Perchance to Dance

by Torry Rose

I looked up the word, “different,” in a copy of my Webster’s Dictionary. It read:

1. Unlike in form, quality, amount, or nature; dissimilar.

2. Distinct or separate.

3. Various or assorted.

4. Differing from all others.

I chose the fourth definition because this is how I felt Dad saw…, me. I heard him use the word three times since I started eavesdropping on his and Mom’s conversation down in the kitchen from my open bedroom door.

“He’s so different from Bob’s son, Charlie. Doesn’t Hank Jr. go over to play at Charlie’s house, Fran? Why can’t he be more like Charlie? You don’t see Bob having to buy Charlie fancy girl shoes.”

I had to shake my head when I heard Dad say that I “play” with Charlie. Charlie and I had nothing in common. Time at Charlie’s house meant watching him play video games, which I had no interest in. My parents never made it home most evenings to cook, so Mom arranged for me to eat at Charlie’s house. For the decent meal Charlie’s folks made me, I was grateful.

“Hank, they’re ballet shoes,” I heard Mom explain. “It’s what’s required of him, you know… to dance.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about what’s required.”

“But he was offered—”

“Fran no, that’s it! I was against it from the start. People will start calling him Hannah, instead of Hank Jr. If he doesn’t have the right fancy shoes, well, good. Maybe this will put an end to it!” The sound of the kitchen door slamming as Dad exited sounded like a judge’s gavel, sealing his decision to my fate as he left for work.

Moments later, I heard Mom’s coffee cup make contact with the kitchen table, imagining its contents spilling over the sides from the force she used to place it there. The sound of her feet on the steps told me she was heading up to see me. I quickly closed my door and stretched out face-up on my bed. She stopped at the top of the landing. She’s probably trying to figure out what to say to me. Please go away, I thought. I didn’t want to hear what I knew she would tell me. Without a knock, my door opened.

“Hank, your dad said he won’t buy those shoes you need.” Quick, like a band-aid ripped off a still open wound, is how she delivered the message.

“You hear me, Hank?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” I fixed my eyes on a bubble in my ceiling where water had seeped in. I forced myself not to blink. Afraid if I did, the tears I was fighting back would come.

“I’m heading out now. I’ll leave this form here on your desk. I filled it out.”

I could hear her slippers scoot across the rug. She stopped near the edge of my desk.

“Charlie’s mom says he got that new Xbox! Won’t you go over and play with him… for a while?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

As she closed the door, I allowed my eyes to blink, and the tears to roll back into my ears. I didn’t want to look at the form. The form where I knew she had marked the box that said, “My child will NOT be performing in the Nutcracker recital.”

I swung off the bed, springing to my feet, landing naturally in first position stance. I stared at the wall where I’d proudly taped the poster announcing the dates for this year’s Nutcracker performance. Dates that meant nothing to me now, as did Mr. Needhammer, my ballet instructor’s words of praise. “You are a natural dancer, Hank,” he’d told me. “I’ve taught for many years, and I’ve never seen anyone develop as quickly as you have in such a short time. That’s why I’m offering you the part of the Nutcracker Prince.” I was an idiot to even think Dad would let me!

My Aunt Patty enrolled me in ballet classes when I was eight. I’ve loved it ever since slipping on my first pair of black ballet shoes. I remember thinking, if I leaped really high, I could hang suspended in the air, like Michael Jordan. Four years later, my tour en l’air leap is higher than the other students in the class.

“Aunt Patty would buy me new ballet slippers. She’d come, as she always did, and watch me perform.” Pressing my palms tight over my eyes, I stopped the tears. Stupid, stop crying! She’s dead! She can’t help you anymore.

Turning away from the poster, I locked eyes with Mitchell, Baryshnikov, Nureyev, Acosta, and Guo, yelling, “I’m sure Dad’s glad she’s dead. He will not pay for my shoes. He will not pay for my tuition when it runs out, either!” These Masters whose photos I’ve declared my joy of dance, I now declared my inner… hurt.

Facing my dresser mirror, I ordered myself to, “Go play and be normal, like Charlie. Go sit and play video games with him and yell at the screen. Try out for the football team, your feet are swift enough, they’d give me a shot. I’m sure Dad would be happy to pay for a football uniform because I wouldn’t be… different.”

I can’t, I just can’t!

Grabbing my battered ballet slippers, I shoved my feet into them. My big toes strained to escape out the holes in the top. I placed my feet into 3rd position and prepared to do my best jete leaps across my room. “But for today, I will be PROUD to be... Different.”

Perchance to Dance