Jasmine tried to remember if there was anything in her life before dance, but she couldn't even remember starting it. She had been so young, maybe three or four years old. Her mum had her old ballet shoes tucked away in a box somewhere, so small she couldn't even believe her feet ever fit snugly into them. She couldn't imagine feet that small tiptoeing around a studio, pointing lightly and skipping across by the mirrors. Those feet standing idly with dozens of other small ones, kicking out in play, dragged across the floor. They were worn out little ballet shoes.
Her flat shoes were tucked in a pocket of her dance bag. Jasmine got them out, running a thumb across the rough fabric, the smooth pads by the toe and heel. She bent them in and out. The soles were dirty with residue from endless stages and studio floors. She imagined the tiny feet, bigger now, working with techniques and leaps she'd only ever seen the older ones do before. The bigger feet still standing around between exercises, listening to the others talk like they'd never grown. She imagined her feet flexing and stretching and trying their hardest to go on pointe. That was all she'd really dreamt of up until then, all she'd wanted to be able to do.
Jasmine's first pointe class felt like a failure. No matter what she did, she couldn't balance, and movements she'd found so natural before suddenly took so more effort than she was prepared for. She had gotten home that night and cried into her pillow. It had all be so natural before, and now she had to work. Jasmine practised every day until it became natural, felt waves of pride every time she managed something the others couldn't do yet. It felt like a competition, how quickly could she manage a move? How much practice could she do without anyone knowing? Jasmine had flourished until she withered.
She imagined her even bigger feet, no longer growing now, trying their best to get up on pointe and failing and failing and failing. Tendinitis, they'd said, and maybe something else, but they didn't know what. All Jasmine knew was it wasn't meant to hurt this much.
Jasmine put her flats back in their place, flexed her bare feet on the carpet and filled a bucket up with ice. Her dance classes hadn't been too bad today. She sent a text to Daphne. She iced her feet, muscles tensing up with the cold, teeth clenched together until she got used to the feeling. She sat, feet in the bucket, sending messages. Daphne told her about the group meet she'd gone to last night, where she'd watched movies with people she'd never met before, just for the fun. Jasmine imagined making friends like that. She couldn't see herself doing it, but she was sure she might have tried if she'd gone to university. Daphne said she was talking to a guy. Daphne said she missed her. She imagined her friend, sitting in the dark of a little box room, tapping out messages from miles away, remembering when they couldn't bear to be more than an arm's length apart.
In bed, she watched videos about dancers, watched them train, took mental notes of routines and meals and audition tips and technique and anything she possibly could. Illuminated in the halo of blue light from her phone, with her duvet tangled around her, she was sure she couldn't be the only person in the world doing this, but it felt like her bedroom was a void, and she sat in it with a glaring screen, like the closest human being around was miles away, when her parents were probably only in the room next door. She wasn't sure if she minded.
Jasmine woke up the next day dreading everything. Her alarm beeped. She tapped it off and threw herself back down to the pillow, trying to force her heavy eyelids back open. She rolled to the side and yanked herself up onto her feet, blood rushing to her head. The carpet was scratchy on her feet. All her muscles felt tight and immobile. She stretched out reluctantly, mind telling her to stop at every moment. Just go back to bed. She didn't get changed, just went downstairs and pulled some cereal off the shelf. She ate without tasting anything, eye on the time. She operated on autopilot, pulling on a leotard and some sweatpants over her tights. She shouldered her dance bag, filled up a water bottle.
