“OKAY EVERYONE GET INTO POSITION!” I yell and clap my hands together like a Parisian instructor whose only goal in life is to drive her students to the brink of death. Which is sort of what I plan to do today.
Just because this is an inexpensive ballet class, doesn’t mean they get a cheap education. I instruct these girls with the same precision and expectations I received in my fancy-shmancy-pricey-dicey studio growing up. I cringe thinking back to how my parents and I had to work our butts off to afford that place. Yes, you heard me correctly, my parents AND I had to work for it. Neither of my parents ever had jobs that paid particularly well, and because they were also taking care of my grandmother who fought an aggressive form of cancer for most of my childhood, my dad worked two jobs to make ends meet. Money was tight at all times.
My sister and I both worked during high school in order to pay for our cars, insurance, fun stuff like movie tickets, and even part of my ballet tuition. I wish a studio like the one I own now had existed near me when I was younger for many reasons.
1) We operate on income-based tuition. That means if your parents make less, your tuition is less and we make sure you can afford to come to ballet. Because dance shouldn’t be available only to the wealthy. It should be something for everyone to enjoy. It shouldn’t be a burden.
2) My studio focuses not only on technique and practice, but on the whole person. I care about these girls. I care if they’re eating. I care if they have clothes for school in the fall. I care if they are fighting with a friend and need a hug or a ride to class that day. I care more about what their eyes are telling me than the turnout of their feet. Because as I have learned firsthand, ballet can slip from your grasp in a blink, but your soul is with you forever. I’m finally taking my mom’s advice and implementing it in my students’ dance education.
But don’t get me wrong, I also care about the turnout of their toes, and right now as we practice, I give them the kind of instruction they can be proud of. When they graduate from high school, I want them to feel like they received all the training they needed to go on to dance in a company or apply to Juilliard. During this one-hour class, I give these girls my all, and I expect the same in return from them.
However, some sacrifices have to be made in order to provide lower tuition. As far as ballet studios go, this one is miniscule. It’s a mouse hole—a mouse hole situated in the upstairs portion of a pizza parlor where it has thrived for ten years. I took it over from the old owner, Ms. Katie, four years ago, and I’ve never looked back. This is my slice of heaven. It smells like yeast and pepperonis and sounds like classical music and laughter.
After class is over, I take up my usual position in front of the exit in the four-foot-wide hallway that extends the length of the studio. It’s lined with dance bags, water bottles, and shoes, bookended by one single-stall bathroom on one side and my punctuation mark of an office on the opposite end.
The girls line up with their bags slung over their shoulders and go out the door one by one, pausing to listen to the inspirational message I tell them every time they leave. They want to pluck their ears off from having to hear it so often, but I will wax every hair from my body before I stop telling them, because I know they need to hear it. I hold out the basket of homemade oatmeal protein cookies I make each week for my classes.
“Imani, I’m proud of you. You’re beautiful and worthy just the way you are. Take a cookie.” She does and rolls her eyes with a grin. “Sierra, I’m proud of you. You’re beautiful and worthy just the way you are. Take a cookie.” She sticks her tongue out and wrinkles her nose. I stick mine out in return.
I go down the line of all eight dancers, looking in each of their eyes, noting if there’s anything that seems off, making sure they look not too skinny, like they’ve been sleeping, like they are not losing their soul to dance like I wish my teachers would have done for me. Because here’s the thing about dancers at this level: they will do anything to succeed, which usually translates to working themselves so hard their feet bleed, starving themselves so their bodies have leaner lines, constantly striving for perfection and spending more time dancing than living. That was me at one point, and I’m so thankful it’s not me anymore. Now, I eat when I’m hungry, and I live life outside of dance.
That car accident saved my life, because if I had gone on to Juilliard with the unhealthy mentality toward my body and workaholic lifestyle I had at the time, I’m not sure what would have happened to me. Now, I will make sure my dancers feel seen, and loved, and dammit, FED!
Hannah is the last student in the line, and as she gets ready to take a cookie, my overprotective-teacher radar starts blaring because her eyes are cast down. Usually she makes a face at me like the other girls on her way out the door. I pull the basket of cookies away at the last second before her young-adult hand can grab one.
“Ah-ah-ah,” I say like I’m reprimanding a puppy that’s too cute to actually scold. I hold the basket far away. “No cookie for you unless you tell me what’s up with the darty eyes.”
Oooo, I forgot I was dealing with the worst kind of teenager, though—a level-four teen, aka a driving teen who now thinks she’s a grown-ass adult.
She folds her arms. “Fine. I’m not hungry anyway.” Her eyeballs cut purposely away from me, but I can still see something lurking.
Well, unlucky for her, I never fully grew up.
With her gaze turned away from me, I’m able to easily pluck the same little bejeweled cell phone that had Nathan’s glorious picture on it from her hand. I hold it behind my back and convey with my eyes that she’s never getting it back if she doesn’t comply. She gasps indignantly, and I mimic it like an annoying parrot, widening my eyes mockingly.
“Oh, did you want this? Tell me what’s wrong and I’ll give it back.”
“You can’t take my phone! This isn’t school.”
“Uh—I think I just did.” I’m ruthless, but I don’t care if she’s mad, because now I’m convinced something is going on that she’s not telling me about, and I care too much about her to let it slide.
“Miss B!” She groans. “I need to go! My shift starts in forty-five minutes, and I need to go home to change. Please can I have my phone back?”
I make a thinking face. “Ummm…no. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Her slender shoulders slump as best as a perfectly refined ballerina’s body will allow. “You’re really not going to let me have it back?” I smile pleasantly and shake my head. She rolls her eyes. “Fine. My dad lost his job again. He said the company had to make budget cuts. I—I know my tuition is already low, but I still might have to quit coming. I can’t work any more hours and still keep up my grades.”
I extend the pink and blue jeweled phone back to her. “Thank you. Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
She gives me a death glare. “It was an invasion of privacy.”
“Sure, sure, I see where you’re coming from, but…I don’t care.” I grin and hand her a cookie. She smiles weakly, and I know I’m forgiven. “Forget about tuition until your dad gets back on his feet.”
She looks stunned. “Are you serious? Miss B, I can’t—”
“Of course you can! Now, quit worrying—it’ll give you ulcers.” I turn around to flick off the studio lights and pick up my duffle bag. “I want to see you in class on Thursday.”
Once we’re out the door, I lock up, and we both walk down the extremely steep and narrow stairs that lead to the parking lot. The smell of pizza dough punches me in the stomach, and I want to chuck these healthy cookies across the building and devour a supreme stuffed-crust pizza instead. You’d think after six years of smelling this haunting yeasty aroma, I’d be used to it, maybe even sick of it. Nope.