Page 45 of Give Me Strength

“You really surprised everyone today,” I say, glancing at her. “Especially me.”

She laughs, the sound light and melodic. “That was the idea. It’s good to shake things up sometimes, to remind everyone why they started dancing in the first place.”

“Speaking of shaking things up, the café changed owners a few years ago, and their menu underwent a complete overhaul.”

“Is it any good?”

“Good? I go there often enough that they keep a running tab for me. If I could live there, I would.”

We reach the café, and its inviting aroma wafts out to meet us. The familiar bell above the door rings as we enter, and the barista behind the counter cheerfully waves to us.

The beauty of being a regular who doesn’t drink coffee is that everyone here is familiar with my preferences. I order the same things every time, depending on the day of the week. Today’s drink choice is a matcha latte. Wynter orders the same, but with a side of espresso.

We find a cozy corner table and settle in with our drinks. The café is comfortably busy, a soft hum of conversation and the occasional clink of cups creating a warm atmosphere.

“This place is lovely,” Wynter says, taking a sip of her espresso. “I can see why you like it here.”

“It’s my little escape,” I admit, smiling as I savor my matcha latte. “A place to unwind and gather my thoughts.”

Before moving in with Gilbert, I dreaded going home — to Dad’s house, that is. It’s not so bad now, going home to a place where you’re actually wanted. I still like my routine, though.

“So, how have you been?” She leans forward with genuine interest, setting both elbows on the table.

“Honestly? Anxious. I’m still waiting to hear back from Bayard. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, but the wait is driving me up a wall.”

“I remember that feeling all too well.” Her face lights up with understanding. “It’s a tough position to be in, but you’ve got to hold on to your passion and let it carry you through.”

“I know, but it’s hard not to think about what might happen if I don’t get in,” I confess, stirring my latte absentmindedly. “And then there’s all the gossip at the academy. I really don’t enjoy being this week’s topic of gossip, not when I already have a giant target on my back. It’s like everyone’s either waiting for me to fail, or making up their own reasons as to why I don’t deserve the things I have.”

If anyone understands, it’s Wynter. She was in the car with me, along with Rose — a former Brookfield student — Mom, and Rachel. Mom and Rachel died on the scene within minutes of each other. Rose ended up in a medically induced coma before succumbing to her injuries months later. As for the lawsuit and subsequent settlement, the trusts, and other provisions? None of that could ever replace the lives that were lost or the lives that have been irrevocably changed due to the actions of one man.

People see the dollar signs and conveniently forget the sequence of events that led up to it. I lost my mother and my best friend. Two men lost their wives, and another lost his niece. Sure, Wynter and I are alive, but at what cost? Anxiety, PTSD, and other complications we have to live with for the rest of our natural lives. But what I don’t do, is go about recounting sop stories to garner sympathy for my situation. I certainly don’t play the dead mom, dead teacher, or dead dad card when things don’t go my way. I keep my head down and work hard for the things I get. The money helps, but if I had to choose between that or Mom, Rachel, and Rose being alive, it’s safe to say I’d choose the latter.

Yet people forget that. They see green and hold out both hands, demanding a handout. Some, like my ‘acquaintances’ at Bluegrass High School and their entitled parents are more blunt and direct about it. Others, like Principal Richardson and Leland Roberson, use more sneaky and underhanded tactics. In the end, their intentions are all the same — they all want a piece of the pie, and I’m not inclined to give it to them. Not now, not ever.

Wynter nods, her expression sympathetic. “Ballet can be incredibly competitive, and not everyone handles it well. Unfortunately, gossip and jealousy are all part of the environment. Perceived injustices are another can of worms to unpack, but you can’t let that get to you. I know that’s easier said than done, but keep in mind that that’s a them issue, not a you issue. Focus on the things you can control — your dancing, your mindset, and your health.”

“How did you deal with it? I don’t just mean the money or the… well, the everything else.”

“Who says I’ve dealt with it?” She tosses back, leaning back in her chair. “On top of everything else, I have to navigate the world of ballet as a biracial woman and its prejudices about what ballerinas are supposed to look like. I’ve accepted that I don’t fit into that neatly packaged box, but I don’t let that stop me.

“When people talk, it’s usually more about their own insecurities than about you. My advice? Surround yourself with supportive people, and keep your eyes on your goals. Every time you feel the negativity creeping in, remind yourself why you started dancing in the first place. And why you keep doing it, despite everything you’ve been though.”

“That makes sense.” I nod, taking in her words. “It’s just hard sometimes, you know.”

“It is,” she agrees. “But you’re strong, Ashlynn. And you’ve already come so far. Remember, every great dancer has faced challenges and doubters. It’s how you handle them that defines your success.

“That, and you know the saying, knock your opponent down a few pegs to make yourself look better in comparison? That strategy doesn’t work when you join a company. Connections are useless if your dancing is sub-par. If you can’t hold your own as a soloist, you’ll never become a principal or hold any major parts. Not even as an alternate. Maybe you’ll have a career as a backup dancer, but that’s about it. The world of ballet is small, and news travels fast. So trust me when I say mediocrity always shows itself. And if a company is willing to stake its reputation on a mediocre principal, they usually don’t last very long either.”

We talk more, catching up on each other’s lives and delving into lighter topics. Wynter tells me about her travels, the cities she’s performed in, and the people she’s met. She also shares stories from her latest performances, the grueling rehearsals, and the exhilarating moments on stage. I tell her about my progress, the routines I’ve mastered, the areas where I’m struggling, my favorite books, and the little joys that keep me going. I also tell her about my recent ‘suspension’, to which — no surprise there — she agrees with Mrs. Janice’s decision to enforce it, and Principal Shirley’s decision to uphold it. And all the extensions after that.

“It’s kinda your fault,” I tell her in jest. “How could you film me?”

“How could I not, when you dance like that, unscripted and unchoreographed?” she asks, her eyes shining with pride. “Do you have any idea how many dancers will kill for a fraction of your talent?”

A warmth spreads through my chest at her words. “Thanks, Wyn. That means a lot coming from you.”

“I just tell it like I see it, but you still shouldn’t do that to your feet. Look at me. I was dancing on an old injury that I should’ve gotten checked months prior. I twisted it during my last performance, and here we are. The doctor gave me three to six months for recovery, and Bayard is enforcing it. I plan on returning much sooner than that, though. I just have to follow my physical therapist’s instructions to the letter.”

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