misc. 17
I once knew this girl - we were best friends for the longest time. Inseparable, I guess; she was closer to me than my own sister. We’d been friends forever, which was really odd. We were polar opposites - she was the brainy, artsy one…always making jokes and random comments. I was more preppy, interested in clothes and boys and sports. It’s amazing we hung out at all, especially when we got to high school; but we were always together.
She was beautiful - even if she never admitted it. Tall and willowy, she seemed to balance with my shorter, more solid form. She moved with a loose-limbed stroll that just barely hinted at grace, yet somehow she always managed to match my powerful, confident strides. She was normal…well, as normal as anyone ever is; a little less confident than most, but not too bad - just normal.
One day, she invited me to sit in on her dance class. I didn’t have anything better to do, so I went. All the way there, she was herself - laughing and joking and just the same as always. At the studio, she disappeared into a dressing room while I found a seat out front. When the girls began making their way onto the dance floor, I watched for her. To tell the truth, I almost missed her. It was as if by changing her clothes, she had changed her entire personality. Where was the slightly off-kilter girl I’d eaten paste with in kindergarten? The young woman in that room was confident, sure of herself. She wasn’t just my friend anymore; for the first time in all the years I’d known her, she looked like what she was - a dancer.
I watched the entire class in awe, frozen in my chair. She was graceful and passionate, mature and completely in her element. She oozed self-esteem as she moved around the floor, her body rocking and rolling in time with the music. When it was finished - when all the girls applauded and filtered out to change, I still couldn’t move. I watched her disappear into the dressing room again, noting that even her walk had changed.
I stayed in my seat until my friend laughingly pushed her way though a knot of her classmates and came looking for me. Seeing her in her regular clothes - jeans, stained sweatshirt, beaten-up cap - I looked for some trace of the woman I had seen on the dance floor. But she was gone - packed away in the worn canvas bag with her shoes and sweaty workout clothes. Instead, there was my friend; the one I’d known since before we could even write our own names.
I smiled at her; she smiled back. Instant understanding that didn’t need words. “You ready to go home?” she asked, shrugging her bag onto her shoulder. I nodded.
“Yeah. Let’s get outta here.”
She was beautiful - even if she never admitted it. Tall and willowy, she seemed to balance with my shorter, more solid form. She moved with a loose-limbed stroll that just barely hinted at grace, yet somehow she always managed to match my powerful, confident strides. She was normal…well, as normal as anyone ever is; a little less confident than most, but not too bad - just normal.
One day, she invited me to sit in on her dance class. I didn’t have anything better to do, so I went. All the way there, she was herself - laughing and joking and just the same as always. At the studio, she disappeared into a dressing room while I found a seat out front. When the girls began making their way onto the dance floor, I watched for her. To tell the truth, I almost missed her. It was as if by changing her clothes, she had changed her entire personality. Where was the slightly off-kilter girl I’d eaten paste with in kindergarten? The young woman in that room was confident, sure of herself. She wasn’t just my friend anymore; for the first time in all the years I’d known her, she looked like what she was - a dancer.
I watched the entire class in awe, frozen in my chair. She was graceful and passionate, mature and completely in her element. She oozed self-esteem as she moved around the floor, her body rocking and rolling in time with the music. When it was finished - when all the girls applauded and filtered out to change, I still couldn’t move. I watched her disappear into the dressing room again, noting that even her walk had changed.
I stayed in my seat until my friend laughingly pushed her way though a knot of her classmates and came looking for me. Seeing her in her regular clothes - jeans, stained sweatshirt, beaten-up cap - I looked for some trace of the woman I had seen on the dance floor. But she was gone - packed away in the worn canvas bag with her shoes and sweaty workout clothes. Instead, there was my friend; the one I’d known since before we could even write our own names.
I smiled at her; she smiled back. Instant understanding that didn’t need words. “You ready to go home?” she asked, shrugging her bag onto her shoulder. I nodded.
“Yeah. Let’s get outta here.”