The Recital of a Misshapen Showgirl

She did not have a name that was her own; many before her were named the same. The name was in mythical books, in biblical books, in any other genre of books, and even on TV. The name was repeated again and again, more than a thousand times a day by people who did not know her, by people who were not her grandmother or her mother.

Her grandmother was lying on the couch, her feet rhyming with each movement of her hands, threading another thing that she was not going to finish. Each craft her grandmother ever intended to make would become a dream by the end of the day, and at times, she would not even intend but just start a whole oblivion of a possible idea that was always going to remain an oblivion. Her grandmother had a belief: if something is meant to be, then it will be. This was what she kept repeating as she watched her granddaughter.

If something is meant to be, then it will be.

Swollen feet hung out of her blue gleam slippers with heels that echoed through the house. The sight was not a little girl twirling in her costume, full of light in harmony, but a little goblin showing off the tight end of her corset, while the twirl of the skirt failed to open wide because the center of the compass was her hips. She kept stumbling, she kept starting over and over. She was unable to bring any end to the movement in her head, but in her head, she was almost always able to.

There was a confidence in her that came with a young age. Each day she woke up to was her day. The house she lived in was her own; she was the only child her mother had. Every time she glanced at the mirror, she was the fairest in the land. She had yet to step into the world and realize that the world was bigger than her house and that she was not the only one in it.

Her mom looked at the unfinished plate. The peanut butter in the middle seemed to be dragged around the circle made of apples that were beginning to decay. Her mom took her by the hand, almost dragging her. The sun was shining on them both, making the mother’s palm sweat until the knife-cut on her hand cried, while the shorts under her daughter’s skirt stamped her thick thighs.

All the girls in the room were showgirls, aspiring but not yet chosen. They were little, just as confident as each other, but some even more competitive. They were all in circles, showing their abilities, showing themselves for the chance to become the lead of the upcoming recital. The girl had a feeling that she could have been chosen, like the peanut butter she butchered off amongst the apples—that her mother harshly swiped away with a paper towel—or the possible finished product of the blue and white threads her grandmother had occupied herself with that morning.

She did not own the room she was dancing in- out of breath. There were many mothers watching them, and under the spotlight, she knew she wasn’t the fairest of all the other girls. She was slowly realizing how big the world was, and she was definitely not the only one in it. She still had confidence, shaken but not yet torn.

The next class, the teacher came into the showroom and introduced the girl standing proudly in the middle of the room. She heard that the girl’s name was Lucy. She waited for the teacher to introduce her or any of the other girls, but the teacher never did.

Lucy’s mother came in during their break, followed by a lady with threads on the bracelet on her hands. The mother handed Lucy an apple, and the lady took measurements starting from Lucy’s thighs.

There came another sensation that took the place of confidence in the sidelines of that room; there came a desire to be named, to be put into the middle of that circle.

The dance floor reshaped itself into a chessboard, and every move she was going to make had to be pre-calculated because there were other nameless entities, enemies trying to drag her feet back to the corner. The teacher was the King, and Lucy her Queen—spinning at King’s will but being the centerpiece. The girl was a pawn, easily replaceable, but if she went to the end of the game, then she could become something.

With desire, there came inability. She tried- the way her grandmother tried every day to thread something that was just- something. Her sweat turned into what she wept.

If something is meant to be, then it will be.

The girl got mad- the way she grabbed the plate of peanut butter and apple. She dipped her fingers in the peanut butter, but the taste of it was simply not that good enough.

What if something is never meant to be? Then what will be?

Her incessant tears were not fairy dust, and not every failure was a universal compromise.

Her grandmother knew, with the ever-weaving hands of a fatalist who couldn’t weave a life that was sequined and bright, even with sweat and blood. Each craft would end with a flint that burned the thread and a cold breath that tied the knot with wrought.

Then, it will be, just not meant to be.

Years passed. Her grandmother died without anything but a legacy of threads. Her mother kept bringing the same plate of peanut butter and apples to her.

Lately, each time she grabbed the plate, the peanut butter remained resilient on the plate. The apples weren’t interfering with whatever shape the spoon-dropped peanut butter made on the table. Occasionally, the mother tried to put apples closer to the butter so some of the slices could touch it, but then the girl wouldn’t touch them.

She took a second glance at the mirror before she left. She did not look fair, but she had to pretend so. The house was emptier since her grandmother died. Her stuff was all around the corners, the house was left to her and her mother. The house was too small and too smothering. Her mother tried to reach her before she left the house but couldn’t.

She had worked for a long time for yesterday’s audition. She had been repeating each move, trying different things, and spending all her time discussing different strategies. She was spending her years trying to make her name echo through the showroom, at least for once.

The girl’s name this time was Nora. Nora was new, Nora had pizza breath this morning before they all learned her name. Nora was fair, with curves that no other girls had left. The teacher gave Nora a chance to shine, like the Sun does to the moon.

She was again deep-seated in the sidelines of the line that curved the sphere in the atmosphere, like Earth —that she knew so much about now—spinning around itself for the will of the Sun. She had so little to gain. She was not a bright entity but a storm-damaged soil, burning but not shining through its cracks.

She went home with nothing in her hands: no confidence, no desire, no ability. She went home, occupying the corner of the sofa that her grandmother left empty. She looked at her thighs; her garter was breaking down. She took a breath, closed her eyes.

If something is meant to be, then it will be.

She ripped her garter; however, that did not set her free. She didn’t get relief from whatever the acceptence supposed to be, she did not know.

What if something is never meant to be? Then what will be?

She knew.

Then, it will be, just not meant to be.

She went through her grandmother’s box of threads, looking for the blue and white thread that she probably had years ago. She was going through the box; there was every other color but not blue and white.

She was ready to take it as a sign, but she dug deeper until she found them. The blue and white threads were tangled together, made into some kind of a chain. She had to dissolve it to fix her garter, but the chain was the only thing her grandmother had come close to finishing.

She could not rip that apart too. She tried to put it over her thighs; the chain looked somewhat like her garter. She finished the end of the thread herself.

She looked at herself in the mirror. She looked like a little girl; the thread was sparkling blue just like the slippers she had when she was young. She felt fair, she felt confident, she felt like she was something. Her feet were barren but she could imagine the slippers beneath still. She was moving, without thinking. She was misshapen, drifting. Spinning, not for anyone but for herself.

All her dreams were like stars clinging to the dark sky; there was beauty and value even in the light that did not outshine. There was always a hoaring storm that weakened the craft, but warmth was the blood needling the heart, ever-weaving even if the knot was never to be tied.

Her mother came into the room with a rush, holding a bandage over the hand that she cut as she heard the noises.

Her mother yelled her name, she was angry. There were no applauses, and no spotlight but earthshine of a semicircle moon. The girl did not care either. She knew her name but she felt as if she remembered it after years later.

The next morning, her mother put a plate of the very same items: apples circling around a spoon of peanut butter. She dipped the apple in the peanut butter, and her mother smiled.