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The First Time Your Body Betrays You
I follow the choreography, beads of sweat forming at my hairline, my best friend next to me. The teacher is from London or New York or Moscow. He’s a big deal. It’s a dance festival in the mid-nineties, made up of competitions in different genres, showcases, classes, and workshops. I’m an 8th grader from a tiny ballet school. A very small fish in a medium-sized pond.
The music starts again, I’m going to get it right this time. 5, 6, 7, 8 — I turn and feel a collision — inside my body. My left knee separates from the rest of my leg, goes in the wrong direction. I’m on the floor screaming, holding onto my knee, instinctively pushing my knee cap back in its place, a circle of sweaty dancers forming around me, my friend kneeling next to me, my own ballet teacher rushing over. I don’t know what happened to me so I can’t answer anyone pelting me with questions.
It hurts worse than anything I’ve experienced before (except maybe the time I thought I could jump off the swing while standing on it and smashed my face into the concrete). I want the pain to stop.
The big deal walks halfway over, asks if I’ll get up and continue. I don’t even look at him. “Well, then get her off my dance floor!” he yells and proceeds with class.
I had potential before that.
