Corina’s Ballet Class

Corina rested on the floor, catching her breath, her long legs stretched before her. She reached for the laces at the back of her leg, right above her ankle.

A sharp pain attacked her weak tendon.

She frowned. Her doctor had insisted on resting, but Corina knew that resting meant missing dance class, and missing dance class was equivalent to giving up her dream. She brought her feet closer to her body, ignoring her leg’s warnings, and removed her pointe shoes.

Her ballet classes lasted longer than usual that night, but she didn’t care for that. She silently packed her clothes and hurried to the bus stop, hoping it was not too late and she would not have to walk home alone. The dark, starless sky did not seem friendly. Corina could hear the spooky rustle of the leaves, as she felt the freezing wind blow past her face.

Fortunately, she didn't wait long at the station. The first raindrops fell as she entered the last bus. It was the wrong bus. It was quarter to midnight. When the bus came to a stop and the passengers got off, she found herself alone, trying to figure out her location.

Final stop, the bus driver announced, and Corina disembarked.

She walked home in small, quick steps as her ankle pounded in agony.

Up the front porch steps, she left all worries and frustrations behind. But that was not quite true, because she couldn’t leave her painful ankle outside. She unlocked the door, exhausted. There was a deafening silence and a blinding darkness. Home.

Mom, I’m home, she called out in a dull tone. No answer.

She looked for the switch. Click. Nothing.

Corina reached her bedroom, opened the door, and entered.

The sudden lights dazzled her. She covered her eyes with her hands and, when she was ready, she peered into the room. Hardwood floor. Mirrors on the wall. Her ballet teacher by the CD player doing rond de jambes and hamming cheerfully. She nodded at Corina, who placed her little bag on the floor, unsure of herself. Corina pondered the swift passage of time, moving on to the next class without hesitation. She took her pointe shoes from her bag and put them on, ignoring her pain-stricken ankle.

She joined the other girls and started warming up. The teacher closed the door, and the lesson began.

After completing her warmup, she observed as more girls took their place at the barre, warming up alongside her. They bent their bodies in ways no regular human could, and stretched, and became taller, like ballerinas on stage.

Go higher, grow taller, Ms Giota said, and they did. They raised their hands above their heads and reached for the ceiling, the sky, the heavens. Corina’s ankle hurt, but she overlooked it. Ignoring the pain was her habit as a ballerina, who always had to smile.

Smile, said Ms Giota as if reading her thoughts, and Corina’s smile grew even wider.

Corina had learned to ignore the pain of splits, the pain of pointe shoes, and the strain of the muscles.

She ignored and smiled and grew taller, like a real ballerina. And when class was over, she took a deep breath, smiled wider, thanked Ms Giota for the wonderful class, and removed her shoes. She flexed her foot, pointed it, and flexed again. She had landed on a relaxed foot, slightly twisting her ankle, and coming back to normal before anyone could notice. She had barely noticed herself. The speed of it all left her no time to process the twist, the ache, or the fall. She had to grow taller and, as she did, she had to smile.

She smiled and hurried across the dance floor for the next girl to do her jumps. Everyone was watching her as she smiled and danced and impressed.

Smiling, she waved goodbye to the girls undressing in the corner. They waved back, skin bare, muscles toned, breasts small and firm.

Corina hurried down the stairs. No time to change now. Her only wish was for a hot shower, a warm meal, and a cozy sleep. She went down the stairs, ignoring the pain in her foot, reached for the main entrance, and pushed the door in one swift, determined manner.

Through the doorway, she entered the ballet class.

She sighed, supposing she would have to wait longer till she went home.

Welcome girls, Ms Giota said with a smile as the floors echoed with their light footsteps and the mirrors filled with movement. They stretched and grew taller, as usual, and then the lesson began. Initially by the barre, subsequently without it.

The barre was okay for Corina because she could hold on to it whenever her ankle betrayed her. Using the barre for stability, she performed a few steps and turns. But away from it, where everything had to be done in perfect balance, that was turning into a challenge.

Her ankle throbbed as she did a simple arabesque and it screamed as she did the glissade-assemble, pas de bourree, pirouette en dedans.

She ignored the hurt, ignored the pain, ignored the tiny voice in her head telling her to just stop and put some ice on it, idiot. Ice. Yes, she needed ice, but not yet. She could make it. It was just the usual ballet routine. She could finish it and put ice on her ankle later. Later. Yes, later. Right now, she had a straightforward job: put on a smile and grow taller.

She stretched to the sky, reaching for the clouds, reaching for the stars. She was taller, alright. And she was smiling at the audience. An audience of two. Only Ms Giota was watching, and a tired reflection of herself in the mirror.

