Now I had to put in my two cents.
“You know that’s not true,” I said slowly. “We can do all the basic ballet moves plus more. In fact, wasn’t Noreen recruited for the circus? She can do a double back-bend because that girl is almost made of plastic.”
It was true after all. The Sheffield School emphasizes flexibility and conditioning, so we can do everything ballerinas can do and more. But the Sheffield School is always a little crazy because of the gender imbalance. We have forty women but only five guys in my class, so as you can imagine, it can get a little catty at times in the competition for a male partner. I guess you could always have a woman dance a man’s part and call it “creative self-expression,” but I prefer to do it the old-fashioned way with a male partner.
Lucky for me, I’m sort-of dating one of my male classmates, Don, and I try to keep him happy for the sake of our art. When he’s in a bad mood, our routines look awful and I can see the despair on the choreographer’s face.
“One, two, three, one, two, three,” she counted as Don and I strutted through our paces. I bent over backwards, expecting him to catch me, but he was a fraction of a second late and I fell to the floor in a tangle of limbs.
“Don!” I gasped, shooting him an accusing look. “What happened?”
The man didn’t even bother to meet my eyes.
“You were early Janie. You should really watch your rhythm,” he said dismissively, forming a perfect arch with his foot and almost stepping on me in the process.
I straightened and sat up. Ouch. My back hurt because it’d been a tough fall and I was going to have to apply ice after practice. Furious, I turned to spit something at Don, but then bit back my retort at the last minute. After all, nothing good would come out of a nasty spat. More likely, Don would sulk and pout, giving me the silent treatment and embarrassing me in front our friends and fellow classmates.
Even worse, Don is gorgeous and I know I should be grateful to be dating him. The man has broad shoulders and a toned, chiseled physique. Plus, his wavy black hair and mobile, expressive mouth give him the look of Prince Valiant, so long as you like them a little on the mean side.
So I know I’m lucky. After all, Cindy, Katie, Amanda, and really any of the girls here would take my place in a sec if they could, arguing they were a better match for Don on stage. Hell, they’d probably love to date him too, given his dashing good looks.
So I held my tongue and got up as gracefully as I could. Damn, it hurt and I tried to support my lumbar area with my hands as my lower back twinged painfully. But this is the life of a professional dancer. It’s filled with aches, pains and moderate humiliation, in my case.
After class, we headed out for a salad, and this is the part I hate most about my chosen profession. The troupe expects you to look a certain way, and Don wasn’t above analyzing my food choices with some distaste.
“Are you sure you’re going to eat that Janie?” he asked, a furrow between his perfect black eyebrows.
“Yeah, why?” I asked, looking down. I’d gotten a mix of romaine lettuce and kale with my favorite green goddess dressing.
“Well, you know that dressing is all fat,” he sniffed. “It’s mayonnaise and sour cream masquerading under the name “green” to make you think it’s healthy.”
With a slow hand, I returned the little tub of dressing I’d gotten, my hand hesitating over the oil and vinegar instead.
But Don was quick to cut me off again.
“Seriously Janie,” he huffed, “don’t you know anything about nutrition? We’re dancers, so it should be second nature by now. Olive oil is super-fatty, and I don’t care if they say it’s the good type of fat. Fat is fat, and you’re going to grow a paunch eating that.”
He eyed my stomach disapprovingly even as I tried to suck it in as far as possible under his gaze. I know I’m bigger than most girls in the troupe, but that didn’t mean anything. After all, they were ninety pound twigs, whereas I had a bust and thighs. Besides, this was modern dance, so we were supposed to embrace figures of all types.
But reality is harsh so I reached for the salt shaker instead, even as Don shot me another disapproving look.
“There are calories in salt,” he sniffed. “Just so you know.”
With resignation, I put down the shaker and picked up my fork once more. This was going to taste terrible but it was just easier to go with the flow. I didn’t want to fight, and I didn’t want to feel self-conscious each time I put a bite in my mouth.