So there I was inhaling
stinky feet, which, I had to admit, I was used to. I play basketball and the
smell of feet is something you build a tolerance for pretty quickly. But today,
I wasn’t going to play ball. I was here to dance.
I plopped down on the
floor nearest the mirror that spanned an entire wall from floor to ceiling.
Turning my back to it, I slid my basketball into a corner and began to unlace
my sneakers. It was time to morph from sporty Geri into the ballerina girl my
heart so desperately craved to be. I blew my bangs out of my eyes and secured
my short hair with a terry cloth headband. Yeah, I know. Way to be graceful.
But that was all I had. It wasn’t like I could spend my allowance on girly hair
accessories.
I pulled my soft, pink
ballet shoes from my backpack, cradled them in my hands for a few seconds, and
was about to slip them on when I heard the knob on the door turn. I felt my
eyes narrow as I tried to focus on the figure stepping through. He was wearing
what looked like a white martial arts kimono over a dark colored tee. He lifted
his arm toward the light switch and the room was flooded in bright, white
light.
“Who are you?” we asked at
the same time.
I didn’t like the way he
was frowning at me. And towering over me. I leapt to my feet. “I reserved the
studio for our ballet class.”
He strode over to where I
stood and dropped his dirty-looking backpack with a thud. “Well, every
afternoon, the dojo,” he stressed on
the word, “is ours.”
I looked around the empty
room, noticing the blue mats stacked against one corner. Oh, right. There they
were. But I couldn’t resist saying, “Doesn’t look like much of a dojo to me.”
“I’m here to set up the
mats,” he muttered, giving me a look before marching over to them.
“Wait a minute!” I realized he wasn’t going to
listen to me. “We’re here to dance and we can’t exactly do pirouettes on mats.”
“Didn’t you hear what I
said? This dojo,” he paused and I
tried really hard not to stick my tongue out at him, “is reserved.”
My hands flew to my hips,
landing on the waistband of my basketball shorts. “I reserved this studio for
the rest of the month. Our ballet studio has a leak—”
“I don’t care about your
leak. You can’t have the dojo because I reserved it.”
That was it. Who did he
think he was, throwing his weight around like this? “Look,” I spat out. “All we
have to do is check with the secretary who will tell you that you,” I emphasized, “made a mistake.”
He stood there, his hands
on one of the mats. “I did not make a mistake.” He threw it on the floor. I was
about to walk over to it and shove it back against the wall when I figured that
was going to be a waste of time. Besides, Teacher Justine and the rest of my
classmates were going to be here in a few minutes and I still hadn’t set up the
speakers or the rosin for our pointe shoes.
“Well, neither did I.” I
pushed both hands against the door and stomped through the narrow hallway to
the administration office. Well, I tried to stomp but couldn’t actually manage
it in my soft ballet shoes. Padded was a more appropriate term.
I knocked on the pale
wooden door and didn’t wait for an invitation to enter. “Ms. Sue,” I began as
she peered up from her cluttered desk. “There’s this guy saying the studio is
reserved for—”
“The dojo.”
I spun around and jumped
back when I discovered he was standing right behind me in the cramped office. I
didn’t want to be closer to him than I had to be. And being in the same spacious
studio was already more than I could take. I banged my butt against Ms. Sue’s
desk, pitching a few papers to the floor, and yelped.
I glared at him when I
heard him snicker. Ms. Sue, however, was already next to me, her hand on my
waist, asking if I was okay.
“I thought you said you
were a ballet dancer.” He smirked.
“What’s that supposed to
mean?” That stung a little bit.
“Well, aren’t ballerinas
supposed to be graceful? That wasn’t exactly an act of grace.” As the corner of
his lip curled upwards, I gripped the edge of Ms. Sue’s desk to keep my hands
from grabbing something like that glass paperweight over there and hurling it
at his smug face.
Ms. Sue raised both hands
and waved them in our faces. She was tiny, maybe not even five feet, and she
looked even smaller next to him. It was then that I noticed how tall he was.
The guys I met were usually around my height, which was four inches below six
feet. But to look at his annoying smirk, I had to bend my neck back a bit. “I’m
so sorry, Bas,” she began in her high-pitched voice. “Geri is right. The studio
is hers at this time. Didn’t Sensei tell you?”
