I slip down the stairs of my parents’ home, with one location in mind. But like always I pause when I look over at the refrigerator. The padlock is firmly in place.
My mother’s perfect kitchen looks odd, with big locks nailed into the wood cabinets and the looped chain that holds the refrigerator door closed. It’s sealed so no one can get in. No one but her. I don’t even know why she bothers. It’s not like she keeps much in there anyway. Anything worth wanting.
Still, the pang in my stomach reminds me that I’m hungry. It makes me feel like taking anything I can get my hands on. Grabbing the lock, I give it a little pull, but nothing happens. I feel the lump in my throat and I push it away. This isn’t new. I should be used to this. I release the cold lock from my hand, and the metal hits the stainless steel of the refrigerator. I cringe, praying it didn’t wake my mother.
I wait a second, holding my breath, but hear nothing. Letting out a sigh of relief, I head toward the back door, slipping out into the cool night air. The dampness of the grass makes my feet a little wet.
I stop and look at the little building that at one time felt like everything to me, the place my mother had built because she finally loved me. She saw something in me that was worth loving for the first time. I’d made her proud. For a time, at least.
Sometimes I can’t get out of that place fast enough. And other times I sneak in to be alone.
I open the glass doors and walk in, sitting down on the cold hardwood floors of the dance studio. I stretch, trying to make my muscles not feel so tight. They ache from being overworked, and what I really need is sleep. But my mind won’t let me have it. The pain in my muscles and the hunger that lingers from missing dinner bite at me.
I know the only thing that will give me peace is if I dance. It’s the only thing that makes everything else melt away. To dance for myself. To not think about the performance I have tomorrow. It’s when I feel most free. No one here to yell at me and tell me I’m doing it wrong. That my feet aren’t right or that I’m not trying hard enough.
When I dance for myself I don’t care about any of that. I feel the music and let it take me. I fall into a world where there are no pressures to be something I don’t want to be, to live up to impossible expectations, no matter how hard I try or how hard I work. It’s never enough for her. But in these small stolen moments, it’s enough for me.
And that’s all that matters. Until she wakes up.
Chapter Two
Aurora
I walk off stage and enter the large dressing room. I have a small part in a large production in New York, and I really like the troupe. But my mother is constantly speaking with the choreographers and directors for me to have more time in the spotlight. She controls every part of my dancing, and although it annoys me, it did get me the opening of the ballet. It shouldn’t make me feel good that I got it because of her, but as long as I’m able to get on stage, I’ll count it as a win.
When I make my way to the small table I sit at to put on my makeup, I’m surprised to see a large vase of flowers. My mother usually has a bouquet for me after every show, but she makes a scene about giving them to me when others are around. Not when I’m alone.
I see my name on the front of the card, and I reach out to take it. But before my fingers can land on it, the entire arrangement is out of my reach.
“I’ll take care of this,” my mother snips and walks out of the dressing room with the flowers. I open my mouth to protest, but the entire troupe enters the room and the place is filled with noise and laughter.
It’s the final show of the season, and while some of the dancers are going on the road with the show, I’ve been pulled.
My mother thinks that I need more training away from home and away from distractions. She said that I would never make the lead unless I took dancing seriously. She said it like dancing hasn’t been my entire focus since the day I could walk.
She’s arranged for me up to have a year-long training camp in Germany. I won’t have access to internet, my cell phone, visitors, nothing. Although it’s not like I have any friends to talk to, but the internet would have been nice. She said I can write letters to her if I want to, but she’d rather I keep my focus on dancing.