His Ballerina

1

Madison

You would think the sort of people who go to the gym regularly would care as much about their surroundings as they do about the condition of their bodies. You’d think they would, if not go out of their way to clean up after themselves, at least be bothered to toss their empty water bottles into the trashcan rather than letting them sit on the floor by the equipment.

Though considering some of the messes I sometimes find in the bathrooms, a few stray water bottles are nothing. It’s shocking what people will do in a bathroom they know they don’t have to clean.

I pick up the litter before emptying the last can, tying up the end of the bag and lifting it out with a grunt. “You want to take care of your body? Try cleaning up the gym after hours.” Who am I talking to? Myself, since the last gym member left half an hour ago along with the owner.

Is it the best idea to be all alone in the gym after hours? Probably not, all things considered. It’s not in the best neighborhood, though, compared to the block where my apartment sits, it’s perfectly safe. But that’s how it is when comparing any other place to the embarrassment where I live, the only apartment in town that I can actually afford.

I’ve never been even a little bit afraid, though. Does that make me naïve? I don’t think so. I know how things go. I know what I’m risking staying here so late, by myself.

What other choice do I have? It’s the only chance I get to do the one thing I love more than anything else in life. A girl makes sacrifices when the stakes are that high.

And what’s at stake now is whether or not I get to dance. I can’t clean this gym up fast enough, every second being one less second that I get to spend doing what I love.

Which is why it’s such a relief when the last can is empty. I’ve wiped down and mopped up the bathrooms, tossed the soiled towels into the wash before replacing them with fresh stacks, wiped down all the equipment, swept the floors, and taken out the trash. The fridge at the front desk is stocked with protein shakes and water for tomorrow’s early clients. There’s nothing else to do.

It’s part of the agreement I reached with the gym’s owner when I started working here. Joe can’t afford to pay me very much—this isn’t exactly a high-end facility—but I get free use of the space in the back, where fitness classes are held throughout the week. It’s empty in here now, of course, without the blaring of some nameless, upbeat song to keep students moving.

I change into my leotard before sitting on the floor to lace up my baby pink pointe shoes. Sure, they’re from Goodwill, and it would be better to have a pair of my own that I can break in to my liking, but I’ll take what I can get. Brand-new pointe shoes cost a hell of a lot more than I can afford right now, more than I’ve ever been able to afford.

Once the music is playing, none of that matters, and I warm up my muscles and allow myself to fly. That’s how it feels when I’m dancing, the way it’s always felt, ever since I was a little girl watching an old recording of the Nutcracker until I knew every movement, every gesture. I found the tape in one of my foster homes and watched it every chance I got. When I found out I’d be going to a new home, that tape was the first thing I ever stole, and the last.

I didn’t think of it as theft. That recording, that ballet was my lifeline. It was the door to a whole new world full of beauty and glory I could never have imagined on my own.

And it was all I had to tie me to the world of ballet since I sure as heck wasn’t taking lessons while bouncing from one foster home to another. I couldn’t even stay in one school long enough to make friends, much less find a ballet program. And then would come the fees, the costumes, the shoes…

Impossible, in other words. That was for other girls, girls who had a permanent home and at least one parent who gave a crap about them. Girls whose moms and dads made enough money to pay for lessons, to send them on trips to New York and Chicago and Philadelphia to watch the ballet companies perform.

Girls like me, well, we had to make do with what was available—just like I still do.

No one would ever mistake me for a trained ballerina, but I found a way to keep dancing. I’ve spent hours studying videos breaking down technique, training tips, even how to eat properly, so my body is at its peak. So I can soar.