He bent his head and
shoulders in what looked like a bow. This guy really internalized his costume,
didn’t he?
“Thank you, Ms. Sue. No,
he didn’t.” He gave me a tight smile. “Sorry about that.” And turned away.
That was it? And I was
ready to fight. I stood there watching him walk back to the studio when I felt
Ms. Sue tap me on the back. “He’s really a sweetheart. Just very passionate
about aikido.”
I shook my head and turned
to thank her. I made sure to confirm that I had reserved the studio every
weekday afternoon and every Saturday morning for a month so I wouldn’t get into
more trouble with Dojo guy, then I jogged back to get the stuff ready. When I
arrived at the dojo, uh, I mean studio, the mat he had put on the floor was
already against the wall and he was nowhere to be found. I didn’t bother to
check if he was hanging around outside to thank him for doing that. By then, I
had lost precious minutes arguing over the legitimacy of my reservation.
I tugged off my shorts and
tied my delicate, pink skirt around my waist. I was already wearing my pink
tights and black leotard underneath my basketball clothes. I pulled at my hair
in the hopes that maybe today was the day I could finally tie it into a
ponytail, but no such luck. I had to be happy with the headband. I was growing
my hair out because really, have you seen a shorthaired ballerina? Short hair
worked when you played ball. Once during practice, someone yanked my ponytail
hard while I was trying to do a layup. It had hurt so much, tears stung my
eyes. And I don’t cry. And never on the court. That was when I decided it was
not going to happen again. So off to the barber’s I went.
But when Teacher Justine
came to school two years ago to take over my freshman P.E. class, forcing us to
do what she called layman ballet, I felt like I had tasted ice cream for the
very first time in my life. The same arms I used to tap the ball in an attempt
to steal could extend above my head in a graceful arc. The same feet I pumped
across the court to make a basket could go on tiptoe and lift me up. I
surprised myself by chasing after Teacher Justine when P.E. ended and begging
her to let me know how I could enroll in her class.
“You’re older than the
usual starting age, but you have great proportions, Geri Lazaro.” Those words
were like an ice-cold bottle of Gatorade after realizing I’d forgotten my water
jug halfway through basketball practice. Thus the terrycloth headband and the
dream of getting hair extensions.
“Did you see him?” My
ballet classmate Helena, whose hair was always in a perfect bun without a
single strand out of place, floated over to me, pink skirts flapping up and
down in her rush.
“Who?”
“This guy! I can’t believe you didn’t see him
when you entered.” Then her bright, excited expression fell. “Oh, Geri, I hope
you weren’t wearing your basketball outfit when you arrived.”
I pulled her phone closer
so I could study the image on it. I blinked when I saw who it was. It was Dojo
guy. He was talking to someone else in a martial arts kimono too. A girl with
long hair cascading down her back. So there was no question of who Helena had
just stalked in that photo. I put Helena’s phone back in her hand and wrinkled
my nose. “Ew. Yeah. We kinda got into an argument.” I saw her eyes widen. “And
yeah, I was wearing my basketball clothes.”
“Geri!” She raised both
hands. Even in her frustration, she did it with such grace. It was no wonder
she was Teacher Justine’s star pupil. “What on earth did you argue about?”
She started pressing
something on her phone. In a few seconds, I heard mine beep in the depths of my
backpack. Had to remember to put it on silent during class. “Did you just send
me his photo? I don’t want it.”
“So delete it.” She
grinned, a teasing look in her dark, round eyes. “Why were you fighting?”
I walked toward the power
outlet to plug in Teacher Justine’s portable speakers. “He was in here freaking
out that the studio belonged to him at this time. But I sorted it out with the
admin secretary.”
“That doesn’t sound like
something you have to fight over.” She tilted her pretty head to the side, her
gentle voice a perfect match to her fluid movements. “Is it because you have
issues with cute guys?”
I gaped at her. “What do
you mean? I do not have issues with cute guys.”
“Yes you do. You can’t
stand your mom’s boyfriend. He’s gorgeous.” Helena’s hands flew to her tiny
waist.
