Free One True Thing by Lynne Jaymes Page B

show,” Courtney says frozen in her position next to me. She hates ballet, but was on her modern dance team in high school so I convinced her to take the class with me.
    “Sorry. The family.” I pose with my head back and my arms up just as the audience starts clapping and the curtain rises.
    The stage is lit with dim blue spotlights and the second the music starts, my heart steadies and my body starts to take over. After years of stage fright to the point where I used to puke before a performance, I’ve found that if I can get my brain to get out of the way, the rest of me knows what to do. Hours and hours of practice have driven the routines into my subconscious and my arms bend and my legs split without having to think about it.
    The sound of a lone, frantic violin fills the theater and I glance out into the audience in the split second before it’s time to start moving. I wish everyone had made it here in time to see this routine—moody and evocative, it could easily be on an episode of American Dance.
    As the music gets louder, we spring into action, sliding across the stage as if pushed by an invisible wind, my splits are perfect thanks to years of flexibility training and my extensions are dynamic thanks to Madame. Fifteen years of dance lessons all come together in one moment so that each pose, each flex and each leap look effortless. I leap in midair and Courtney catches me by the back foot, pulling me into a split and then a spin as I stand up on one leg and arabesque over her crouching form. The violin reaches a crescendo and I can feel the audience along with us, clapping to the beat as we pound on the wooden stage with our feet in perfect synch before split-leaping together and landing with barely a sound. I can feel the other dancers exhale as the most difficult part of the routine is passed and we swirl toward the end with a final pull of the violin strings. The stage goes dark except for one lone spotlight just as the last note is cut off.
    The full house bursts into applause as we get up from our positions and give a little wave before rushing offstage to the dressing rooms. “Wonderful job ladies,” the stage manager says, huge headphones covering his ears as he directs the next group to their places.
    I’m already twisting my hair into a tight bun as we reach the chaotic dressing room. I find my place on the floor by the mirror and secure the knot with pins and a choking mist of hairspray before checking my makeup and swiping at a stray line of mascara that’s appeared under one eye.
    “That was killer,” Nina says, from her spot two chairs away. “I caught the beginning of the piece from backstage. Who choreographed it?”
    “A few of the girls got together and did it,” I said. To say that I did most of it would just sound obnoxious.
    “Well, it was world-class. I can totally see that on American Dance.”
    “Thanks,” I say, hoping she really means it and not just trying to make me feel better.
    Nina straightens her skirt as I stand up and pull my black dress off in one motion, quickly changing into the short white skirt and sleeveless top that Madame has chosen for this traditional piece. I love contemporary ballet, but Madame insists that in order to break the rules beautifully, you first have to know them perfectly.
    Nina sticks her head out of the dressing room. “We have like four more minutes,” she says to everyone who’s still here frantically trying to find the bits and pieces of their costumes.
    I put the cotton pads on the sore spots on my foot and cram it into the toe-shoe, lacing it whip-fast up my right leg. I look around my corner of the dressing room, but I can’t find the other one.
    “Shit!” I say, throwing things out of my bag and searching through the piles on the floor.
    “What?” Nina asks.
    “My other shoe is missing!”
    “It can’t be,” she comes over to help me look, but after two frantic minutes, it’s nowhere.
    “What the hell am I going to