiffed hair matches her leotard.

After stretches come the reviews of positions and a couple jumps. Though Pria knows these already, she isn’t upset because it goes fast and because she learned the names of the jumps she always does at home.

Then the stereo switches its melody with a click of a button, prefacing to the future with a succession of colorful chimes.

Wait. I know this, Pria muses to herself. It sounds familiar.

The students scatter at Mr. Marson’s command, gathering in their own groups. Pria stands dead center in emptiness, still lost in deciphering the song.

Jules kneels before Pria, explaining the situation and snapping her out of her trance.

“Where’d everybody go?” Pria voices her first words, shaking her head all around.

“You see, Pria, you came in the class later than everyone else. I’ll have to explain things to you,” instructor Jules explains in a quiet, soothing voice.

“Oh.”

“For the end of class, we’re all dancing a recital together in the auditorium. It will be a shortened version of The Nutcracker. Since it’s going to be Christmas!”

Pria’s eyes light up like the city at Christmastime. Then the light bursts in her head, causing her to make the connection. Sugar Plum Fairy! That’s the song the music box was cheerfully chiming.

“So we’re getting into our groups to practice roles for audition.”

Pria beams with determination. She knows she’s going to get a great role. The main role. Only the main role, she adapts as a mantra.

“If you have any questions about rules or choreography, ask Laura,” he points to the tallest girl in class, who is discussing something with four seated girls. “Or Émile over there,” Jules instructs, referring to the boy Pria earlier likened to a scarecrow.

Pria nods, making her way to the group Émile is in, which barely has any kids in it besides him, his friend, and a pretty girl with a petite figure and brown pigtails.

“OK, everyone!” Mr. Marson calls out. “Remember to practice your choreography we learned last week together in groups. When twenty minutes is up, we’ll all do it together with the music.”

The kids huddle in their groups, chattering and explaining.

For once, Pria feels a little lost, like everyone’s sharing secrets she doesn’t know. Meekly, she takes a seat against the wall, bundling up in a shell, hugging her legs tight in a bunch.

“Hi, there!” says the pig-tailed girl. “You want to join our group?”

Pria nods.

“You can join,” Emile says kindly, offering to pick Pria off the floor. “You don’t need to be shy.”

Pria relaxes her huddled stance but doesn’t return the offer to stand.

“You look new. You must be something else if Principal Marnet let you join in this late!” Émile comments, a bit impressed.

“It’s only been like two weeks. Which is only about four lessons so far, right?” The other boy scoffs, waving his arms.

“Yes, four classes. But then there was the camp on Saturday,” the girl responds, stretching out her legs and reaching for her toes. She’s getting tired of sitting.

“I couldn’t make that day. But I know you guys didn’t do much.”

Pria huffs into her imagined bubble, her breath pouring back at her.

“Come on, we should show her the choreography so she doesn’t get lost,” Emile snaps the other two into action, who humbly but slightly begrudgingly acquiesce.

Pria observes carefully as the three of them wave their arms in sync and twirl upon their toes like the figure in her pink music box at home. Pria doesn’t need to be reminded, though. The songs waft in her heart, and the steps trace out her movements poetically. She’s seen them flash before her eyes far too many times; heard their entrancing melodies more moments than she can count. So she returns to her shell, ignoring her fellow pupils, sulking once again to herself that she can’t just learn on her own.

This concerns Émile. “Pria?” he tries to call for her attention considerately, but then the teacher shouts out for everyone to line up in front of the mirror.

Once again, Pria lingers between the shadows that stretch out around her ominously. Everything ahead of her is so bright and so sharp it stings her eyes and pierces holes in her heart. Slithering in the back of the room, she nestles herself in a comfortable silence. With two precise inhales and exhales, she pushes away the anxiety, which is a new set of chains around her, and closes her eyes, dissolving her essence into the darkness.

“Let’s review the routine for the Arabian Coffee dancers, all right?”

“OK!” The chorus resounds, some sections sounding more confident than others.

Pria conceals a hint of a smile.

Mr. Marson clicks on the sound with the handheld remote and stands in position with everyone else, waiting for the song to begin. The students all turn in sync, focusing themselves on the far side of the room. This dance uses a lot of space.

Pria summons the visions of the dancers that had so entranced her, bequeathing her their stories and roles. With a wave of her arms and a tap of her feet, she follows the cadence of the song, its march her heartbeat. She’d always envisioned this dance as an elegant walk, a way of movement that no one would normally use to get from place-to-place, but one that could transcend all meaning. Then comes the turn, slow and steady, as though improvised. A trill of the heart as the song moves along steadily. With all her might, Pria arcs her arms and torso to the floor, as though a swan diving down to the lake to make its landing. As she rises up to the sky, her arms and hands dance around, as though catching fireflies and netting them close to her heart. The tinge of a smile now bursts with light; that’s her favorite part. So many times she’s seen this, but for so many times she’s waited until now to actually try it herself.

Then the thoughts flutter in her head as the song continues to take her away. What if we did this all the time? What if I just danced all the parts? Pria simply can’t choose what to do once the song begins to play, because all she wants to do is follow its wishes and unfold its path. Her stance falters, the words and choreography slipping through her fingers. Now she knows she could never decide. But that just makes her want to try out the entire ballet to see which piece fits her the best.

Next Chapter: My First Ballet