The Choice

As the auditions loom over the students’ heads, Pria buckles down and sets her sights on acquiring the Sugar Plum Fairy role. The mythical melody with the otherworldly celesta becomes her soundtrack for a few days, and she looks forward to securing her place in the arriving week. Between her requests to occupy the practice rooms on Sundays and her shrewd insistence on working alone, Pria’s demeanor has upset a few of the older girls in her class, who get no such special treatment.

In fact, all four of the girls congregate by the barre and roll their eyes once little Pria manifests into the room, filling the space with her grand, vibrant spirit.

“Just who does she think she is?” The tallest of the four, Rebecca, states snidely.

“I know what you mean,” Carolyn returns, straightening the wrapped braid nestled atop her head like a fabricated halo.

“I hear she got the principal to give her all the keys to the building!” Sadie gossips cattily.

“No way!” Carolyn shouts under a forced whisper.

The youngest of them, Cherie, crosses her arms and puffs a stray hair back on her head.

“We’ll show her,” Rebecca commands, a prideful smirk emerging on her face.

As the small wall clock dutifully ticks away its seconds, the arriving students set their things against the wall and proceed to stretch and perform some small exercises. Pria, once again, claims the farthest corner as her own, banishing sight of herself in the imposing mirror until she’s ready to dance. The four girls in question slither closer to Pria in intervals between stretches, subtly hatching their collective scheme. Luckily for them, Pria remains oblivious to anything but her own thoughts.

Once class begins, the students stagger themselves in rows like an arbor and wait for the music to dictate their movements. Pria hides in the back like a sprout, but the teacher calls her. “Pria, don’t be shy. Stand up here, all right? Then you can help any students behind you who may be lost.”

“But I’m fine,” Pria mutters barely under her breath. Knowing no one heard her, she sighs, tossing her arms to her side, and shuffles begrudgingly alongside the other main students.

“Now what? Carolyn raspily whispers to her friend.

“Don’t worry,” Rebecca reassures, “this is even better.”

The other two girls stand by on assist as Pria lifts her arms and pliés in preface.

“Ready?” Mr. Marson says. “Let’s see those steps.”

The silence transforms with the arrival of the strings’ pizzicato, their steps inching closer and closer. Pria’s ears perk up; she knows already what song it is. Her precious Sugar Plum Fairy. Drawing in air, she puffs up her chest like a balloon and waits like that—almost painfully so—in anticipation.

“What is she doing?” Carolyn complains.

“Quiet,” Rebecca shushes her friend.

The students saunter across the room, on careful pointed toes, simulating their entrance. But Pria doesn’t move; Émile almost bumps into her. “Pria!” he shouts under his breath. But she stands still like an inflated statue.

“Look at her!” Sadie gasps, a bit amused.

“This is writing itself,” Rebecca stands back and observes, lowering her arms.

As everyone elevates their arms and points their toes, Pria stands stoic and inhibited, like a tree or a tranquil night.

“Pria?” Mr. Marson calls. “You’re the only one that isn’t dancing!”

A smile creeps up Rebecca’s face. She’s already imagining the punishment the little prima will receive.

With a flourish, everyone makes their way to their left, kicking their right feet behind them.

Suddenly, Pria reanimates, dictating the turns and spins that follow. Though she almost bumps into some of the girls behind her, the teacher is glad she’s following them at last.

Rebecca grits her teeth.

“Should we still do it?” Sadie asks.

“Yeah.”

The quiet one, Cherie sets herself in focus.

Lost in another world, Pria jumps and steps and turns every which way, following the beat of her heart, which has memorized the cadence of this song. The space she commands is not constricted but enveloped by the sky; the air erases its stagnant heat, refreshing her skin with a cool breeze. Open. Wild. Free. A barrier smacks her out of her daydream, though, gasping all the air out of her. Pria’s idyllic world shatters before her eyes, and her reality is replaced by a sharp fall on a hard floor.

“Stop!” Mr. Marson shouts, killing the sound system.

Pria hyperventilates, trying to make sense of her surroundings. Checking her hands and legs, she slides her eyes up to meet two imposing figures looking down on her with a monster’s contorted grin.

Rebecca’s other comrades snicker to themselves in the distance.

“What happened?” Mr. Marson rushes over, his face flushing with surprise. “I will not tolerate this behavior in my classroom!”

“Oh, but it was Pria’s fault, Mr. Marson,” Rebecca twitters like a bird, drawing out Pria’s name so much that her stingy tone distorts it.

“I’m not blind, Miss Carlson. I saw your intentions,” the teacher affirms sternly.

“But she didn’t dance!” Cherie stomps her foot, raising her voice.

“That’s no excuse!”

By this point, the students gather with open mouths, enjoying the cinematic experience drawing out in front of them.

As the argument progresses, little Pria gets up and brushes herself off, stepping back so as to avoid being in the line of fire.

Mr. Marson sighs, banishing his temper. “We’re starting again. But this time, you and your friends are staying on the other side, Miss Carlson. And I expect to see you after class.”

