She smiles into the mirror, hoping to convince herself that she really does want to be here. The bright lights reflect in the vanity, illuminating her perfectly made-up face. She pauses. The feathery powderpuff sits poised in her hand- a fuzzy butterfly, designed to disguise and transform. A pat here, a fluff there, perfect. Her smoothed complexion would be spotlight-ready with just a few passes of the dark pink blush. She makes a fish-like face in the mirror, finding the apple of her cheek. A tired sigh escapes her chest as she absent-mindedly tucks a stray piece of hair back into a bobby pin. A knock at the dressing room door snaps her from her thoughts. "Come in" she calls- not bothering to rise and answer the door herself. She hears the soft patter of dance shoes and suddenly sees her best friend's reflection staring at her own in the giant mirror. Perfectly smoothed, tucked, hairsprayed, and costumed, her friend is the image of what she could never quite achieve. She made it seem so effortless. "You're on in ten", she says, flashing a brilliantly white smile, and fluttering out the door. Offering a half-hearted thanks, she rises in her chair to reach the satin shoes that had been less than carefully tossed over the mirror's edge. The ribbons are tangled. Again. Just her luck, too. Working quickly to iron out this latest wrinkle, she thinks back to the countless times she'd had to untangle her shoes' ribbons over the years. One would think she'd learn to store and transport them better. She quickly laces the freed ribbons over her slender ankles. Criss-cross, criss-cross, right over left. Or had she accidentally just done left over right? She has to focus. Standing up from the chair, she smooths her costume, tucking in any loose strings, straightening the crinoline and tightening the zipper. She spins slowly in front of the full-length mirror, inspecting herself for any overlooked details. Seeing none, she rises to Arabesque and performs a slight Penche to relax her clenched muscles. "Why am I a dancer?" she asks the mirror. It offers no reply. It never does.
Another knock interrupts her again. This time, her friend doesn't wait for permission to enter. "Let's go. You have one more song before the stage is yours!" With another brilliant smile and a soft swish of the costume, her friend glides back through the door again, and this time, she is accompanied. Out into the hall they tip-toe, the dim light glinting off the sequins on their skirts. Narrow corridors and small staircases lead them to the stage doors. Quietly pushing through, they pad through the wings; avoiding sandbags, switches, and boxes.
She peeks through a tiny tear in the curtain. The dancer before her is almost finished. She knows the number by heart now, so many times has she watched it through this tear. After one more pirouette, the tiny woman will perform a gravity-defying leap, the lights will black out, and the music will end dramatically. As she predicted, the woman executes the steps perfectly, and wastes no time vacating the stage. It's her turn now. Passing the woman, she walks quickly onstage. With each step she reminds herself of why she is here. To pay the bills. To make a living. To prove her peers wrong. To stun the audience. To dance . . . to dance. She closes her eyes and takes note of her internal rhythm- her heartbeat. It beats quickly and sporadically. She still gets nervous, even after all these years, all this practice. She knows though, that as soon as the lights wash over the stage, she will be purged of that nervousness, and unhindered in her performance. She will dance, and she will stun the audience. After all, that was her dream . . . to be a dancer.
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