Page 5 of Text Me A Kiss

“New York City just isn’t Chicago.” I put words muffled by the T-shirt over my face to my feelings.

“This is our last semester,” Olivia reminded me. “You’re graduating from The Juilliard School. Every company in the US will want those fine legs and that booty dancing in their shows.”

I gave my profile a glance in the full-length mirror hanging on the wall. Even the slightest movement sculpted the length of my legs with muscles, and Olivia was right— despite mostly fitting the typical ballet body type with my long, graceful legs and arms, high insteps, height of 5’5” and a half, and slimness, I did still have an ass. “Maybe that’s really what Lucy’s jealous of,” I joked, gathering my clothes together and pushing the curtain aside. “Dancers aren’t supposed to have a butt.”

Olivia used her toes to pick up her leotard as it fell from her armful of clothing. “Dancers aren’t supposed to have boobs, and Lucy does. Maybe that’s why she couldn’t get the routine today. She’s top-heavy.”

“Olivia!” I laughed, my half-hearted swat at her with my tights missing completely. She had a point, though. To reach this level—to be selected for Juilliard’s ballet program at all—young women had to have a very specific body type. Slim meant slim—slim in the waist, the legs, the arms, and the butt and breasts. Exceptions existed, but even those were still fairly close to set averages.

I’d struggled with self-image for years before coming to Juilliard. As a dancer, you constantly looked at yourself in a mirror, criticising every little movement you made and listening as your instructor made remarks about how your body moved. So many other girls danced, and they all looked just like any other ballerina. It wasn’t enough for your parents to tell you that you were special, or for any instructor to say you were talented—you had to work incredibly hard and love dancing more than anything else to reach the level Olivia and I had.

And I did love it. I loved the way I felt when every single part of my lithe form did exactly as my brain asked it, I loved flowing with the music like a stream around rocks, and I loved putting my entire heart and body into ballet.

Single-minded, heartless… one more… oh yeah. Bitch.My ex-boyfriend, Michael, had spared no adjectives when describing his newfound hatred for me when I had honestly answered his question of “Why are you breaking up with me?”

Come on. I spent my whole life listening to honest criticism of both from others and myself. Michael had known I was brutally honest; in fact, when we laid in bed together, he had whispered how much he loved that about me into my ear.

So, when I told him I would always love ballet more than him, that he bored me by never wanting to try anything new, and he irritated me with his laziness and unmotivated attitude, he should probably have expected all of that and more. He hadn’t, and we hadn’t spoken once in the three weeks since.

“See you tomorrow?” Olivia asked after we gathered our things together in silence.

“Yeah, see you,” I agreed absentmindedly, my thoughts following me out of the studio and into the streets of the Big Apple. The unlock screen on my phone informed me that it was currently 38 degrees just as the chilly air of Manhattan in February made me shiver. Burrowing my hands into my warm coat and hunching deeper into its high neck, I set off at a quick pace before the icy wind tunneling through the high-rises could make their way through my layers.

Below the temperature, there had also been a message from my dad, but I could wait until I made it back to my studio apartment to answer. As the President of the Board of Directors of Midwest, a brokerage company based in Chicago, my father understood the idea of being busy. He wouldn’t mind that it had taken me six hours to respond.

Shifting my shoulders to adjust my bag, I frowned at a slick patch of ice and snow that managed to escape the vigorous salting the sidewalks received after snowfall like we’d had yesterday and this morning. Wide as the sidewalks in Manhattan around The Juilliard School were, there was plenty of room to walk either to the right or the left around the slippery patch. However, the pensive expression on my face wasn’t from the treacherous sidewalk.

I’d done this too often lately—left texts from family unnoticed for hours or forgotten to answer them for days. My mother and father had a great relationship and I was their only daughter, so the three of us were very close. My mother had also done ballet, and she had been there to push me and support me every step of the journey from just any little girl starting ballet to a student at Juilliard.

That very same dancing career, though, had taken away all but a fraction of the time I could spend with family. I understood that by pursuing ballet as my livelihood I was making a choice about where to dedicate my time, but sometimes I wondered if I’d ever have time for family—for the one I had now and the one I hoped to create some day.

One, two, three, four…I began counting the steps up to my apartment, a pointless activity because I knew there were thirty-six steps—nine before each stairwell, eighteen between each floor, and thirty-six total up to the second floor, which was where my studio apartment was located.

The single room was small but adequate, and while I didn’t have a view of the whole city like I had growing up in Chicago, I did have a view of a park across the street. My mother had put her skills as an interior designer to work and picked the bright furnishings and accessories about the room that made the white walls and nondescript hardwood floor pop with color and personality. I loved this room because I could feel her style and creativity wherever I looked. When I spent time here, I forgot that I was stuck in Manhattan instead of being home in Chicago.

I dropped my bag on the plush chair near the door, tossed my keys onto the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room/bedroom/dining room, and plopped down on my sleeper sofa.

Suddenly, the silence was deafening. I should have asked Olivia to come home with me. Michael may not have been good for me long term, but he had kept the place from becoming too quiet, and I loved having a boyfriend….

Spurred by boredom, or curiosity, or something else entirely, I tapped my phone and opened the app store. One of the first categories that popped up when I tapped “search” was “Dating”. After thumbing through the descriptions for a couple of these, I ended up downloading the one that seemed to be most popular.

Wow. This thing had a LOT of fields. Looking for guys, girls, or other, hobbies, location, hometown, favorite places/foods/things to do, dream vacation spots, occupation, qualities wanted of a partner…. It was going to take me forever to answer all of these.

I shrugged. Better than cleaning my apartment.

I filled out every single field, giving each answer more thought than necessary, then I began browsing through my photos.Olivia would tell me to put this one on my profile.In the picture, I stood slightly sideways to the camera in fifth position, the curve of my hips on full display and my arms raised in that position iconic of ballet.

I touched the photo to select it to add. The little blue selection border didn’t appear. I touched it again, and it still didn’t select. A second later, I almost hung up on Olivia as the call screen appeared over the dating app.

“Hey.” My voice conveyed my surprise. “What’s up?”

“Hey.” Background noise hummed behind her voice. “Want to do karaoke tonight with me, Chris, Jenny, and that other guy-whose-name-I-never-remember?”

“Sure,” I replied after a glance around my messy apartment. “I’ll meet you at the dorms?” The Meredith Willson Residence Hall housed all three of my friends, so I might as well meet them there.

“Sure. See you soon!”

I tossed my phone into my favorite purse along with my keys, changed, and left to have fun with friends. Cleaning the apartment could wait until another day.