Page 2 of The Breaking Pointe

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NOELLE

I never liked confrontation, even when I was a little girl.

I still feel like a little girl, but I keep getting reminded that twenty-five isn’t as little as it feels.

To me, at least. It’s actually similar to a bomb that could go off at any given moment, sending your life into an overturning tsunami.

That is, if you don’t find a way to detonate it in time.

I never seem to get it right. I’m married to my karmic outcomes at this point.

If it weren’t for me prancing in circles in pointe shoes and having rhythm, I’m convinced I’d be a goner.

Dancing has brought me every last bit of joy that a little girl could want— specifically, being a ballerina.

It doesn’t matter how blistered and bruised my feet are, or how many days I have to teach myself a routine, I will never stop. If I’m not dancing, I’m dead.

That’s the brutal, honest truth.

A truth that often feels like only my roommate understands and respects. She doesn’t have a rhythmic bone in her body, not even an ounce of desire to do a twirl. Yet she listens and devotes so much time to coming to see me perform. She even seems to remember the songs to my routines. It’s too bad we’re both strictly heterosexual women, otherwise she would make the perfect romantic partner. It makes me all the more grateful that platonic relationships exist in this world.

Lauren has been my biggest supporter since the day we met six years ago, a year after I moved to New York. It started as a school journey, and now I’m somehow renting a dance studio and teaching young girls. Which wouldn’t be possible without dancing for New York City Ballet. The people who pay me there have no idea what they’re contributing to. They aren’t contributing much to me, aside from building a repertoire and bettering my moves—but they’re helping other people who mean a great deal to me.

Thirteen lovely little ladies, who have big dreams.

I have every intention to make those dreams come true. My parents did it for me, and so did every contributing teacher and mentor that I had. While they all taught me a list of valuable lessons, the biggest lesson of all happened to be that people help people. You have a choice in this life to either be a natural-born helper or need help long enough to see what it is like to be a helper. In some ways, this was my number one motto in life because it initially made sense to me. Then over time, I finally discovered that I do have one question.

Can you be a helper who needs help themselves?

I often ask myself who I am. Mostly if I want to be more than I am now—or sometimes if I can have more. That feels impossible after allowing someone to tarnish your being for years in your life. For every step forward, they manage to make me take two steps back. I can never seem to move forward.

Pushing the front door open, I can see that Lauren has begun her nighttime ritual. She is sitting on the sofa with a lime- green, slimy-looking mask sticking to her face as she watches something on TV. Closing the door behind me, I drop my bags next to my feet, pushing them to the side for now, and walking past the back of the sofa to go to the kitchen.

“Hey,” I say to her in passing, “any mail for me?”

“I put it on the counter. Your food is right beside it. You got something from you-know-who,” she says, turning to look at me over the back of the sofa.

I look at the pile of mail, shuffling through a few bills and some junk, until I get to a smaller envelope labeled with fancy, black ink and a red seal. The more my eyes roamed over it, the more the red label stood out. It isn’t just any old label. It’s engraved with the letter D.

For Daniel.

I set it down next to the wrapped plate of food that is waiting for me, my stomach tightening at the sight.

“I don’t care—I’m not going to see him fight anymore. We broke up a long time ago. I don’t know why he proceeds to send me things as if it will change my mind. If I haven’t responded to him in the past few months, he should see that.” I broaden my shoulders, looking through the plastic film on the plate to see peas, rice, and salmon.

“Well his multiple stalking scandals, unsettling text messages, and unprecedented efforts to make sure he watches you tells me that he doesn’t care one bit.” Lauren rests her un-masked chin on the fabric, watching me.

Her tone is rather curious, like she’s more interested in where my head is at.

“It’s stupid. He’s obsessed with something he can’t have.”

I pick up my plate, open the microwave, and put it in. “I’ve moved on, alright? I made a mistake almost a year ago, and maybe that’s my fault, but there’s no more giving him any hope that he may have a chance.”

She continues to watch me, leaving a pause between us. “What about if we go with Tony? He really wants to go to the fight anyway, and I don’t know if I can sit through one of those without you again. Please?” she begs.

“Lauren, no. Tony is your boy toy, not mine. And that’s not gonna cover my ass if I show up and he sees my face.” I shake my head, walking to the fridge to get a drink.

“No, but that’s not fair because you love those fights just as much as we do, and this time it’s free. They normally aren’t, and you deserve to have fun. Just this once?” She suddenly slaps the couch with authority then lifts her chin, parting her lips with an idea. “We can cheer on the other guy together?” she asks playfully.

The look in her eyes is nothing short of sincere.

Tony has offered to do just about everything with us because Lauren is aware of how safe it makes me feel. I shouldn’t have to limit my activities all because some man can’t get off of his high horse. Yet, if I ever want to start dating again, I’m going to have to actually leave the house and do something other than teach a dance class or perform a recital. That involves going out and doing things solo, too.

