A short story about a young girl trying to navigate her way through the dance industry and the trauma of domestic violence. Won an honorable mention in the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards (2013).
Demi-plié, Slam went the door. Développé side followed by a tilt, Boom went my father’s knuckles against the wall. Fouetté turn, Pop goes the cap of the beer bottle. Pirouette turn, Clunk Clunk went my father’s feet up the stairs. Sissone, Bam his fist against my skull.
I collapsed to the hard wood floor, my hands wrapped around my forehead. For about a minute, it was near silent, all that could be heard was my slow, heavy breathing. I looked up at the man I must call “father.” Big mistake. Another blow to my left cheekbone.
“Don’t just sit there,” he said, his breath putrid with the strong stench of alcohol. “Get me dinner.” I quickly sprung to my feet, my face still stinging.
“Don’t make me wait!” he said, pulling the collar of my shirt. I resisted the urge to turn my head to avoid the blast of his alcohol breath. His eyes looked around the room and rested on my feet. “Give me your shoes.”
“What?” I asked, looking down at the perfect ballet shoes that I’d finally scraped up enough money to afford.
“I said give me your shoes!” He pulled me in closer. I slipped the shoes off without a sound. He snatched them up and walked around the room. “I thought I told you, no more of this dance nonsense.” He sat down on the bed and patted to the spot next to him. Hesitantly, I sat down. “You ever read Cinderella?” I nodded. “Let me tell you something about fairytales. They’re not real.” And with that, he took my perfect ballet shoes, ripped the canvas in half, and threw the scraps on the floor. He walked out of the door, laughing, leaving me with a dream that was slowly evaporating into nothing.
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