"In My Life"

My tights itched. Baggy in the ankles yet tight and scratching away at my shins, I was silently kicking myself for shaving my legs the day prior. I was 12 years old and the concept of shaving was exotic at the time, but more than anything I just wanted to feel special for my final recital. And so the night before it, I quickly grabbed my newly purchased, bubblegum pink Schick razor with overconfident zeal, and without having a clue as to what I was doing, hopped into the shower and scraped the razor up my skin for the first time, creating what would soon resemble winding and hairless country roads with the occasional nicked pothole. I covered these bumps with Ninja Turtle band-aids (they were the only ones I could find in my house) but was paranoid that Leonardo would be visible from the stage. I wondered if this painful self-awareness was just another part of growing up.

My thoughts left the annoyance below my knees and returned to the girl standing before a lighted mirror of the dressing room. Staring back at me was a girl who was growing out her bangs that she had since she began to grow hair at the ripe age of 3, and was wearing her mother's red lipstick and blush. I didn't recognize her, but I knew she was me. A few minutes earlier, I had taken my mother's eyeliner in secret and dotted a mole above my upper lip so I would look like Cindy Crawford. And then carefully, I adjusted the bobby pins in my bun and sprayed extra-hold hairspray in my now darkening hair. I smoothed my green, velvety leotard and poofed the pale white tulle of my tutu. I looked into the mirror, and despite my turtle avenger band-aids, I didn't feel like a child anymore.

While admiring my costume, I saw other girls in the dressing room preparing for their own performances. These girls were much younger than me, and their mothers were helping to apply their stage makeup while the girls sat cross-legged, picking the sequins off of their skirts. I recalled with ease the moment in my early childhood when I was to dance to "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" in a recital. We were all very excited, for the teacher told us that we could choose the costume color that each of us wanted. I, being quiet and small, was pushed behind in line by the other, taller girls and therefore had the last choice in color preference. So naturally when all of the other girls got pretty tutus in shades of pink, red, and violet, I was stuck with lime green. I laughed to myself, remembering the pictures that were taken of me that evening. On stage and on film, I resembled a dehydrated pea in a galaxy of twinkling stars, and in some of the snapshots you could see me clutching my glittering wand for dear life, holding back childish tears. But I still performed the ballet. Later, as I went into the auditorium feeling lost and ugly, my mother and father ran toward me, arms open and full of calla lilies. They were my favorite flowers. I fell into their arms, crying and saying I felt like an ugly vegetable. They said I looked like a star.

Those memories slowly faded to black, and I fixed my gaze away from the little girls and back to the mirror, imagining how I would look on stage in the coming moments. The theme of this year's recital was portraits, and the hope was that the choreography and music would emulate a famous work of art. My class' piece was "The Yellow House" by Vincent Van Gogh. Miss Jody, my teacher, selected "In My Life" by the Beatles for our music, but the version that we would dance to was done by Judy Collins. At the time, I chided Miss Jody for her choice, saying that the song was silly and no fun to dance to. Arms crossed in her oversized black ballet sweater, she would laugh and shake her head, telling me that one day I would understand it. I didn't at the time, but still learned the choreography to the best of my ability.

I hoped tonight would be special, as this was going to be my last performance on the stage where I had been performing for nearly 6 years. At home, my room was little more than stacked, labeled boxes and floral suitcases. In my head, there was little more than a few final goodbyes filled with words and thoughts that I had yet to explore and say to a few special people. I would be leaving in three days, never to return to my sleepy beach home again. I was trading sand for bluegrass, and with that trade came the loss of a father's presence, friends, and a childhood. Miss Jody had given me the final 16 counts for a solo, and I needed them to be perfect. Everything else in my life was in flux and fading away, but I was in complete control of my own two feet. I imagined myself dancing and turning and leaping across the stage, the audience fixated on the lone ballerina.