Where was the rest of the class?

Corina finished her routine and looked around. The girls were in the corner, undressing. Two girls kissed; their sweaty bodies pressed together. Hands stroking and touching and holding. She watched them for a while, not knowing why. Something inside her was telling her to join them. Yet, another voice insisted that she should go back home. Put ice on her ankle. Unfortunately, it was already too late for that. Her throbbing, swollen ankle was screaming at her. She must see the doctor.

She didn’t listen to any of the voices. She left and took the bus home. This time, it was the right bus.

She reached home at quarter to midnight. She longed for the end of this day. A seemingly endless day. She was utterly drained, her entire body was aching. She was limping, she was hungry, she was filthy and sweating.

She pushed the entrance door and entered the dance hall. The girls were already doing their plies, and Ms Giota was counting. Corina wore her pointe shoes somewhat fast and messily and joined the girls as they grew taller after each plie. No one was going to wait for her. Loose shoes, no time to fix. She needed to complete the routine with the other girls.

And so, Corina’s shoes were slipping off during the entire practice. She struggled to stand on her toes and only completed half of the routine. Despite this, she convinced herself she was a horrible dancer. Her skill level was inadequate. She was inferior to the other girls.

The other girls were tall now, arms stretched above them, fingers reaching to the sky and the stars. Corina copied them, but as much as she tried, her fingers couldn’t go past the ceiling. The ceiling, with its fluorescent lights and peeling paint, was a natural barrier to Corina’s tallness. The other girls passed through the ceiling, going higher. Some were even floating in midair.

Corina just wasn’t as good. She brought her arms down like wings and stepped off her pointe shoes. She smiled at the audience. An audience of one. Herself.

She was staring at the mirror. She was short and full of barriers and limits.

Everyone else had left.

I better go home, Corina thought, put some ice on my ankle.

But her ankle didn’t hurt now. She looked at it through the mirror. It was a big purple blob, but it didn’t hurt anymore. It was numb. It was okay. She could walk. She could jump. She no longer needed the ice.

Corina wanted to go home, but before she could leave, Ms Giota entered, and the class resumed. All the girls had appeared out of thin air and had retrieved their positions at the barre, first position.

Corina ran confused to fill her spot among the girls. She was deep into her routine when her eye caught something in the mirror. Her pointe shoes. They mocked and cried that she would never be like the other girls. For god’s sake, she didn’t even remember to put on her shoes.

All the girls reached for the moon, standing on their toes. Corina stretched her fingers, her arms, her spine, her legs. She brought her feet into the fifth position, one in front of the other, and stood on her toes. Then she used all her strength to go even higher, stand en pointe like the other girls. But she wasn’t wearing the shoes. The other girls were en pointe because of the shoes.

She breathed. Ignored the fatigue and the hunger. Ignored her aching muscles. Ignored the pain of carrying her entire bodyweight on only the two large toes. She groaned but quickly smiled. It was a half-smile, but it was a smile, nonetheless. She had done it. The impossible. She had stood en pointe, without pointe shoes.

She smiled at the empty audience, the empty mirrors, and the empty dance hall. Everyone had left. Her reflection, too.

Suddenly, a piercing pain struck her ankle, and she was on the floor. What had just happened? She could not bring herself to look at her ankle. The pain was severe. In her mid-foot, her ankle, her leg. The pain spread towards her thigh. It was sharp, and it was killing her. She lay there, screaming in agony, wishing someone would just come and chop her entire leg off. Wishing someone would come and make it stop.

Her screaming echoed in the hall, in the staircase, in the bus, in her house.

She was on her bed now, screaming, staring at her ankle. A deep violet, fat, and disgusting ankle. Her foot had twisted unnaturally, surpassing the limits of its normal bend. A bone protruded from the flesh, and it shone under the fluorescent light in her bedroom.

She screamed again. And then she screamed some more.

The door opened and Ms Giota entered. Since you’re hurt, she said, we’ll be doing our dance practice in your bedroom.

All the girls were now in her room, performing plies in multiple positions. Ms Giota urged Corina to get up, get it together, and join them.

And join them she did. On one foot, half dancing, half smiling, growing half as tall as the other girls. Her bedroom was growing with them. The ceiling was expanding. The walls became wider as they transformed into mirrors. Her bedroom transformed into a dancing hall, where they all danced and smiled. And Corina was standing still, on one foot, staring at the other girls as they did their dance routine flawlessly. With their perfect posture, perfect angles, and perfect balance.

Corina was far from perfect. Her posture was terrible. She was so tired she couldn’t stand straight. She was too clumsy to manage anything more than a mediocre balance. Not to mention her graceless flailing of the arms, and her abominable pirouettes.

