Ballet’s Skeleton

By: Isabelle Morgan

My knees only gave twice on the way up the regenerative stairs. So this is a body on three hours of sleep. I know the rest of the journey to be flat with the sunrise-lit studio already in view. Stepping through the door, I am grateful to find already propped open, my booties stick to the marley, as if this weird rubber-like floor were covered in glue, as if dew had broken in last night, fallen asleep, and forgotten to go back outside in the morning. It's too early to have to pull each foot off the floor; my exhaustion is mocking me. New plan: keep gaze down, move one foot at a time, and embrace the sound of a peeling bootie as reassurance that I am still walking. That’s something. 

“Hey Izzy”

Fuck.

I lift my head and try to focus my eyes, which I’ve been unsuccessful in doing all morning. I manage to make out Nikita stretching at the barre. God, of course, I am not alone. If I had the energy, I would be embarrassed. But walking has taken all of my concentration. 

“Good morning.”

I say while taking a step, but I’ve been distracted, my torso continues forward while my feet stay firmly glued behind me. I stumble and catch myself, releasing a gasp that quickly turns into one of my signature performative giggles. Nikita looks away, letting my red cheeks disperse without the added shame.

Returning my gaze, I make it to the barre and crumble into a mass on the floor. The sun has warmed the marley here. Two of the four walls are all windows, forcing the sun to bend and pattern rays through the barres that line the base of the studio. Even while wearing a leotard and tights, two pairs of pants, a shirt, and a jacket, the sun feels… needed. It feels real, the first touch to feel real all morning. It’s warm. I sink into it, let it penetrate the fibers of my clothes and coat my sensitive skin underneath. 

“Last night was fun.”

I open my eyes to see Nick standing above me. Nick. A wave of recollection rushes through me, then my stomach betrays me, drops through the two floors below us, and splatters on the basement floor—last night. He knows something, a bit, or a piece to help explain why my limbs are failing.

“Yeah, it was a long night, had too much to drink.” 

I feel Nick’s eyes burning through my weak facade.  

“Yeah, you got pretty messed up.”

Nick never blinks when we are talking. Like he’s scared I might disappear in the second he closes them. He once told me that, in a hypothetical world where you could have any eye color and any other person's vision, he would choose mine.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks. 

I shake my head and close my eyes again. I don’t like this feeling, being left in the dark, blocked out of my own memory. I remember getting ready, putting on the skirt I had spent a week making—a collection of white chiffon tied around my waist with a white silk ribbon I had hand-stitched with silver thread. I hope I made Ms. Bradshaw proud. I remember feeling beautiful. I remember taking an Uber to the Halloween party. I remember—

“So what happened with you two?” 

I open my eyes to Nick still hovering above me, unblinking. Why is he always looking down at me?

“I don’t know what you want me to say. What are you really asking?”

Dale walks in. I rush to my feet, finally meeting Nick at the same level. He grunts and walks away. I am dripping. Sweat has added another layer to my already coated body. What does he want from me? I tear off my soaking booties and begin the exercise, the same combination we have done for three years. Bend and pointe, think and remember.

…

I was tired. I’m always tired, just on the verge of sleep. If someone were to nudge me, accidentally bump into me, to the ground, I would drift, closed-eyed, on a cloud. Combined with the wine, the mystery juice, and something hard, my cup was never empty, and the night began to sway in toxicity.

I was sitting on the stairs of the back patio, watching my roommate circle in a pointless flirtation. The tease of two people who pretend they aren’t committed, testing how far they can go without cheating. And it’s always with him. 

“Taylor. We dance tomorrow, man, can we please go home?” 

“It’s late, isn’t it? I’m gonna call Danny, have him take me home in a little bit.” 

“Yeah, right, your boyfriend.”

I couldn’t afford an Uber. I couldn’t afford to stand up. 

“Hey, I’m leaving,” Nick said over my shoulder. ”Do you want a ride?

“God, yes. Thank you.” 

He helped me up, and we weaved back through the house to the front yard. And then I was alone, and then I was sitting. I was sitting next to someone. Nick? No, Nick was driving the car. Someone was touching my leg. It’s him. When did he get here? What is he doing? It was encompassing, blood-rushing. With my eyes closed, I let my entire body release. But then the touch moved up. But I’m not Taylor, and I’m definitely not his girlfriend waiting for a visa so they can be together. His hands take my face, and without a word, our mouths are pressed too firmly.

…

The music has stopped. We are moving on. Pliés begin. Move from first to second position. I remember enough, yet the company seems to remember more. Using the mirror, I scan the class. He is watching me. I snap my head back, suddenly aching with the flood of the missing memory. My eyes blur, filling with alcohol and salt. All of these emotions burn.

Tendus begin.

…

He made my mouth and my numb body his. I was a facet of his beautiful, seductive, soulless body. I pushed him off, only to fail repeatedly. I was helpless in this car full of bystanding bodies. Are friends not synonymous with trust?

…

We leave the barre, begin center, and our separation is lost. He could reach out and touch me if he wanted to, and I have lost the strength to stop him. Yet, the movement of my starving body continues; maybe I never needed my brain. Clapping. The class is over. My body isn’t my own anymore. I am walking again. This skin isn’t mine to wash anymore. My lips just move so I can smile how they expect; I don’t need to explain anymore. I don't even have to apologize anymore. I’m just another stone in a lake, another fucking fish in the sea, another woman without a skeleton, another dancer who agreed to drain their blood to be seen.