Ballerina and the Boxer

The first class was rough. I had my lessons prepared and the basics ready. I suppose when you're teaching new dancers-four to five year old dancers, things won't always go as planned. They were cute: braids, buns, and tutus, but cute isn't what I was going for.

When the last dancers left I loosened my low bun and slouched to the wooden floor. My voice was strained; I swear I have never raised my voice so much in my life. I rubbed my face up and down, thankful I decided against make up and pulled my legs to my chest. I sighed, but am tuned out by a loud voice coming from the halls. I looked up and see a man, possibly my age yelling at Samantha-one of the greatest ballerinas the studio has ever had. He was much taller as he hovered over the lean woman who seemed to be shrinking with age.

After twisting her ankle one too many times she decided teaching classes and taking over the company was the best thing to do. And when I heard this hooded man with clenched fists I quickly rushed to the door, cracking it slightly.

"I told you I have a match tomorrow night. I'm not coming to your fucking recital!"

I flinched from his tone as I watched Samantha look around for young ears; thankfully none appeared.

Samantha ignored his outburst and placed her hand on his upper arm, trying to sooth him. "You look tired, Harry. Have you been steaming again? You know how unhealthy that is. I've told you for weeks about this. You have a match every weekend, can't you reschedule just one?"

"How about you stay out of my business? What I do in my spare time is none of your concern; especially when you can't find the time for your son! How many of my matches have you attended? Hmm?"

Samantha didn't speak as she looked away from her son. She never spoke of him but I suppose this is why. "Harry, I can't reschedule. But I'll make the next one, okay?"

"Bullshit," he laughed but quickly became silent. "And while you're twirling these little girls why don't you tell your employees to mind their own damn business too?"

I gasped and pulled myself around the corner. I had no idea there was even a possibility he could have seen me.

"Harry", Samantha tried calling him as he stomped away and left her staring in my direction.

Her eyes seemed sad, tired. I could see the resemblance; the same nose and eyes. I couldn't help but feel bad for the woman I looked up to the most. My mother had never supported me but Samantha, she was my light.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."

"No, no Clara," she smiled weakly, "he's just upset with me. He's right, I haven't been to a match in months."

I looked to my fiddling fingers knowing exactly how that felt. I don't think my mother had seen me dance for years. And dad, well, who knows where he was.

"Maybe someone could record it tomorrow night. Then you can watch it later." I suggested something positive that may help her son. I know I would be happy if my mom even attempted something.

"Hmm, maybe." She tapped on her lip with her index finger before leaving her quick daze, "how did your class go?"

I was happy for the change of subject but still bothered by the man. His hoodie covered most features but I could still tell he had dark eyes and a large frame. I wondered what could be underneath those layers of clothing during this warm summer evening.

"Well," I chuckled, rubbing the back of my neck, "not as well as I wanted if I'm honest."

Samantha walked to me and wrapped her arm around my shoulder, leading me back into the studio room where my things were placed. "The first class is always the hardest, especially with the young ones."

"I don't think I'll be able to talk for a week." I cleared my throat as Samantha let out a genuine laugh.

"Ahh, it'll get easier. You know, you were quite difficult yourself."

I raised my eyebrow, "was I?"

"Oh yes, always perfecting each move. I was worried you weren't human!"

I picked up my bag and tossed it near the door, smiling along with Samantha. Even with her silly jokes, she still made me feel better.

"Well, I guess I should clean up before I go, my mom will be worried."

I grabbed a broom and began sweeping the particles of dust from the ballerina shoes.

Samantha was still standing at the door, holding her lips between her teeth. "Clara? Do you think you could do me a favor? I'll clean up the studio if you can."

"Hmm, it must be a pretty big favor," I smiled. Everyone hated cleaning the floors. Sweep, mop, mirrors, barres. It took at least an hour for even a pro.

"Do you think you could record the match? You know, like you suggested. I'm sure Harry would appreciate it and the gym is close by. And he's very good-it won't take much time."

My eyes bulged from their sockets and my jaw loosened. With this request I wouldn't only have to see him again, but see other muscular, scary men who probably won't like my presence. But when Samantha looked at me desperately, I couldn't say no to the woman who shaped me into the woman I was becoming.

"Oh...okay, I can do that."

Samantha pranced to me with a gracious look. She was always happy, but this was a different kind of happiness.

Her grip around my shoulders was strong as I squealed. Samantha took the broom and I left the studio graciously, thinking maybe I'd be more gracious if I didn't have to watch this match.

++

"Mom? I'm home," the apartment was pitch black with the only light coming from the window ahead of me in our townhouse. I hung my keys beside the door and found the kitchen light, sliding my palm against the wall.

It had been just the two of us for years, since my father left. I couldn't remember when he left, but I knew it was when I was just a small child. I was the unwanted child, the accident that happened when my mother was 21. They never married but when they were together they seemed happy. I think they did that for me. Then, one day, he was gone. Mom said he didn't want us anymore. He found another woman and left just as fast as I came. I guess I liked her honesty, but not when I was seven.

"Mom?" I walked to my mom's room and knocked quietly. When there was no answer I figured she was probably at a meeting. Usually I'd get a text, a call, or even a note but tonight I came up empty handed.

I heated a bowl of ramen and stripped down to nothing, I loved the feeling of wearing nothing freely. Just in case my mother came home, I locked my bedroom door and opened my Mac, huddling under my covers before turning on Netflix and scrolling through the movies I could pick from.

As I laid naked, eating my ramen and watching some documentary on World War II, I waited for the text Samantha should be sending soon. It came in at 9:53 pm.

The match is at 10pm. It's his gym, Patrick Henry Gym (just four blocks from the studio). Thank you so much Clara! -Sam

I smiled, glad to help, but tilted my head in confusion as I thought.

The match was scheduled for 10. Samantha would be done with the teen recital (cleaning included), showered, and to sleep by 10. She could definitely make the match but decided against it. Instead, she sends me, a girl who knows nothing other than ballet, a girl who knows only two things of the man-his name and his relation with Samantha, and a girl who is scared to death of this Patrick Henry Gym.

Could Samantha be a small version of my mother? I shook the thought, she couldn't be. Maybe she just didn't like boxing. But it was her son.

I walked my empty bowl to the sink then back to my room trying to forget about my unnerving thoughts. There still wasn't a text from my mother but I was too tired to care. I showered briefly and fell into my bed drastically, hair still wet, body naked as ever.

Notes