Ballet | Teen Ink

Ballet

May 5, 2018
By NikesThrone BRONZE, Colorado Springs, Colorado
NikesThrone BRONZE, Colorado Springs, Colorado
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

It was a familiar room, just the office off the hallway, but when my eyes focused on a particular part of the empty walls it was as though I was a camera that couldn’t focus. It was silent, no sound coming from anything, even the things that were supposed to be noisy. The fan spun quickly and purposely, dust flying from its blades. I take a few steps, almost as if I don’t expect the floor to hold my weight. I turn to a spare dresser, shoved down here with no room upstairs for it, I trace the carving on the dresser doors with my finger. Everything is as it should be, and still, it feels out of place, like I’ve been shoved in a dollhouse identical to my own.
  I look around and notice a box shoved in a corner of the room, there’s no label, but it’s dusty and there’s marker unintelligibly scrawled across one of its sides. I move toward the corner and kneel down. I shouldn’t be messing with it, there’s nothing of value in this room.
I touch it anyway. Moving my hands to the top I start to open it, I don’t know why but my heart jumps into my throat, my blood runs cold in my veins. I look inside and see old clothes, just ripped sweaters and badly knitted scarves. I rummage through the rest of it, throwing all the clothes most likely meant for donation to the ground behind me. Eventually, at the very bottom of the cardboard, I see a jewelry box.
It’s cheap and plastic, with a music box type ballerina at the top when you open it. I remember it vividly, sitting on my desk as a child. Just a gift, from some birthday a long time ago, way too long ago. I had wanted to have something pink, something girly. Just something to store necklaces and bracelets, not that I ever wore them. I don’t remember even keeping it, but my heart skips when I think of throwing it away. I open it slowly, and the eerie silence is broken by the classical tone, filling the room. The ballerina spins awkwardly, the gears inside the box probably rusted and broken by now. The music skips every once and a while as the ballerina stutters with it. I don’t mind it, I hum and look at the broken ballerina. Her uniform is stereotypical, something that you’d wear at ballet when you’re a kid. Just hopping around, an imitation of a real dancer’s grace. The big tutu’s and costumes. Flashes of cameras and the feeling of being proud of something that wasn’t much to be proud of. I look back at the ballerina, could I have been something like her? Someone dedicated to something? Someone willing to devote their entire life to a passion?
It seems nice, that idea. The idea of something to be. I had gotten the music box as storage, yet I never thought about it, never bothered taking care of it. Now the ballerina was broken because I threw it in this box.
I stand up, setting the music box on the ground. I pull at my hair, tugging it up into an imitation of a ballet bun. I throw my leg behind me, as high as I can, which isn’t high, but the thought is there. I spin, trying valiantly to keep on my toes, I dance around the room and try to remember what it was like to be in those ballet classes. I almost fall several times but manage to catch myself. I end with a curtsey, releasing my makeshift bun and letting my hair cascade down around my face. I catch my breath, collapsing on the ground next to the jewelry box. Somehow, it no longer looks cheap and plastic, it looks like childhood and my old growing collection of gifted necklaces and makeshift bracelets. The ballerina stares at me, her paint is scratched but her smile is untouched. I reach for the back of the box and turn the key, letting the music play and the ballerina spin


The author's comments:

I wrote this as part of a writing exercise I got from a book. 


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