Two Cans and a String

The music begins and I am free. Leaping and twirling. Toes pointed. Shoulders back. It’s just after seven in the morning on Saturday, nearly two hours before any of the classes commence at my mother’s dance studio. Other than the nights that I get to speak with Will, this is my favourite part of the week. It’s the only time I get the barren room to myself.

Things We Lost in the Fire by Bastille thrums from the overhead speakers. A song with an intense drum rhythm backed by subtle piano and rough vocals. My body follows it free-flowingly, jolting with the beat. Every so often I’ll catch a glimpse of my figure in the mirror. A lithe body fitted in black, full of precision and exuding a passion like no other.

Because that is the key to success. Well, that and money.

During my last year of high school I’d been accepted into one of the top fine arts schools in the country. I had to decline the offer because I hadn’t had enough money for tuition. And if there’s any circumstance that makes you feel like utter shit, it’s that one. Now, I’m stuck working as a teacher at the only local studio, picking up every shift available in an attempt to scour the funds.

I’m only halfway there and the thought causes me to pirouette until it feels like I’m going to bore a hole through the floor.

The day the deadline hit is etched permanently into my memory. It was August seventeenth and the boom of the grandfather clock in the living room sounded like a bomb detonating. Midnight arrived and just like that the school slammed its door on me. I stood behind the leather couch, clenching its back cushion in my hands. And then I smashed the clock, knocking its wooden frame to the floor and shattering its glass face. My knuckles were split open but I didn’t care because my heart was too.

Not bothering to clean anything up, I barrelled up the stairs to my bedroom. The stickiness of my doorknob almost brought me to tears. The permanent wrinkles in my area rug were overwhelming. I couldn’t help but notice the awful details of my life. It was all terrible.

My bloody hand left a stain on the window as I pushed it open, springing onto the small platform outside my bedroom. The four foot gap between the edges of our roofs didn’t matter, neither did the two story drop. I flew over the space and pounded on Will’s window so desperately that it almost fractured.

I didn’t register the bewilderment on his face or the concern in his eyes. I only registered that there was no barrier between us. Will had opened it. And then he opened his arms, too, and I sobbed into his chest.

The song fades to its end. Biting my lip, I walk to the centre of the floor, waiting for the tempo to pick up on the newest song. Mom likes to challenge me with slow songs, testing my patience. But on my own, I am in control. It’s part of the reason why I love my Saturdays. You can’t release your resentment to The Four Seasons.

For two hours, I dance. Just me and the music. Sometimes it’s a clumsy thrashing of limbs and other times it’s a repetition of a rehearsed technical pattern. I work until the back of my neck is slick with sweat, my shirt stuck to my spine. And until I’m interrupted by the knocking of my first student against the wooden door.