“I’ll think about it, okay?” I smile, tightening my jaw. “Okay, but one thing. You have to think fast. It’s in four days,”

she says as her eyes prey on my movements.

“Four days?” My eyebrows morph into a furrow as my head snaps back down at the letter.

“The letter came a few weeks ago. You kept putting it to the side, so I kept putting it in your pile. Only this time, I figured I’d mention it,” she says shyly.

That would explain the seriously late notice.

“Right…” I say quietly. “I guess my answer is yes then,” I say with regret, shuddering as I make eye contact with her again.

“Don’t worry.” Her lips curve into a side smile. “We can even leave early,” she adds, full on smiling as she turns to the TV again.

I can already hear the list of things that Daniel will try to say to get in my good graces again. He’s an incredible boxer, but his finest skill is love bombing his way into people’s lives so that he’s comfortable enough to manipulate them with ease. It’s only taken me three different times to understand that; I guess third time’s a charm.

The first time we broke up was only official for me. To him, it served as more of a warning, which then resulted in a warning to me to never try to leave him again. He didn’t have to say much, either. The fist beside my head and his disoriented facial expression hovering centimeters away from my face was good enough.

It’s also not something you expect from someone you’ve been in a relationship with for almost three years.

The first time it happened, I truly mistook his anger for pure jealousy. He could never hurt me, right? I thought that I had to be doing something beyond terrible to stem this much of an attitude from him. I considered dressing better or saying less.

Hiding became more of a comfortable option, which resulted in posting online less often. Whatever I believed would make him see that I only had eyes for him, I did my best to do. Only it would make it worse. He then had no reason to be upset, and it left him with no choice.

His next level was hitting me where it’s personal.

Targeting my looks and belittling my career.

Suddenly, my talent in dancing became a bludgeoning ear sore to hear about, and it’s a ridiculous activity to indulge in. Not only was his judgment for ballet offensive—it wasn’t enough to make him feel better. I wasn’t sexy anymore, or flexible to his desire. I was a pig, with sore feet and no brains. Still, he kept me around and showed me off as if I were the opposite—and that became one of the most confusing tropes that I’d ever lived through.

Unfortunately, you learn to hate yourself in a different way when someone else points out a number of flaws that you never seemed to see or have before. I would’ve never thought my hair was too ginger, or my freckles were too bold, or that my body was too lanky prior to being with that man. I’m left now to try to redefine what it means to love myself, and hope that it doesn’t make me fear the future. So far, it scares the living hell out of me, and I wonder if men can see it. It feels like it’s written on the middle of my forehead.

I’m an insecure, frail woman—please hurt my feelings.

I wonder about everyone that might be able to see right through me. I speculate if men and women see me from afar or watch me on stage and simply think, “That girl needs some serious therapy.” It crosses my mind that it most likely is obvious. I have that realization every few months, then right after, I pray every night that it’s not. Because if I don’t get to have anything else in this life, I think I should get to have the shreds that are left of my confidence and dignity.

I leave my plate in the microwave and take my items with me to my bedroom—my bags, my purse, and my books. I’d eventually get to eating dinner, but not until after meditation, a hot shower, and a foot rub. The same routine, every night. All after pretending that my toes aren’t crying in excruciating pain all day.

I sit on my bed, kicking off my shoes and dropping everything once again. Sliding my butt from the bed to the floor, I let out a deep sigh. My hands reach for my feet, unable to wait another second before pulling my socks off. It’s bruised and cut. It even hurts to touch in some areas. Wincing softly, I begin to poke and prod at some areas, peeling small Band-Aids and wrappings off. I really do spend every day of this life exchanging beautiful feet for being somewhat desirable in a Swan Lake reenactment. It pays off, but only in ways that stand out if you have an inkling of humble ability. I’m grateful for any handouts, but recently, they haven’t been good enough to make sure things keep running. It feels like I’m scrapping by for studio rent nearly every month now. I even picked up a part-time job, waiting on

tables for some chump change.

Anything if it means I can continue teaching under my com- pany name: Mayberry’s School for Ballet.

I’ve rented out said space for a little over a year, and within that year, things have only become harder to maintain. The theater is thoughtful enough to pay for half of the bills, but with us not being able to gross as much, it’s been scary to think about. I can fill in the blanks here and there, but I’m afraid the unspeakable will finally happen by the holidays. Which is that the owners will sell the building to someone more profitable, leaving the girls and I right on the curb. Thus leaving me and the little ladies shit out of luck.

They’ve been looking forward to their Nutcracker recital, and with my fears possibly being a reality, it might be all I can give them. I’m not very religious, but my parents are. Something that’s pretty important to them is praying. I may not believe in much, but I unquestionably believe that prayers can be answered. Most of mine already have, and that’s created a sense of hope that I know isn’t universal. While I have it though, I should embrace being the opposite of pessimistic. So, until further notice, it’s training and prayers as if my life depends on it.