All of a sudden, my dreams quickly dissipated as girls in familiar green and white costumes caught my eye. Our piece was next. Reluctantly, I crunched my faded pink ballet shoes into the box of rosin, praying for a good grip. I breathed deeply, and then stepped to the sides of the stage.

I watched in awe as the current group performed grand jeté after grand jeté in light blue and white leotards. Their piece was a beach scene painted by Joaquin Sorolla. The entirety of their choreography was very advanced: all of their footwork was done en pointe. These girls were older, most likely with smooth legs and beauty marks above their upper lips, and I wondered to myself if someday I would ever have younger girls look at me the way I was at them. I could only hope so. I thought they were so beautiful. The music came to a quiet close, and the older girls ended in perfect splits and arabesques. Shrinking into myself, I was beginning to feel like a pea once more.

At that moment, I felt a warm hand on my shoulder. I looked up, and there stood Miss Jody, smiling. "You're going to do something special for this silly song still; right, Savannah?"

I laughed skittishly, but for whatever reason, I wanted to cry. She put a thin hand on each of my cheeks and looked me in the eyes, holding my gaze. I felt like she knew everything. And then, she took one of her fingers to her mouth and licked its tip. Then, she reached with her wet fingertip and placed it atop my upper lip, wiping away my artificial beauty mark. "Did you have an accident with the eyeliner or something?" she asked, grinning.

I didn't answer.

The curtain began to close and the older girls passed me. Miss Jody kissed my forehead and squeezed my hands. "Just get out there and dance, Savannah," she said, "I know you can." She released my hands from her grasp, and then disappeared into the darkness.

And so, with apprehension leading each of my footsteps, I entered the stage. Even with five toes on the ground, the weight of my body on the balls of my feet, and with eyes extending slightly above the horizon line like we had learned in class, I still felt as if I were a ship that would capsize at any moment. I extended my arms to second position and breathed a shaky breath as the curtains rose for the final time. I looked to the crowd and saw them: the people I would be leaving, the people I would be seeing, the people I did not know and never would, and all the while thinking about the people and places I had yet to meet. I was overwhelmed, panic stricken, and contemplating running off the stage when suddenly the music began. The soft and gentle guitar eased into the hall and silenced all of my thoughts. It was time to stop worrying and to start dancing.

And so I did; we all did. Our movements were slow and simple, yet graceful all the same. With each breath, each tondu and coupé, my thoughts moved further and further away from my mind, losing themselves in the corners of my body's long and lean shadows. My movements were smooth and controlled, as if I were a small, silk ribbon being unwound from a narrow spool.

The final 16 measures approached, and the other girls in my class began to walk demi-pointe off the stage. My only remaining partner was a dim spotlight that followed me wherever I went. Judy Collins' voice guided me as I marked my final steps on the stage:

But all of these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new

Coupé, chassé, soutenu. Only a few more steps remained.

Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life, I love you more

Tour jeté, pas de bourrée, and a final pirouette. I did a double.

In my life, I love you more

I landed the turn, feeling firm in my feet with my head lifted up toward the balcony. I scanned it and saw my mother and father, and then my grandmother and grandfather. They all began to clap before the song had even ended. My mother was wiping tears from her eyes; my father was holding calla lilies. The audience began to applaud, too, and the other girls in my class returned to the stage, joining me and holding my hands. We bowed, and the red curtain began to fall from the ceiling. As I was running off stage, I saw Miss Jody emerge from the sides, arms naturally resting in a low first position. She mouthed the words "thank you" to me, and then disappeared once again behind the curtain.

After the recital was over, I ran to my family, throwing myself into the faces I would be seeing and the faces I would be leaving; past, present, nor future was forcing me to rest more heavily on one person in particular. I was steady on my own two feet. As the five of us were leaving the recital hall and heading to the car, I stopped abruptly and began scratching at the band-aids that hid impatiently beneath my tights.

"What's wrong?" my mother asked me.

"Oh, nothing," I sighed, "I just cut myself shaving last night."

My mother looked to my father and smiled. "Billy," she said, "it looks like our little girl is growing up."