Some of the students tease Rebecca, cupping their hands on their cheeks and saying, “Ooooh!”

“Fine!” she stomps off, joining her friends. Now the others get the last laugh.

Cherie trails behind her friend, letting out a muffled “Hmph!” and flipping her blonde braids behind her.

“Pria!”

Pria, startled, whips around to see Emile.

“Are you all right?” he offers her a hand as though she’s still on the floor.

“I’m OK,” she returns, avoiding the whole case as though it had never happened. She rejoins her original place beside him in the front row.

“OK. From the top! And everyone dance this time, please!” The instructor shouts, reviving the music.

Though they are on the other side of the room, the girls bore their eyes into Pria, not giving up until they have won the war.

The students shout and chatter, rushing out the door to the next destination in their respective lives. Pria lingers behind, safely packing her things away. Taking out a towel, she wipes her face, complaining about the room’s humid temperature in her thoughts. Banishing the towel, she straightens her ever-faithful black ballet slippers on her feet and gets ready to make an exit.

“Pria,” Mr. Marson calls softly, as though he were calling a favorite dog. “Come here, please.”

Uncertain, Pria steps forth. To her right are the four suspects, huddling with their arms crossed and their faces puffed in disdain and frustration.

“I’m not mad at you,” the instructor relates calmly. “I’d just like you to know that I think it’s important for you to stand in the front for practice. Some students come to me saying they have trouble seeing the others from the right row, and so I thought you could be of help. You know the steps better than anyone, so it’s helpful to them. Do you understand?”

“I suppose,” Pria lowers her eyes.

“Some students tell me they look up to you, so don’t feel ashamed. You’re not teaching or anything, you’re just dancing like everyone else, OK?”

“In the front.”

“Yes, in the front.”

Pria huffs.

“Thanks for listening. As for them, I’ll talk to them. Don’t worry.”

Pria shyly glances over, her eyes met by stuck-out tongues and sharp glares. “OK.”

Leaving the stagnant room behind, the little ballerina takes her time down the hall, losing the momentum she usually has. Somehow, it feels like more of a chore to her to walk than it ever has before. Loud footsteps trot down the hall, and the girls rush by Pria, almost knocking her over again like a stampede of horses. At their departure, little Pria stands still, not knowing what to think. The teacher passes her, patting her head as he walks by.

A foreign sensation wells up in our little ballerina, forming like a pool of thick ink in-between her stomach and her heart. And no matter how she tries, she can’t exhale it away.

Though class is over, Pria forces herself up the stairs to Mr. Marnet’s office and asks for the key. But, just as she’s about to receive it from the begrudged professor, a soft knock sounds at the door. A familiar frame topped with blonde braids looms in the distance. Pria and Cherie lock eyes, staring in disbelief for a few moments.

“Is something the matter?” Mr. Marnet asks.

“No,” Pria mutters, rubbing the key with her fingers.

“Id’ like the key, too,” Cherie chimes in.

“Be my guest,” the principal says. “Just be careful in the rooms.”

This walk progresses worse than before, and little Pria is at a loss of what to think, act, and feel. The world blurs around her as she lets out a cough and fumbles with the key to unlock the door.

Once the serenity of the arboreal practice room hits her, dusting the aggression off her face with fresh air, however, little Pria is completely at ease. Stepping forth, she elevates to her toes, waving her arms forth as though offering herself to the forces that wait.

Cherie slams the door, making it sound like a crack of smashed glass.

“Look, I know that was stupid earlier, but you just really upset us, all right? You act like you’re the best and only one there is, and we get sick of it. You’re not the only one that can get access to the keys, you know!” the spoiled girl blows up, her face reddening like a volcano.

Pria cowers to herself, closing in her arms for protection.

Cherie draws a deep breath. “You take this side, and I’ll be on that side. Don’t come anywhere near me, OK?” She steps off, her footsteps ringing like a vibraphone.

“You, too,” Pria mutters under her breath.

Cherie whips her face back, startling Pria, but then she returns to her destination.

Now, at last, the quiet starts to pick away the troubles Pria has been experiencing. With a raise of her arms, she returns to her previous mantra of following the Sugar Plum Fairy’s footsteps. She has almost the entire thing down, in her eyes, and all that is lacking is her stance and the initial steps. Frozen in place, Pria sharpens her ears to catch the crinkle of Cherie’s cassette player she’s readying. Plunging the earbuds in her ears, she clicks the tape to play and faces the mirror eruditely.

Pria shuts her eyes, focusing on her own thoughts. Summoning the melody in her heart, her body instinctually follows the steps she has traced so often and so well that they must just as well be impromptu. Stepping in time, she reaches the graceful turns and propels herself on one foot, twirling like a top. For a moment, she catches a glance at her rival before pinching her eyes shut again. Then the teacher’s all-too familiar words wing in her head: “You can’t see what you’re doing unless you open your eyes, Miss Pria!”