* * *

When Daniel and I ended things—or rather, when I ended things—it felt like the end of the world. It’s like someone took the biggest, heaviest weight and set it on my chest, leaving it there for me to remove with little to no help. It’s obviously for the best, but I never want to feel that weak again. I feel like the strongest woman alive now when he isn’t in my presence. It’s even better knowing that it’s him and not me with the problem. I get to try my hand at being the lady in charge, just like my female peers. Their boyfriends let them lead the way, to be their own person. I envy that.

As I lock the door to the dance studio, I can feel the onset of the chilly evening air blowing against my sheer skirt that I’m too much in a rush to change out of. With today being a Saturday, that means it’s imperative to get to the train on time. Otherwise, I’ll be waiting an extra hour due to rush hour. I’m not up for being late to my group meeting. I’m pretty punctual, and I like to keep it as such. Nothing bothers me more than someone being late for me—or worse, something making me late.

My parents have always instilled that it’s a lousy quality to uphold. Yet some people take such pride in it.

I could never be that kind of person. The wind blows more against my body as I turn around, beginning my journey to the station, each foot moving forward in a rush. I normally put my headphones on, but I didn’t have a second to spare. I’m more tuned in with my mission to get home and change before anything else. As a result, I’m stuck listening to the hustle and bustle of the town around me—or what seemed to be activity. Usually it’s more busy around this time, but the sidewalks were almost empty today. Unusual as it may be, it’s making this commute a hell of a lot easier. Alone with nobody in my way.

My sneakers scrape against the concrete beneath me loudly. But then, I notice an echo of steps, sounding like they’re picking up behind me awfully quick. Stopping at the crosswalk, I step to the side, hoping the person goes around me. It’s the worst feeling: that someone is walking so quickly behind they’re only waiting for you to get out of their way.

Just as I do, two hands snatch my waist, pulling me away from the street like I’m a child being kidnapped. With no thoughts, I belt out a scream.

“Noelle, it’s me!” a gritty voice yells as I’m spun around, adding laughter to the end of his words.

Just what I need. I’ll be late for certain now.

“That’s not funny, Daniel,” I say emotionless as I cross my arms, hiding what I can of my body from him.

“Oh, but it is.” He continues with his small bits of laughter, looping a finger into the strap of my leotard over my shoulder. “You were always so squeamish.”

I shrug his touch away, avoiding the glare of his dark- chocolate orbits. “What do you want?”

I catch his smile fading. “I can’t see how you’re doing? I wanted to see if you got my letter.”

Do I answer honestly? “I did.”

“And?”

“And that’s good for you. Shouldn’t you be on your way somewhere?”

I finally gather the courage to look at him, dead in his eyes. “I am. I wanted an answer. You never get back to me

anymore,” he says, still holding onto my body, probably making sure I don’t escape.

“I don’t know, Daniel. What I do know is that you’re gonna make me late for my train,” I spit.

I could be a bitch since we are in public and use it to my advantage. The only advantage in this interaction. I’m possibly risking a lot, but right now, I think I’m feeling spicy.

His tongue glides along his teeth, looking as if I had triggered him.

“I’ll let you go, Noelle. Just tell me. Do I get to see that pretty face of yours in the crowd tomorrow? Just like old times?” He half smiles, bringing a thumb to my cheek.

“Neither of us gain anything from me showing up, and you know that.” I back away, freeing myself.

“Elle, c’mon. I’m trying to be the good guy here, and you’re making it really hard.” He wraps a hand around one of my biceps, bringing me back to him, his grip harder this time as he watches me.

Swallowing all of my pride, my confidence leaves my body, probably heading to the train without me at this point.

“Okay…” I lower my tone. “Yes, I will.” I go back to avoiding his aggressive eye contact, trying to create some sense of separation between us.

Anything to give me a backbone here.

“That’s my girl,” he says, kissing my temple, hovering over me and making me feel trapped.

“I’m not your girl.” I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling my stomach turn like a whirlwind.

“Maybe not right now,” he says, slightly pulling his body away from mine so he can look into my eyes. “But I’ll change your mind again, just you wait.”

“I have to go.” I push his arms off my body, turning and making a dash around the corner.

I’m late, and now I’m stuck taking the long way home.

He’s disgusting. He makes me feel like dirty garbage on the Manhattan streets. I feel violated in the worst ways, and I know that he knows it. I don’t have space in my heart for hatred, typically. But when he stalks me and finds me in my most vulnerable moments, wrecking all of my progress, it makes me want to clear out a space and make it strictly his—dedicated to an abundance of hate.

He could never have me back. I won’t allow that because my journey to get away from him is greater than any other journey that I’ve had so far in my life. I wouldn’t say I’m not scared to move on, but I have to say that I’m ready to forget him. If that means I have to tame my ego and put myself out there, then maybe it’s a tough pill I’ll have to swallow.

It’s like he’s preying on me because he knows I haven’t moved on. Who’s to even say that the sight of me and another man would make him back off? He’s becoming more psychotic as the days go on, and I’m almost positive he’ll never change.

But I have.