Page 62 of You Spin Me

“I thought you had class Monday nights.”

“Yeah, but I’ll be done before you even get started.”

“Come to the studio, then? You can hang out till I’m done. Or take a nap again till I’m done. I’d really like to see you.”

How can I say no to that?

“I’ll see you Monday.”

“Good.” The smile in his voice is crystal clear. “It’s a date.”

In the lastscene of the Saturday afternoon matinee, I somehow snag a button of my cardigan on the doorframe as I make my exit. Luckily, it doesn’t bring the set down or anything, but I do lose the button. After the curtain call and a fruitless search backstage, I go to the costume shop to see if they have an extra.

I’m surprised to find Anya there instead of our usual dresser. “Her son is sick, so I’m your substitute today,” she tells me, her Slavic accent making her words sound more romantic than they are. Patting the workbench, she says, “Leave it here; I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you, Anya. Sorry about that.”

She waves down my apology, but says, “Can I ask you something, my dear?”

Something in the tone of her voice has me stepping back inside the shop. “Of course.”

When she doesn’t say anything, I step closer. “Is everything okay?”

Her brow wrinkles in either concern or some sort of pain.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Yes, yes, dear,” she says. Sighing, she turns off the iron she’d been pressing shirts with and comes to stand in front of me. “This is not my place, but I am concerned about you. We’ve had to take in the waistline of your skirts. Twice.”

Masking my emotions as quickly as I can—anger, guilt and shame battle for control of my face—I muster a polite smile. I’m sure Anya is just being motherly, so I keep things light as I say, “Don’t worry, Anya. I’m not sick or anything. My exercise routine has changed, and I’ve had a crazy schedule, but I’m fine.”

She takes my hands in hers. “Very well. Please let me know if there is anything I can do for you.”

“I’m fine, Anya.”

She nods and then steps back to the workbench to pull out a container filled with buttons. “I’ll have your sweater mended for tonight’s show,” she says, her tone distant.

I thank her, but indignation powers my steps as I head to the green room to eat my dinner. Every morsel of it. How dare she accuse me of…I do not have a problem.

Anymore.

I’m fine.

Anya’s concernpicks at me the way I used to pick at scabs when I was little. Rough spots drive me nuts, whether they’re on my skin or parts of my day. I do what I can to smooth things out, so when I see her later, I apologize for being short and reassure her again that I’m fine.

I almost tell her my past history with weight loss, but that’d make her worry. Unnecessarily.

When I was a teenager, in addition to my academic challenges, I struggled with the changes my body was going through. Well, “struggled” is probably too tame a word. Ballet was my first love, and you could say we had a pretty fucked-up relationship. So Ihatedthe changes, especially the breasts that seem to get bigger by the day. I tried to stop them from growing by taking in fewer and fewer calories. I got thinner, but while the boob growth slowed a bit, it didn’t work. I no longer had the proportions of a ballerina.

I auditioned for Ballet Boston anyway, hoping that my talent would outshine my shape, but despite trying three times, I never made it into their apprentice program. Other girls from my studio did. I was as good as they were, I worked as hard or harder, but unlike the naturally lean girls, I eventually had to accept that I’d never be able to pursue a career as a professional dancer.

The third rejection letter sent me into a spiral that ended in hospitalization, force-feeding and a psychiatrist accusing my parents of neglect. The whole thing almost broke my mom and dad, and I’ll never forgive myself for the hurt they suffered. It was bad enough thatIfelt like a failure. They didn’t have to join me.

Anorexia was the diagnosis, but it never felt right to me. I didn’t have the same thought patterns as the other girls in group therapy. I actually like food. Not eating was a poorly-thought-out attempt to return my body to its original shape. I wasn’t trying to control my universe.

I probably should’ve lobbied for a breast reduction instead. I still think about trying to do that, but I don’t have the money. Even though lots of my friends got nose jobs at sixteen, my parents said no to plastic surgery for me.

It took a few years, but I was finally able to make peace with dance and bring her back into my life as a friend. Granted, she can be a harsh and overly critical companion. When I look in the mirror, I’m never happy with what I see, and dance concurs. We both miss the beautiful lines of preadolescent Jessica too much.

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