Corina was far from perfect.

She stood there, in the center, half-smiling at the mirror, her face wet from sweat and tears.

She was in pain. All her muscles were aching from the pain of excessive ballet training. How long has this been going on? It seemed like it would never end.

Corina lay on the floor. She was tired. But she wasn’t tired. She might continue a bit more. If only she had the energy.

She closed her eyes as the other girls did their routine around her. Dancing gracefully in circles, nonchalantly doing jumps and splits Corina could never achieve well. Because they were perfect, unlike her.

Corina lay on the floor, crying, but still smiling. Closing her eyes, she let herself drift into a dream. In this dream, she was lying on the floor while the other girls from her ballet class danced around her. And when she opened her eyes, the girls were stretching, and Ms Giota was thanking them for their wonderful practice. Thank you, girls, no, not you, Corina, you didn’t dance at all. You just lay on your lazy ass and pretended to have fainted.

Corina tried to sit up, but the pain was growing. She looked at her foot. It was a dark violet color, and at some parts greenish. The broken bone glowed under the fluorescent lights and, for a split second, she thought it looked beautiful. But it was not her broken bone that hurt, it was something else.

She struggled to a sitting position, reached for the broken bone, and touched it tenderly with her index finger. It was okay. It didn’t hurt. With two fingers, she attempted to push the bone back into the flesh, unaware of her actions. She was unsure about the bone's proper place. What if she misplaced it and ended up having a crooked foot? Not important now. She had to fix her ankle so she could dance again. She pushed the bone further inside, wrapped it in violet flesh, and held onto it as if holding on to dear life.

She would be fine, she thought. She did not hurt anymore. Although that wasn’t a hundred percent true.

She hurt. But some place else. It wasn’t her bones or her flesh or her aching muscles as she first thought. It was something else. But she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. This pain was otherworldly. It was as if it was inside her, but outside her body, too. It was pure and utter pain like she’d never known before.

She held her ankle with both her hands and breathed. Tears streamed down her cheeks, tracing a path to the floor.

Her tears flooded the dance hall, and soon the entire floor was wet.

Despite her efforts, Corina remained unable to stand on both feet. She didn’t know what she had to do to fix her ankle. She had already put her bone back in place. So why couldn’t she stand already?

It was the pain. The pain that pounded inside her body and outside in the real world. The pain that had no origin, yet somehow existed. It was all over, flowing in her veins, flowing down her cheeks, flooding the room. The room that was full of pretty ballerinas, skilfully doing their grande jetes. Meanwhile, Corina stood on one foot, filled with shame, self-hatred, and longing for conformity. Wishing she could just fix everything that was broken in her body, her soul, her mind. But she lacked the knowledge to fix herself. She, a broken girl, couldn’t do anything right.

The pain spread inside her and crawled underneath her skin as her tears brought the water to her waist. Some girls grew taller, some floated, and some made out. Corina wanted to join them all. She wanted to dance, and swim, and fool around with the girls. She desired to be relaxed, unconcerned about technique, angles, and her tallness, yet she also desired flawlessness.

She raised her hands over her head, reaching for the fluorescent lights, but she wasn’t growing anymore. Instead, in some mysterious way, she was shrinking.

The water was up to her neck now, even though she had stopped crying. She gasped for air, calling for help, stretching her arms towards the other girls, but no one was there.

They had all left.

Despite their absence from the room, their image still lingered in the mirrors.

In the mirrors, the girls were undressing, bodies tall and firm. Ms Giota telling them how proud she was of all her students, what a magnificent work they had all done, especially Corina. Corina, however, grew shorter, drowning in tears and pain. How could Ms Giota be proud of her?

Water filled the entire hall, reaching the ceiling and fluorescent lights. She held her breath and swam towards the mirror, her body stiff. The mirror became a colossal screen, projecting the life Corina longed for.

Wasn't she aware the life she longed for was already there?

The girls removed their sweaty tights, joking about splits, anorexia, and boys. They complimented each other on their performance in the last class, particularly Corina. Corina was the best, as always. As Corina changed into her warm sweatshirt, sweatpants, and comfortable shoes, she blushed. She then wrapped her arms around her girlfriend, who had also changed into something more comfortable and planted a gentle kiss on her cheek. Let’s grab something to eat on our way home, she said, I’m starving.

Despite everything she saw, Corina kept drowning on the other side of the mirror. Tears streamed down her face as pain consumed her, her lungs filling with water. All she could see was an empty ballet hall, illuminated by the fluorescent lights. She closed her eyes, waiting for a death that never came. Instead, the room filled with the cheery voices of ballerinas, and soon class began again.