Seeing Red

I

My favorite motivation is the drive to prove you're better than those who've wronged you...

--

I remember That Day very vividly. As if my brain knew this story was one worth being shared. I had marked off months in my calendar, waiting. That Day, I was seven, which for my studio, the age you're allowed to tryout for team.

 In my first ever class, we watched the competition girl's groups. I had never wanted to trade bodies with anyone more than I did in that moment. My three-year-old self wanted to do the acro and pirouettes and fan kicks they were, but, alas, I was stuck with my tendus and a mirror they constantly reminded us to be careful with.

So, you can only imagine my excitement, when That Day became This Day. This Day...Ah, a day you could have only truly understood through the eyes of my idol. If we were on the rainbow, I would be  looking up to her 24/7. 

She was everything I'd ever wanted to be. Not only her dancing, but also her humility. Her kindness, which I had learned about on This Day. She was my Lady Gaga to all the little gays. She was my icon, but I think you could've guessed that. 

I walked into Studio One and placed my bag with the others by the front mirror. I have this one memory haunting me: In almost slow motion, I turned to face the loud room and realized I knew no one. Taking my broken happiness, I sat in the back corner. Alone. 

This-This is my villain origin story, man. I haven't even gone into second grade yet, and I'm in a loud room with no one to give me confidence. It's ok, Little Me, you still have none.

To add to my problems,  everyone around me looked older. I leaned forward to stretch, rethinking all life decisions. It was way too loud in there. I felt my chest tighten. To distract myself, I dug my nails into my hands and tried to go as deep into the stretch as I can.

--

"You're never going to be able to get a good stretch like that, silly."

I look up, "That was not very funny," and glance down again.

The meanie stands there for a second. Then, slowly reaches out. She moves my leg so my knee faces the ceiling instead of the mirror. I can't reach my hands as far out, but it feels like a better stretch.

"Stay like this. Turning in will hurt your flexibility in the long run and you could get an injury."

I turn back to look at her. Really, look at her. I feel myself squint, "Your hair is pretty."

She's obviously caught off guard and glances at herself in the mirror, "Um, thank you? I'm surprised you think it looks good. I forgot to wash it last night."

"I like the color. It's pretty."

"My mom said it will help me stick out in auditions."

"I like red hair. Before, were you trying to help me?"

"Uh, yah? Sorry. I should have asked before fixing you."

"Its okay," I smile. My chest is no longer tight. The room feels a slightly quieter. She seems less mean.

"What's your name, babes?" She smiles back.

"Mauve. And, I am not a baby," My smile drops. Nope, still a meanie.

"Really? Wow. You have to be at least 3," She is still smiling. Doesn't she realize how she's bullying me.

"Noo. I'm seven, meanie."

"Meanie? Easy, Pipsqueak. I'm messing with you," She laughs. I hesitate but laugh with her. To make her feel better.

"If I need help during tryouts, will you help me?"