(no subject)
It's Tuesday, which is ballet, and Gwen's here early. Sometimes people come early to practice steps they couldn't get the day before, or to talk to Ms. Hayes, or just to hang out. Gwen's here to stretch. She puts a leg on the barre and straightens up, checks her hips in a stretch of mirror to make sure that they're level. Straight up and down, with her shoulders over hips over knees; the mirrors seem to go on forever when she's the only one here.
"Gwendolyn?"
That's Ms. Hayes, the only one who ever calls her by her name. She told Gwen once that it sounded regal and graceful, like a swan, and some of the girls had giggled-- but Gwen decided she liked the sound of that, and ever since then she's imagined her limbs light and elegant as she moves, just like a swan's.
"Hey, Ms. Hayes," she says, keeping her focus on her reflection.
"Are you staying for the late class tonight?"
Gwen nods-- and thinks she catches something out of her peripheral vision; a flicker of shadow across Ms. Hayes' face. Those kinds of things are pretty easy to spot on her; she's getting up into middle age, and the lines on her face crinkle when she's worried or concerned. Besides, she's kind of one of those face-like-an-open-book people. But in the end, Gwen only sees her smile.
"All right," she says. "We'll be trying out that new sequence from last week-- try to keep your toes pointed on that last combination."
Gwen nods, smiling. "Okay."
Other girls are starting to come in, and they make friendly chit-chat until it's time for class. Then nobody speaks except for Ms. Hayes, and Gwen is Gwendolyn again; delicate, swanlike Gwendolyn, floating gracefully over the earth's surface. Shoulders back, but not too far, and she can forget about the lousy grade she got on her History test. Weight between your first and second toes, and it doesn't matter if she and her father are going to argue again on the drive home. Straighter, taller, better, better-- tonight, Gwen dances until nine. This is the place she feels at home, the place where she excels; and she's not about to let herself lose it for anything.
She's fifteen years old.
"Gwendolyn?"
That's Ms. Hayes, the only one who ever calls her by her name. She told Gwen once that it sounded regal and graceful, like a swan, and some of the girls had giggled-- but Gwen decided she liked the sound of that, and ever since then she's imagined her limbs light and elegant as she moves, just like a swan's.
"Hey, Ms. Hayes," she says, keeping her focus on her reflection.
"Are you staying for the late class tonight?"
Gwen nods-- and thinks she catches something out of her peripheral vision; a flicker of shadow across Ms. Hayes' face. Those kinds of things are pretty easy to spot on her; she's getting up into middle age, and the lines on her face crinkle when she's worried or concerned. Besides, she's kind of one of those face-like-an-open-book people. But in the end, Gwen only sees her smile.
"All right," she says. "We'll be trying out that new sequence from last week-- try to keep your toes pointed on that last combination."
Gwen nods, smiling. "Okay."
Other girls are starting to come in, and they make friendly chit-chat until it's time for class. Then nobody speaks except for Ms. Hayes, and Gwen is Gwendolyn again; delicate, swanlike Gwendolyn, floating gracefully over the earth's surface. Shoulders back, but not too far, and she can forget about the lousy grade she got on her History test. Weight between your first and second toes, and it doesn't matter if she and her father are going to argue again on the drive home. Straighter, taller, better, better-- tonight, Gwen dances until nine. This is the place she feels at home, the place where she excels; and she's not about to let herself lose it for anything.
She's fifteen years old.