Pointe

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I WISH I COULD SAY THE DAY DONOVAN CAME HOME WAS EXtraordinary from the start, that I woke up knowing something special would happen that Thursday evening in October.

But the truth is, it’s like any other day of the week.

I go to school, then I get on the train and go to ballet.

People fawn over the beauty of dance. The long legs and elegant shoes and expertly twisted buns. And it’s not that they’re wrong. Those are all part of the reason I was drawn to ballet at the age of three. But I’d be willing to bet those same people have never set foot in the dressing room of a dance studio. Because you can’t quite look at it the same once you’ve been to the other side.

Straight chaos.

And I’m late, because the Metra never wants to run on schedule when I actually have to be somewhere that matters. I squeeze into an empty corner by the lockers and toss my coat to the floor as I step out of my flats. Everyone is chattering away in various stages of undress, but I’m the only one still wearing all my street clothes. Phil once mentioned he’d like to be a fly on the dressing room wall, and I laughed in his face when I realized he was serious. It’s all A-cups and square hips in here and he said it didn’t matter, that boobs are boobs, but I think he’d be underwhelmed. Also, it reeks of body odor and feet.

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