Pria sighs, lowering her arms and giving in to her headmaster’s plea. With her focus dissolved, the tip-tap of familiar footsteps draws her attention; Cherie readies herself, retaining a statuesque demeanor, then she deftly swipes her foot, carrying herself into a full twirl.

She’s doing the same thing! Pria gasps to herself, the color draining from her already pallid face.

With a swift glance like a tossed dagger, the rival dancer states her dominance and turns her head defiantly like a displeased ruler.

Pria gulps, returning to her steps. This time making sure her stance is straight with aid of the mirror.

The two ladies spin about in the room like an elegant ballroom display, purposefully keeping their strides away from each other. Cherie turns, Pria turns. Cherie points, Pria points. The act becomes a telekinetic tug-of-war as they step in and out of sync with each other. The braided girl grits her teeth, sending shockwaves of tension through her whole body.

They cross one leg over the other, alternating feet for turns, see-sawing back and forth as if in an act for final dominance. Cherie tenses herself, planting her feet firmly to the ground enough that she could bore a hole and plant herself there. She continues the maneuver even though it should be done, her blood boiling. Pria, serenely like a swan, pirouettes. A diminished yelp and powerful thud distracts little Pria and throws off the delicate balance the room once had. Pria halts, cautiously checking her surroundings.

“Ugh!” Cherie bites back her tears and crimps her foot with both her hands.

Pria observes at a distance, standing unmoving as though waiting by a wild animal.

“I-I sprained my stupid foot!” she yells out, all frustration quietly transforming into disappointment and fresh pain.

Pria inches forward. “Are you OK?”

“I don’t need your help!” she winces, a force numbing her foot. “OK, I do need your help! I think it might be broken.”

“Really?” Pria asks with a bit of wonder.

“Look, I know I made you fall earlier, but please help me!” Cherie begs, wide droplets falling from her brown eyes.

“Hmmm…” Pria muses aloud.

“Please! It really, really hurts!” she sobs.

Pria sighs, feeling guilty. “OK. I’ll be right back.”

Slamming through the door, she pounds up the stairs in record speed; it’s only when she reaches the top does she whisper a little hope that Mr. Marnet is there.

“Mr. Marnet!” she yells into the open door.

Luckily, he’s there fighting with the stapler on his desk. “W-what? What is it?”

“You know the girl who was practicing with me in the room?”

“Yes, I know her. Why?”

“She fell and is crying now. She thinks she broke her foot.”

“Oh, my goodness!” Mr. Marnet shouts, horrified. The stapler clatters to the desk, smashing the new line of staples. “We must go right away! Take me there, Pria.” Mr. Marnet buttons his outer jacket on, snatching the first aid kit off the shelf.

“OK,” Pria responds, escorting him out of the room with probably too much headway and speed. It’s only down the first set of stairs that she realizes he didn’t call her “Miss” Pria.

The scene inside the practice room is the same, though Cherie has inched herself to a more comfortable seat on the floor, and her tears have subsided, forming dry shadows on her face.

Mr. Marnet hobbles up to her, unpacking the first aid kit. “What is it, my dear?”

“M-my foot,” she forces, the opening of her mouth causing the tears to return. “I think it’s sprained.”

“Well, let’s see.”

Pria crosses her right arm over herself, staying close to the door. Her gaze fixates on an ordinary section of the floor, fighting the urge to look forward.

After a moment of whispering and muttering, intelligible words worm their way into the air.

“I think you’ll be fine,” Mr. Marnet says, relieved. “It doesn’t feel broken. But I bet it was a shock.”

Cherie just nods her head, mumbling a soft, “Thank you.”

The principal picks her up, seating her on the podium desk.

“Now, I have to go get a form to fill out, so I’ll be right back. Don’t move, OK?”

“OK,” the girl complies.

Pria steps out of the way for the principal to exit, and her feet move of their own accord closer to her previously-thought antagonist.

Cherie twiddles her thumbs, absconding her gaze. Frustrated, she slaps her hands on her thighs and fesses up. “OK, I admit it. I’m grateful to you for helping me.”

“You were crying,” is all Pria has to say.

She flushes embarrassingly.

“Is it OK now?”

“Yes…I’m fine.”

The two make genuine eye contact, just letting the quiet air hang around them.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” Cherie speaks up. “That was really immature to do.”

Pria blinks, listening intently.

“We’re just jealous of you,” she kicks her legs against the podium. “It’s like you don’t even have to practice. And so I got frustrated and tried to show off. And look! What if I would have broken my foot? Then I’d never get to dance again. That’s…what made me cry,” she comments sheepishly.

“I’m glad you can still dance, though.”

At this, a smile blooms across Cherie’s face. “Thanks, Pria.”

Pria returns a soft smile.

The principal returns, carrying the injured girl up to his office. Across his shoulders, she waves goodbye to her new friend as the door closes behind them.

At last, the ambiance is still again. Pria pacifies her fluttering heart. But the thought looms in the back of her mind: is everyone really upset with her?

Next Chapter: The Talent