Hey guys my piece isn't finished yet but some feedback on how I can improve on what I have so far would be greatly appreciated!
• • •
The story of Laura
Satin shoes. A bustle of white tutus. The piano begins to play. I count myself in.
The moves flow through me, as naturally as the action of brushing my teeth. The dark unknown before me, conceals a sea of judgment. But the eyre of mystery about it allows me to focus on the magic I feel a part of; Instead of worrying what score I will recieve for each flick of my leg or float of my arms.
Our synchronized pirouettes haven no room for error. If one of us is a fraction of a second too late, the whole dynamic is ruined. I'm caught in a trance as I spin, focusing my eyes on a single point in the mass of blackness before me. I adopt this incredible feeling of calmness and surrender when I dance. I always feel like there's nowhere else I'd rather be in that moment.
This form of art, in my eyes, is powerful. Ballet is greatly captivating - not only for the audience - but for the performers as well. We get lost in our display just as much as the crowd does which forms an unexplainable connection between us. All these feelings I get drive me to practice harder and harder each day, just so I can feel this way again and again.
The bus ride back to our dance school begins with praise from our dance teachers on another "exquisite display" and an applause and welcoming to the newest member of our troop. My closest dancing friends are sat in the seats near mine; Denise, Abby, Kerry and Anastasia.
"Laura!" Kerry beams at me, "I overheard one of our teachers saying that the critics couldn't take their eyes off you tonight!"
"Which teacher?" I asked, trying to come accross with at least a hint of modesty.
"Miss Bell. If I heard correctly, she was telling Mrs Short that the national ballet critics want you to be part of their next display at the ____ theatre!"
My whole insides seemed to jump inside of me. I want to get off the bus and run somewhere that I could sing at the top of my lungs in joy. My friends proudly throw their arms around me.
I feel that this sense of family among my dance troop is stronger than I ever felt around my family. I remember back to the long hours my mama and papa would work in their musty antique shop back in England. A shiver runs through me as I remember the bitter cold and unheated back room of that shop where I'd polish and mend the antique pieces after school every day until I escaped to where I now call home.
Upon arriving back at our school we leap off the bus, dashing up each flight of stairs and causing a racket with our endless fits of giggling. The flowers and chocolates that were thrown on stage are waiting in our common room. I throw open the door to my dormitory and throw my ballet shoes into my made bed. Their ribbons fly everywhere and I watch as they land on a single letter that has been placed on the foot of my bed. It is addressed to me:
"Laura M
Paris school of ballet
Paris 75008"
I flip it over to see the return address. It appears blank. I tear it open to find a letter written in my mother's handwriting. It is the first time I've heard from her in 6 months. That is, since the time she sent me a store bought Christmas card with a lousy 20 pounds in coins enclosed.
"Dear Laura,
I hope you are well. I know it has been a while since we have spoken.
I won't lie, everything back home seems to be going downhill. Your papa is very sick. He has developed Alzheimer's disease. Unfortunately he can barely remember my name, let alone how to run the shop. I was hoping that you could put your dancing thing on hold for a while and come back to help me get the business rolling again. If you're not here by the 21st I will have to sell the shop. I am trying to look for a full time carer for papa but it is difficult to find one we can afford. We would greatly appreciate your return.
Lots of Love,
Mama"
My heart grows numb. I slump onto my bed and tear off the single train ticket from the bottom of the letter. The 21st of June is 5 days away. That's how long I have to make up my mind. I do feel selfish - but this could not have come at a worser time.
Anastasia appears in my doorway. "Laura! We're having supper in the common room. They finally got those lemon biscuits—" her eyes are drawn to the letter in my hands. "What's that?" She asks, "oh my gosh is it from the critics?" She asks in excitement.
I shake my head and hand her the tear sodden letter.
"How could they expect this of you Laura? Don't they know how serious you are about your dancing."
"They've never cared." I reply. "You go, I'll stay here I'm not very hungry."
She nods with sorry eyes and returns to the common room.
If my papa wasn't ill, I'd let them figure our the business on their own. I wouldn't feel like I owed them anything. But as much as I don't miss being around my parents, he's my papa after all and I don't want to hear of him suffering.
***
Telling Miss Bell that I was leaving wasn't easy in the slightest. I caught her on her morning tea break and broke the news. I've never cried in front of any of my dance teachers but I couldn't keep it together.
The train ride is a somber one. I feel like I just left my whole life at Gare Du Nord station.
I should probably be afraid of the state I will see my Papa; but in but my anxiety is dulled by regret.
***
I drag my suitcase down the ruined concrete path, along the straight I used to walk on to and from school every day. A feeling of nostalgia washes over me. Goosebumps prickle over my skin with each icy gust of wind. The sky is a dull, grey blanket. I am 7 years old again, tripping over the same bumps in this path and dreading my arrival back home. Every building, every tree, every shop is the exact same as it was when I was last here.
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