I reached for the remote
control of the air-conditioner, which hung on the wall, and pressed the green
button. As cool air began to permeate the room, I turned to face her. “My mom’s
boyfriend is not gorgeous. Stop being gross, Helena.”
“Maybe if you weren’t in those horrible
basketball clothes, you wouldn’t have been so combative,” she countered.
“Combative?”
Helena nodded. “Sorry,
hon, but you get a bit aggressive when you’re in them. Why do you still wear
them? It’s not like you attend training anymore, right?” Her brow furrowed as
if she were trying to understand the complications of my challenged wardrobe.
“I still do! It’s not
basketball season though, so Coach lets me leave earlier to make it to ballet
on time. But because I can’t exactly walk around in just my ballet clothes, I
put my shorts and jersey over them for the trip here.”
“Are you sure about this,
Geri?” Helena bit her lower lip. “Have you ever considered ditching basketball?
Are you truly planning to make a career out of it?”
“Hey, the Philippine
Basketball Association is starting a women’s league!” I protested. But I knew
it was useless. Helena didn’t care about sports. I think the only time she ever
watched basketball was whenever I had a game and afterwards, she’d keep asking
me why this or that happened. It was tiring but I was grateful for her support.
I got down on the floor
and extended my legs into a good stretch, hoping that would get her mind off my
sport and Dojo guy.
It worked.
“Oh, Geri, if you angle
your leg like this, you’ll get an even more satisfying stretch.” She floated down
next to me to get into the position.
When I had first started,
Teacher Justine assigned her to help me catch up. I still had a long way to go,
but Helena, who had been dancing ever since she could pull her ballet shoes on
her tiny chubby feet at two-and-a-half, was the most patient teacher ever. She
was just a pest when it came to boys. And other things too. It was like she had
an agenda to make over my life together with my dancing skills.
“Good afternoon, girls.”
We looked up to see Teacher Justine glide into the room. Behind her were the
rest of our classmates.
I scrambled to my feet and
we curtseyed together. I swear, it wasn’t planned, but the proud smile on
Helena’s face told me it was now going to be our standard greeting whenever
Teacher Justine entered the studio.
Teacher Justine stood in
the center, right next to the mirrored wall, her heels together and her toes
pointing outward in classic ballet first position. I don’t even think she was
aware she was doing it. Her tummy was tucked in and her back was ramrod
straight. She sniffed the air and turned her head as if searching for someone.
“Geri,” she began. I stood up straighter. “Please take the candles from that
paper bag and light them. I don’t know how we can dance with this smell.”
I curtseyed again and
tried my best to be light on my feet as I rushed to retrieve the candles and
return to my spot in front of Teacher Justine. We were only seven in class, so
there was no way I could hide behind Helena. But then again, I wanted to do this.
I wanted to be a ballerina. It wasn’t because of the flouncy skirts, elaborate
costumes, studded tiaras, or even the satiny, pointe shoes. It was how I felt
when I was moving my body to the music: strong, powerful, in control—yet not.
As if something more graceful was powering through me and I was a conduit, a
channel for all this movement. As I danced, I felt as if everything was right
in the world—as if I was doing what I was born to do. It wasn’t like that on
the basketball court. Sure, I loved the rush, the adrenaline, the bond with my
team, even the sweat that cooled me down after a hard drive, but it wasn’t
anything like this.
I concentrated on tucking
my tummy in just a little bit tighter and holding myself up just a little bit
straighter as I extended my arms on either side of me. Each miniscule movement
had to be precise, controlled. I could feel the beads of sweat form on my nose
and I was dying to rub them off, but as Helena says, “Always dance as if you
were onstage.” When Teacher Justine inclined her head in approval as she
drifted by me, I felt my heart lift. It didn’t matter where we were
dancing—smelly studio complete with annoying Dojo guy or a brightly lit stage
with hundreds in the audience. What did matter was that we were dancing—that I
was dancing.
Amey Zeigler
wrote her first mystery with her best friend in fourth grade. She wrote, the
friend illustrated. It also had a cute boy in it with spiky hair (because that
was the style back then). Not much has changed. She loves mysteries. She loves
romance. She loves suspense. She loves action, adventure and comedy. But she
wants it to have a happy ending.
